Bronx Noir

The things he had done, the horrors he had seen: the short man and the short man’s wife, letting them both die, then rolling them into the sea; swinging a club and cracking a man’s skull for stealing the crew’s water and food; a woman held down and fucked until she bled, and by the time he was inside her, her eyes were still open but she no longer screamed.

He had always thought of himself as a good and simple man, but now he knew this was not true.

He was in one of the sleeping cabins when he felt the crunch of the boat, heard the thunk and grind, thought that they had smashed their way onto shore. He was up on his feet, gliding toward the deck, heard the screaming, the footsteps and pounding, scrambling in the hold below, heard the thwack of the helicopter above, being chased by a swirling beam of light. Then he saw the flood of bodies coming up through the doors and hatches, spewing like a fountain, spreading across the deck like ants. More lights attacking, the helicopter circling, electric voices in English, boats closing in, engines ripping the water.

In the distance he could see the shore, big spotlights and smaller yellow dots maybe three hundred meters away. He looked around for his crewmates, for an escape boat or plan, but the frenzy was too much, people pushing, shoving, the twist and shriek of the fray. He heard the splashing first, then turned and saw them going over one by one near the bow, in groups over the side. He ran for the side and jumped out as far as he could, feet first into the water, flesh locking, the freeze crushing against him. He told himself that he was the son of a fisherman and that he would not die in the water. His arms and legs began to move even though he could not feel them.

Waves crashing over his head, he went under for as long as he could, kept kicking, thrashing, just trying to pull away; opening his eyes, trying to see, thinking of the boats and the helicopter and what they would do to him if he was caught. He came up for air and went under again, and when he came back up he was further away from the ship and there were more boats now closing in, but he was behind it all, off to the side.

He knew he would not make it like this, his arms and legs like lead, trying to take in as much air as he could, water in his mouth, bloating his stomach, seeping through his lungs. Then he heard a voice, saw his crew leader’s head bobbing up and down. He was holding onto something, using it like a flotation device, saw the crew leader paddling in his direction in the hard and heavy surf. They swam toward each other, and when he was close enough he saw his own arm swing up out of the water and then down, his fist landing with a crack against the crew leader’s nose, then he was wrestling the small case away into his own arms as the other man’s head disappeared. He held onto the case and kicked, kept his head on a swivel as he swam for the dark water and stretch of lights.

When he finally felt the sand in his toes it was so quiet he thought he was dead already. He saw houses with big wooden decks lining the shore. He could not stop his teeth from chattering, could feel all his bones and flesh shaking, his stomach and head filled with fire, and this told him he was not dead. He hugged the suitcase close to his chest even as he crawled onto the beach, spitting and coughing, his innards burning like oil and acid in his blood. When he looked back he saw the lights still shining, the freighter locked down. He had swam more than three hundred meters to get to shore, felt like a kind of superman, alone, freezing, but uncaptured and alive. His father, he thought, would be proud.

The sky was black, but he knew he did not have much time. He would need a change of clothes, and under the wooden deck of one of the houses he fumbled with the suitcase latch until it opened. He stared in, his blood and brains squeezing. Then he closed the suitcase and walked further down the beach along the row of houses until he had brushed himself off, could still taste the sea and sand in his mouth as he willed his arms and legs to move, his breath thin and wheezing. He made his way in between two houses, and when he came to a main road there was no traffic and no one on the streets. He looked at the signs and recognized only one in glowing neon—HOTEL. He had seen it in Fuzhou, and in Hong Kong. He took from the suitcase a handful of wet hundred-dollar bills, walked quickly through the front glass door and up to the counter.

The young man with glasses behind the counter did not look up until he was standing in front of him, waving the money. The young man stared back, wide-eyed, gape-jawed, nodding.