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                            Reveal
                                       by Dan McGinley                         

        Part Two

Sam drove his Corvette to the bar entrance after dinner and met Ryan.  They hit some stop-and-go tourist traffic on Route 1 but made good time further north, in Massachusetts, Sam playing French love songs on his stereo until Boston, when he suddenly reached over and turned the music off.

Ryan listened to the performance exhaust system and then Sam’s soft voice, speaking slowly just over a muffled rumble.

“There’s an old man you’re going to see tonight at the restaurant, who runs many things in Chinatown right now.”

Ryan nodded, watching the road as Sam considered the brevity of his next words.

“I have a son who came over when I brought my family, running from the Khmer Rouge.  Do you know about that history?”

Ryan looked out at the dark landscape. “My father died over there.  That’s the only history I know about Vietnam.”

Sam watched him for a few seconds and said, “I’m sorry.”

Ryan shrugged.

“My son had a daughter in Cambodia,” Sam said.  “He tried to keep it a secret.”

Ryan turned and looked at him.

“My son brought her over for a very high price, and now she works it off in a sweat shop.”

Ryan was still looking at him. “Where’s her mother?”

“She didn’t make it out.”

“I’m sorry.”

Now Sam shrugged. “The thing is . . . my granddaughter is a slave.  She’ll never work it off.”

Ryan turned and listened to the growling exhaust.  One night at the bar he had to take down a football player from the university, and when a teammate tried to hit Ryan from behind with a beer bottle, Sam did some martial arts magic and dropped the attacker, saving Ryan from serious damage.

Now Sam is often in the shadows on a busy night, watching out for his friend.  Ryan joins him on a day dragger out of Point Judith once in a while, hauling fish.

“How much money do they owe?” Ryan asked.

“Eighty-thousand.”

Sam looked at Ryan, who only nodded. “Who does she owe?”

“The old man you will meet tonight.”

Ryan nodded again.

“I’m going to make a payment,” Sam said. “Only ten, but it gets her closer to freedom.”   

Ryan looked at his friend. “Where is your granddaughter now?”

“New York, living with seven others in a small apartment.”

“And her father.”

“Working for the old man.”

Ryan watched him closely. “I’m not liking the old man.”

Sam shrugged. “He makes money with people . . . that’s what he does.”

Ryan continued watching him. “I used to make money with people, too.”

Sam met his eyes as Ryan asked, ”What can I do for you tonight?”

“Just be there, Ryan.  He likes to play power games, but you may even things up a bit.”

Ryan said nothing, just nodding again as they came off the highway and drove through Boston’s Chinatown to park in front of a large pagoda restaurant, after a man moved some orange cones. 

They walked quickly past a waiting line and upstairs to a massive round table set in one corner occupied by several men from Cambodia and South Vietnam.  There were several plates of food on the table, with two empty seats waiting. 

Sam introduced Ryan and told him not to worry about remembering names.  He ordered beers and explained how the food was for everyone, and if Ryan wanted anything special they would order for him.

Ryan said a Scorpion Bowl would taste good, and in less than a minute he was sipping the potent drink as others laughed and nodded.

He had the entire bowl to himself as the men began conversing in Vietnamese, Ryan sipping frequently and picking at chicken fingers with pork-fried rice.

The old man sat with his back to the corner as the others conversed.  Every so often someone would come and talk to him for a minute and leave.  Sometimes they passed things between them, but transactions were always blocked by the table cloth.

Ryan recalled that when they first arrived, Sam had passed the old man an envelope, which would be the payment toward his enslaved granddaughter.

The old man said something to Sam, who turned to Ryan and asked if he enjoyed the food.

Ryan just nodded and Sam said something back to the old man, who stared at Ryan and nodded.

“These people are all businessmen here in Boston,” Sam explained.  “We’re doing a little business, and then we’ll go over to watch the Kung Fu.”

Ryan nodded and wiped his mouth with a napkin, as someone spoke to Sam.

“Do you like gambling?” Sam asked, and Ryan shrugged.

Sam turned and repeated the shrug, which caused some laughter and talk, while three people visited to exchange something under the table.

Ryan sipped the Scorpion Bowl and felt more relaxed as the potent drink settled in.  The red table cloth reminded Ryan of his wife, who had a dress with the same flower pattern and matching high heels.

Where was she now?

He had to think for a minute and finally remembered Los Angeles, where her father had a huge mansion. 

She came home one night when he had been drinking, and there were two women in the bed, so she walked out and flew back home.

She was half Mexican, and he thought of her shining black eyes and beautiful skin, trying to remember what the other half was, and thinking maybe Scottish.

“Scottish!” he blurted, and the entire table became silent as Sam turned to his friend.

There was a man doing business across the table and he froze as Ryan looked around in startled confusion to remember where he was.

“Ryan?”

Ryan turned to Sam and shrugged.

“Ryan . . . are you alright?”

“Yes,” Ryan said.  “She was half Scottish.”

Sam nodded slowly, watching his friend with deep concern.  “It’s okay.”

“She was half Mexican and half Scottish.”

Sam studied his face closely, like a cut man.  “Who was she?”

Ryan nodded.  “It’s okay.  She’s gone now.”

“So you’re okay?”

Ryan tilted his head to the straw and inhaled from the Scorpion Bowl. 

“Better,” he mumbled, and the men all laughed and nodded, ready for a very entertaining night.

“Couple minutes,” Sam said.  “We’ll go down to Kneeland Street.”

                                        * * *
The Kung Fu Academy was like a gymnasium with padded mats covering a polished wooden floor.  Ryan sat on extended bleachers with the others and watched two men in blindfolds circling each other in a relaxed, bent-knee stance, while another man acting as referee watched from the side.

Sam explained how this would demonstrate fighting in total darkness, and Ryan watched closely as the two men maneuvered and prodded with hands and feet, one suddenly spinning to kick, while the other sensed his movement and retreated with a defensive block in place.

One of Sam’s companions said something, and Sam turned to Ryan.

“Phien just asked how you would do against any of these fighters.”

Ryan looked around Sam to the other man, who met his stare.

“No blindfold,” Sam added.

“I would kill any one of them in seconds,” Ryan said.

Sam studied Ryan closely, wondering if the Scorpion Bowl had something to do with this answer.

“Are you serious?” Sam asked.

Ryan gave a little nod and his eyes darkened, looking at the man named Phien.

Phien straightened up like a cobra, his eyebrows showing surprise. “You want to demonstrate?” he asked in perfect English.

Ryan gave another little nod, watching the wheels go into motion as Sam found his eyes again, saying, “No, Ryan.  You shouldn’t be doing this right now.”

Phien started speaking rapidly to the old man as faces turned to look at this bold American.

“It’s a good time to tell me your thoughts,” Sam said.  “Before I lose control of this situation.”

Ryan held his eyes and did not waver. “He asked my opinion, and now they want to see the truth.”

“The truth.”

One of the men started making their way down to where fighters sat, waiting their turns.

“What is the truth, Ryan?”

Ryan stood slowly and stretched, then dipped his head from one shoulder to the other in an old reflexive move to loosen neck muscles.

Why was he here?

To save the princess, who flew to him this morning and asked for help.

Now he was challenged by her captors, so there was only one path to take and get her back.  There could be no hesitation or sign of weakness.

“Ryan,” Sam repeated, standing.  “What is the truth, Ryan?”

Ryan stopped loosening up and stared down to where a tall Chinese fighter was looking up now, finding the American, and talking rapidly to the man who had just descended. “Time will reveal the truth,” he said.  “Remember?”

Sam watched him closely and turned to the man down below, who pointed at Ryan with one finger, and the Chinese fighter with another.

“Seconds,” Sam said.  “You can kill him in seconds.”

Ryan descended the bleachers, Sam watching money trade hands all around him, like small green fish revealing themselves in a tumultuous ocean.

Out on the mats, both blind-folded combatants were locked together in a tangle of limbs before one of them tapped out in submission, and the referee blew a whistle to signal the end.

He moved the men out and came over to Ryan and the Chinese fighter, introducing them as Sam swore quietly in Cambodian and reluctantly stood to follow his friend down, down, down.

“Your shoes,” the referee said to Ryan, pointing.  “Take off your shoes.”

“I’m not using my feet.”

The referee looked at the Chinese fighter, who stared at Ryan like he was crazy.

“To protect the mats,” the referee said, turning back.  “And you can move better on the mats.”

“I only have one move.”

The referee looked up to the old man and shouted something in Cantonese.

The old man shrugged as money traded hands, and excited voices sounded like a flock of birds.

“Hey,” Ryan said. “Any other rules you want to tell me about?”

The referee stared at him. “Keep your shoes, and no biting.”

Ryan showed nothing.  The referee had both fighters face each other approximately six feet apart, stepped back, and placed the whistle in his mouth.

The Chinese man crouched and took a fighting stance as Ryan stood almost erect with his right side leading, hands loose and moving slightly at his sides.

When the whistle blew, his opponent crouched and bobbed a little as Ryan’s right hand disappeared under his loose cotton camp shirt and reappeared to aim a large .45 automatic.

The room became deathly quiet, and the click of a hammer being thumbed back carried far.

Sam turned to look up at the old man, who was frozen like the others, not quite believing his eyes.

Sam walked out to Ryan very slowly, like a tourist in a wax museum where none of the other human figures moved.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking from Ryan to the frozen Chinese fighter.

Ryan shrugged. “I can kill him in seconds; yes?”

“Very much.”

“So maybe you should explain my point.”

Sam turned and started speaking Cantonese to the old man as Ryan aimed steadily at the Chinese fighter’s chest.

There were a few moments of silence after Sam finished, followed by shouted orders from the old man.

The Chinese fighter suddenly crouched very low, and Ryan prepared to shoot him until the man tapped-out.

“Good Kung Fu,” he said, and left the mat as Ryan followed, watching green money fish jump again.

He started ascending the bleachers, holstering his gun as the old man watched and waited.

“You understand me?” Ryan asked.

The old man nodded.

“You know my word is good?”

Again, the old man nodded.

Ryan reached around to his back pocket and produced a checkbook, but men to his left and right were holding guns when his hand disappeared.

“You’ll take a check for the full amount of Sam’s granddaughter.”

The old man smiled warmly, handing Ryan a gold pen. “What granddaughter?”

Ryan filled out a check as the old man’s smile remained. “It’s a lot of money.”

Ryan finished, leaving the name line blank. “It depends on who you are.”

He handed over the check and pen.

“Who are you?” the old man asked.

“Sam’s friend.”

The old man stopped smiling and watched Ryan descend polished bleacher steps as Sam joined him, crossing to an exit door and out onto Kneeland Street.

The old man sat in silence watching his door close, and everyone else watched the old man.

                                            * * *

The Corvette rumbled out of Boston and onto 95 South, toward New York.

“What do you think happens when the check bounces?” Sam asked.

Ryan smiled and looked out the window. “It’s good.”

“I don’t know anything about you anymore.”

Ryan watched the dark world outside.

 “You made a lot.”

“I made this payment in one fight.  The Arturo bout was more than seventy thousand.  There were many others.”

“But now you’re above the bar working for very little.”

“I don’t need much, and I don’t want anything.”

“You don’t want anything.”

“There are people who make a lot over many years, and people who make a lot very quickly.  When my account reached a certain number, I was free and happy.  I could do whatever I wanted.  I quit on a head butt, in a brutal sport.  Done with it.”

“Now you will free my granddaughter.”

Ryan turned to the road ahead and nodded. “I made money hurting people; now I give some back to go the other way.  You always mention karma.”

“I will pay you back.”

“I won’t have it.  I think your granddaughter is exactly like the princess, and there was a reason her spirit visited this morning.”

Sam turned to his friend with surprise. “Botum.”

“Yes,” Ryan nodded. “Everything unfolded today in a perfect way.”

They drove in silence toward New York City for several minutes, Sam planning his next words carefully.

“I hear the bar people sometimes.  They think your mind is gone from the punches.”

Ryan nodded. “They’re right.”

“No,” Sam said, shaking his head for emphasis. “I think only when you’re drinking, and the alcohol makes you wonder a bit.”

“They ran some tests, Sam.  There’s shadows on my brain that indicate damage, and sometimes I’m not really here.  It’s early stages, but alcohol is a quick way to show what will happen in a few years, all the time.  Alcohol reveals the condition more than ever.”

“I see.”

“When you just started speaking again, it took me a second to remember who you were.”

Sam was quiet as Ryan nodded, traveling together in the dark to get Sam’s granddaughter.

Ryan watched the dark, trying to remember if his wife had been half Greek or something else, but then he remembered the girl, and that Sam was her father?  No . . . Sam was her grandfather.

His mind was clear for a moment, and he ran with it.

“Your boy,” Ryan said. “What does he do for the old man?”

“He fixes properties that are rented.”

“A carpenter.”

“He’s very good.”

“He has to leave now,” Ryan said.  “This has to be a complete break.”

“Yes.  I think so.”

“Tomorrow he will have his daughter and leave the old man.  I know builders and landlords.  He can work down in South County and live by you.  This is what I want.”

“I know who you are,” Sam said. “I will always know who you are.”

“I revealed.”

“Revealed?”

Ryan turned to his friend. “In early rounds I would fake and draw the opponent out to learn what he has, but never show my best stuff till later, when the trainer would say, ‘Okay, it’s time to reveal.’”

“This is your reveal?” Sam asked.

Ryan didn’t answer, watching the night roar by and thinking of her name again.

Botum.  He was going to free Botum, and everything would be right again.

Was she half Greek or maybe Mexican?

He looked at Sam and knew; she was Cambodian.

THE END

Dan McGinley was first published in 1990 while living above a seaside club called The Bon Vue Inn, where he worked five nights a week punching drunks and cleaning-up the result.  Bored with high society, he started slipping humorous short stories and articles under an office door of the Great Swamp Gazette, a magazine of art and literature at the University of Rhode Island, where he graduated in 1996, after being elected the Gazette’s Managing Editor for four consecutive years and  freelancing for the Providence Sunday Journal, Narragansett Times, and Westerly Sun.  Sabotage Press published two small books in 1992: Buddha at the Track and Trail of the Screaming Blue Fetus.  He also won two Nancy Potter Short Story awards, but since the name “Nancy Potter” draws big blank stares, forget about it.  More recently, his works have won, placed, and shown fourteen times in “America’s Funniest Humor!” contest, at HumorPress.com.  The Dog was at the Keg Again is a collection of HumorPress award pieces, and available at Amazon Kindle right about . . . NOW!  He lives with two Asian wolves and a neurotic Jack Russell in The Quiet Corner of northeastern Connecticut, from where he writes his popular blog at www.danmcginleyhumor.com.