Everything could be used as a weapon.
The covers and spine of a hardback novel. A rolled-up newspaper. The points of a folded sheet of paper. Any everyday object could be used to either attack or block.
Cutter Grogan’s eyes took in the surroundings as he walked down Lafayette Street, noting what could be used for offense or defense. That umbrella someone had discarded in a trashcan. The empty cartons on the sidewalk outside a store. That vandalized phone booth on the corner with Grand Street—it could be used as cover. It was automatic, a habit so deeply ingrained from years of training and experience in far-off dusty and dangerous lands that he wasn’t even conscious of it.
New York in the summer. The insistent and never-fading sounds of traffic and the smell of fumes. He jaywalked the street to get to the sunlit side of Lafayette and closed his eyes momentarily to bask in the warmth.
‘It’s not a park!’ a passerby yelled at him and brushed past in a huff.
He grinned. He had been to the world’s top cities. Paris, London, Berlin, Rio, Jakarta, Tokyo—wherever he went, he felt at home. But New York? It was where he began and where he ended. He donned his shades and carried on. Waited at the intersection with Grand for the lights to turn and, when they did, proceeded to his destination, a bodega.
There were many within walking distance, some even closer, but this particular one was his favorite. It was neatly maintained, tidy, and had the light smell of incense in the air. He knew its owners. But the deal-clincher was the dessert counter. Fluffy pastries and cakes, chocolates that melted in one’s mouth, all of them freshly baked by the owner’s wife. They would set off calorie-counter alarms, if fitness gear had those.
He glanced at his watch and hurried. An oven-fresh batch would be coming, and he wanted to be first in line. Not many knew of the store’s delicacies. However, word of mouth was a thing, and the desserts often ran out as soon as they were displayed.
He removed his shades, folded them and placed them in an inner pocket as he squinted at the scaffolding outside the bodega. Construction on the building’s upper floors cut visibility. A bell jangled when he entered.
‘Chang,’ he greeted the Chinese man behind the counter.
‘Cutter,’ the owner responded, his face creasing in a smile. He was in his fifties, his hair still thick and black, experience and hardship lining his face with tiny wrinkles. ‘Long time. You been going to some other store?’
‘Only if Lin Shun has run away with someone else. I come only for her pastries. You know that.’
‘I dunno what she sees in him,’ said an elderly man from the next aisle, where he was mopping the floor. ‘I’ve proposed to her several times.’
‘Have you considered that perhaps you’re old?’
‘Me? Old?’
Cutter stood silently, enjoying their humor. Moshe, the arrival, was joint-owner with Li Shun and Chang. An unlikely partnership on the face of it. The elderly man outranked the Chinese-American couple by close to three decades, though he was so fit only his wrinkled face and arms gave his age away.
That night brought us together.
Cutter had been on a late run several years ago, the streets deserted, when the sounds of a scuffle had caught his attention. A narrow alley behind the bodega, where buildings stored their trash bins. It opened into Center Street. Several shadows moving in the dark.
At the sound of his arrival, the figures had burst out and fled, but not before he had taken one man down and crippled him with a blow to the temple.
A mugging gone wrong. Chang and Lin Shun’s young son left bleeding on the ground. Moshe, then, a passerby who had tried to help, injured as well.
Cutter called 911 and stayed with them until the cops and first-responders arrived. He was with them when the paramedics shook their heads almost imperceptibly. Daniel Shun, the son, had died. He had waited in the hospital’s hallway while Moshe was undergoing surgery that helped him survive the near-fatal knife wound to his kidneys.
Cutter joined the bodega owners in their mourning, and as time healed, got close to them. Moshe became part of them when he stayed in touch and became a business partner as well when he bought in to the store.
Cutter clapped the elder man on his shoulder and looked at him critically. ‘He’s still got all his teeth,’ he told Chang. ‘That ought to count for something, shouldn’t it?’
‘Teeth! That’s all he’s got.’
Moshe was in incredibly good shape for his age. He ran half-marathons and was an active participant in neighborhood walks. Any other person would be content with being a silent partner in the business. Not the elder man. He helped out wherever he could. Stacking shelves, cleaning up, even behind the checkout counter if needed, though he didn’t prefer it.
He feels claustrophobic there. He doesn’t like it.
Cutter stepped around the older partner when he resumed wiping the floor. Moshe’s sleeves slid up his forearms, and there it was: faded numerals tattooed on the inside of his left arm. Many thought it was old ink, badly done. Cutter knew what it was and the horrors behind it. Moshe was an Auschwitz survivor.
He had been six when he was deported to the camp along with his parents and elder sister, ten when the camp was liberated. The only member of his family to survive. Cutter went to the dessert counter and inhaled the aromas. A woman came from inside the store and wiped her hands on her white apron. She hugged him hard and checked him out. He could see his reflection in the glass covering the delicacies. Six feet one. Styled, dark hair. Green eyes. Clean-shaven. Tee tucked into his jeans. Lightweight sports jacket. Rubber-soled sneakers. Because of his deep tan, he could easily pass for someone from the Mediterranean region. Or the Middle East, South America, North Africa—a vast range of geographies. Only a handful knew what his genealogy was. Lin Shun, Chang and Moshe were among them.
‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’ Lin Shun went behind the display cabinet and waited expectantly.
‘Been away.’
‘Vacation?’
‘Something like that.’ Rescuing a hostage from a Colombian cartel. That was some holiday!
Her eyes sharpened at his tone. They lingered on him. ‘No injuries?’
‘Nothing gets past you, Lin Shun,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘None, this time.’
She looked at him searchingly and then got down to business. ‘Pineapple and banana pastries. New recipe. They have come out well. You should try them out.’
‘I’ll take two of them, and my usual.’
Coconut-sprinkled fruit cupcakes were his go-to dessert. He licked his lips unconsciously as Lin Shun packed them in a brown paper bag.
He was taking it from her when it happened.
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