I was too drunk to ride, but not too drunk to dismiss what I’ve to do tonight. I hail the cab on the main road, sliding into the backseat. Uncle’s Tam phone flashes as I take it out. A notification. Please return my husband’s phone if you have it. Yes, I will but not before I can crack it. “Phu Lam park,” I told the driver.
As the cab pulls away, joining the desolated lanes of the night road, my phone vibrates one more time. Murderer, you killed her. I stare at the pixel screen for a moment. This number is only known to the gang. The last anonymous message also comes from this phone. Nothing to worry about. This is just another attempt to tighten their control over me, by imposing paranoia on my mind, by messing up with my plan, by terrorizing my fear of being caught. Next, they will ask for my money, to steal whatever I’ve saved in this place. Blackmailing tactic, just usual gang stuff. Do you think they don’t do it on their own people?
The cab sits trapped in a river of stalled red taillights, a metal capsule adrift in the Saigon night. The rain has disappeared, leaving only the chills that seep into your bones. You wouldn’t know since people mostly heard about Saigon’s heat, never about its night with howling alleys and abandoned houses. I sleep under those most of my younger years, and hearing ghost stories from old people doesn’t help. Then I grew up, realizing the real ghosts are the one who exploits you in reality, not myth and fantasy.
A few droplets of lingering rain trace their path on the glass, smearing the neon signs of food vendors stalls into watery ghosts. A police truck passes by with their flickering red and blue signature. Wee-oo, Wee-oo, their siren morphs. Someone just crosses a red light in front of us. “Every night, huh?” I say to the driver. He is young and wears a wedding ring. Sweet stuff.
“And never changes,” he says, “There’s something about breaching the law that is so attractive to people.”
“Especially when they could do it without being caught,” I say what he prefers not to say. “But walking tall in daylight, living honestly, and keeping a straight track on your financial lane, is the way, isn’t it?”
He looks at me through his rear mirror and nods. “True that, but everyone needs a side hustle now. Can’t be like the old days when a husband could provide for a wife and kids with one source of income.”
I chuckle, “Even side hustle has side hustle now. Every tiny little thing you pick on the way of doing your job counts. I’ve seen aunties picking up cartoon boxes when they go to the market.”
“Life’s harder now, every second counts.” He takes a left turn on a roundabout, as smooth as butter, even on wet roads.
“Yeah, that’s why I always track my order. Great driving,” I say. “Imagine ten minutes wasted each delivery order. And the wage is not enough to buy a bottle of water.”
That seems to hit the driver’s itch. I can see his eyes flare up. “That’s why I mortgage my house to buy this cab. They are just pushing and pushing that delivery service to a fault. Nothing’s too small, no item’s too trivial. They sell even a fucking paper clipper online and you have to deliver. The buyer just needs to walk, mind you, walking is good for them, and they can just list what they need and go shopping once or twice a year. Instead, they buy one thing here, another there, and waste both their and other’s time.”
I dare to press a little gossip. “Your wife is shopping online and making you pay, right?”
“Yeah, she’s fucking giving my number in her account. What the fuck man?” He shakes his head, presses his lips together into a thin line.
“Maybe, just talk to her in the way you courted her. Make her feel good first, then you can persuade her to stop buying useless stuff later.”
He glances at me through the rear mirror again and nods. “Good advice. I think we’ve arrived.”
I step out of the cab, receiving a big thank you from the driver. I wonder if it’s because of the big tip, or the conversation we’re having to pass the time. Doesn’t matter, I’ve made an acquaintance even when I’m drunk. That’s how men make friends, just like how women do, we gossip. We talk about financial and logic, women talk about emotions. And you know what, when you probe out people’s worry and pride, you can easily control the vibe and dig deeper on their desire. My desire now is to crack this phone and return it to uncle Tam, tonight.
I walk into the small alley, so small that only one bike can pass through at a time, and open the door of my second lair. This is Vinny’s grandparent’s house, abandoned when they passed away, and no one would rent a house like this. A perfect place for my high-tech set up. I connect the cable and let the malware do its job. First, it bypasses the automatic lock feature, then it starts entering combinations. This normally takes days, but I also put the numbers associated with Brooke’s family. The phone unlocks after a few dozen tries. I search through the pictures, the contact list, notes, even personal bank accounts and apps histories. Nothing related to Elise. Are these events really just coincidences? He did research on cables and the electrical system of a building and how they normally operated on weekends. Maybe uncle Tam planned to take me when I visit my campus to receive my last paycheck tomorrow. The address makes sense.
Satisfying with the result, I book a delivery trip and send his phone to the hospital. Of course, I use uncle Tam’s phone to book the return of his own possession. I finally let myself feel a little relief and fell asleep on the couch.
Lol....the cab sat trapped in a river of stalled red lights....nice
That was kinda fun to read. Nicely done ✅