Chapter 18 Black Dog - 2

Zby looked up and said to the tall guy, "Oh, you're Polish?" "I never said that," the tall man answered casually in Polish. "But you speak Polish!" "That's true," said the tall one. Zby spat on the ground and shook his head. "No one speaks Polish but the Poles. There's one man who will go to the trouble of learning Polish unless absolutely necessary." silence. "Sit down, for God's sake! Just sit on the steps. How can a man grow so tall. What did you say your name was?" "Reb." "Reb what?"

"It's Reber." Three men and one woman stop at a newsstand to buy a newspaper or magazine.One of the men asked Zby what happened.Tsby replied that he fell under a train while riding the subway, but it was nothing, everything was normal, but the injury on the subway was more serious, I am afraid it would be terrible.In fact, Zbye found it very difficult to even stand there; he was in such great pain that he had to gasp for breath every few moments, and open his pale blue eyes wide open. "O.K., then I'll call you Reb," he said. "Gozchniak said to me, you're O.K.. Usually he doesn't say that about just anybody. Did you ever sell newspapers?"

"there has never been." "Have you ever sold anything else before?" "Cigarette rolls." The more customers who bought newspapers, the more pain Zby had to endure.The bruise on his face wasn't a big deal—it looked scary, but he could bear it.But the wound in his chest was killing him, and it made him want to cry out; and his back was in great pain, and his left hand, on which the three big men had been jumping with their feet one after another.He couldn't use his left hand at all, not even change.He continued: "Fine then. You're up to it anyway. I'm going away for a day or two, no more. Can you read?"

"Pretty good." He guessed what question the other party would ask next, so he answered it before Tsby asked. "Yes, I can read English too." "How did you meet Gozchenak?" "His brother is a truck driver, and we came to New York from Memphis, Tennessee. Can I call you Zby? I don't know your last name." Zby gave his official name; that unpronounceable last name had driven immigration officers nearly insane years ago. The tall man raised his eyebrows and smiled. "How do you spell that last name?" "It's as awkward as pronunciation," said Zby. "I'll spell it out for you, boy..." He had to pause for a moment, his chest hurting like a hammer.Then he opened his eyes again, "I hope Gozchenyak's introduction about you is not wrong, and it is for my own sake. I hope that after I come out of the hospital, I can see that my newsstand is still here... "

He stared straight into the other's pale gray eyes for several seconds.Then he turned away from a young woman who wanted to buy The New Yorker. "O.K.," he said. "O.K., Reb." In spite of his bruised and swollen lips, one puffed cheek, and several crumbling teeth, he was smiling, not at the young woman walking away, nor at the tall lad, so to speak. Laughing at myself.In fact, he hadn't slept all night last night. After being beaten severely, the accumulated pain and nervous tension had made him exhausted. At this moment, he suddenly no longer tried his best to support himself.

He rubbed his left hand with his fingers, then massaged his chest.The tall man said slowly, "Your hand is broken and must be immobilized. Your ribs are broken, perhaps pressing in on your back. And your cheekbones are chipped, not to mention your teeth. You should Go to the hospital immediately." "So someone else can pick up my newsstand?" But Tsby's words were only a final gesture.He was on the verge of collapse, and he was about to collapse completely. "I can take you to the hospital," said the tall man, his voice sounding like it was coming from afar.

"Are you leaving the newsstand alone?" "Gorzchenak's son can take care of the newsstand between the time I take you to the hospital and the time you come back. That's it, let's go." "The sons of a bitch who beat me up like this will come tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, that's what they tell me." "I'll pay attention to that too," replied the tall man in very pure and bookish English. "I'm going to put all my energy into it." Exactly thirty-two years later, after 1982, David Setiniaz asked his computer for a list of all the companies owned by Wang, in any field and in any Forms, including those owned by him alone and those with a shareholding between 51% and 100%.The computer started to work, and a few hours later, it produced a confusing list, which was fifteen meters long, and there were no more, no less, and a total of 1,687 companies listed on it.

Wang has used hundreds of men and women to act as agents-some beneficiaries, some nominals.Among them was a name that was mentioned ten to fifteen times by the computer between 1950 and 1960, and it caught the attention of Setiniaz.First, because he had never heard of the name; second, because the name itself was very special. This particular name is ZbynvSzblzuszk.It is absolutely unpronounceable, almost like a joke.After consulting an interpreter at the United Nations, he learned that the former name was pronounced Zbyniew, and the latter surname was pronounced Cibulski, which is a fairly common Polish surname.

"One dollar and eighty-three cents left." The tall man shook the change onto Zby's bed. "As agreed in advance, I keep a dollar for myself." "Thank you," said Ziby, choking suddenly.This former Silesian miner walked the streets of New York without ever expecting anyone to help him.A newsstand he'd acquired—mere access to it—was, at best, a shield against the cold, a sign that he had reached the top of society. "Tell me what kind of people hit you," Reber said. "Don't you worry about it, boy! If they come again, all you have to do is tell them you're selling papers for me, and you don't know anything else. When I get out of this goddamn hospital, I'll take care of them." .”

Leiber smiled and said, "Please tell me about the situation of those people." "There were three of them," Zby said. "It's all South European guys from Mulbury or Elizabeth Street. Very young, about twenty to twenty-two years old. They carry knives and these spiked metal things that go over the hands. The first time they Came to me two or three weeks ago. I wasn't the only Polish newspaper vendor they'd been to. They'd been to Gorzczyniak, too. And Kowalski on Fifth Street. And Union Square The Altman Brothers." Zby cited many names. "They want us to pay a dollar a day each. Big guys like Gozchenak want two dollars. Damn, there are nearly two hundred newspaper vendors like us on the south side of Manhattan alone. That means we'd have to spend at least three hundred dollars a day feeding those scoundrels!"

Some newspaper vendors are willing to pay. "It's true that some people make eight or ten dollars a day! If you have a newsstand in Times Square or Grand Central Station, that's easy money. But for us, it's too much to spit out an extra dollar , would kill us. That money plus what we paid the Irishman—dollar and fifty cents..." "What Irishman?" "The people who brought us the papers." The three largest New York dailies combined their distribution systems, and the Irish took over the business. "We don't have a choice at all, Reb. We can't get papers to sell without paying. Everyone pays, so we can't afford more than that. That's two dollars and fifty cents a day." ..." That day was July 17, 1950.The next day, old Zby had just come out of the hospital. He himself and Gorzchenak's son Ernie were lucky to be witnesses to what was going to happen next. "Don't be smart, fool. Are you a Pole?" "Not exactly," Reber asked and answered. "A Patagonian (note: a large area of ​​highlands south of the Colorado River in Argentina) to be exact, coming from the north." The two young thugs looked at him, their eyes narrowed into a single line. Then one of the smaller ones said: "What do you want to do? Be a smart fool? We're going to change your mind if you want to try. You probably won't cry until you see the coffin. Are you a Pole after all?" .” "Right now I'm a quilt," Reber admits.He turned his head and smiled at Ernie, who was fourteen at the time, who sat on the same step as him.Then he turned to the two young men and added with the same smile: "At this moment, I am a Pole through and through." "We don't like people teasing us," said the smaller one. "One of the guys who did it recently got a taste of us. We don't like Polks either. You're selling newspapers, aren't you?" "I'm a Polish newspaperman through and through," Reber replied, both melodious and gentle. "Then you pay a dollar for protection. That way, people don't bother you. A dollar a day, you have to pay every day. On Sunday, you have to pay twenty cents on the dollar, because the newspaper on Sunday is more expensive, and you earn more. More. You pay and you get protection. Nobody bothers you anymore. If you don't pay, you'll be treated to something. Get it? You pay a dollar a day, and a dollar on Sundays. Twenty cents on the dollar, easy enough, isn't it? Any Pole can figure it out." "I guess I'm starting to get it," Reber said, "though I'm a Pole. I'll pay you six dollars and a dollar and twenty cents," he thought. "It's seven dollars and twenty cents all together. I think it's all right." The two young men giggled.That's right, they said.After all, he wasn't too stupid for a Pole.Seven dollars and twenty cents a week indeed.He would be protected for his money; no one would come to him again, and he would be protected, a Pole of his own accord. "That would make me very happy," Reber said. "I've always dreamed of being a good-looking Pole. There's just one problem..." "What's the problem?" they asked. "I'm not afraid of you," he said, "not at all. There are two of you, and I can't be afraid if I try to be afraid. It's not my fault. Maybe it's because there are only two of you. If you are I might be afraid of three. Yes, I might be afraid then. But I'm not afraid of two." One of the two showed a knife in his hand. Reber shook his head, looking rather dejected. "No, I'm sorry!" he said. "Even so, I'm not afraid, though I try to be. Really, I'm trying." He nimbly grasped the knife's wrist with one long, thin, bony hand and pulled it toward him, bringing the sharp point closer to Reber himself.He pressed again, and the blade penetrated almost two centimeters into the flesh between his deltoid and pectoralis major.He didn't change his face, and his eyes still had that dazed expression. With the knife still lodged in his chest, he said, "Even now, I'm not afraid. Of course, if there were three of you, the whole situation would change." He pushed the opponent's wrist away.The blade came out.Blood dripped in a round puddle on his faded blue shirt. "It would be different if there were three of you. I'd be scared. You can come back whenever you like." They did come again.An hour and a half later, the truck came to pick up the unsold newspapers and magazines, and Reb and Ernie were picking up the stalls. It was about eight o'clock in the evening.This time there were three of them. Reber nodded and said, "Very well, that's right! You believe it? I told you that if you had three of you, the whole situation would change. Now I'm afraid." The three men gave each other a wink. One of them said in Italian: "He's crazy! This guy is a total psycho." "I figured I'd better pay the dollar," Leiber added. "Since I'm afraid, I'm willing to pay. But it's so pitiful. It's a shame at a dollar a day! You really don't want much, so you can't make a fortune. But if you think this is enough Well, that's your problem. It's a shame to squeeze a dollar out of these Poles! Actually they played you, and you can squeeze more out of them. But I don't want to interfere with yours Business. Here, here's a dollar for you." Naturally they asked him haughtily what he meant when he said it was a disgrace, and so on.Does this mean that they are all pig-headed three?He treats them like pigs, doesn't he?Is he courting death?Did he want to be beaten like the little Polish old man who ran the newsstand before him? "If that's what you need, just say so. And, what's the trick when you say you can get more money from the Poles?" Reb and Ernie put the magazine in The truck was stacked and the car drove away.Leiber took big strides to leave, Ernie followed behind him, and the other three naturally followed behind. "Hey, what's going on? You really want us to beat you up? Do you want to taste what it's like?" They came to a warehouse.Leiber went in first and walked all the way to the innermost part.The place was practically empty, save for a few broken crates and sacks, and some grain—maybe wheat—spilled from the sacks.Rats could be heard running around, and a few even came forward, baring their sharp teeth, challenging people with a completely unscrupulous posture. "Look," Reber said. "Look carefully, then you can understand everything." His left hand, which looked as if he was stroking the wound he had left with a knife in his flesh an hour and a half earlier, slipped under his shirt and came out holding a long stick-like thing, almost It is fifty centimeters long. He held the end of the thing to his lips, and announced, "Third mouse from the left." It's too late, but it's fast.There was only a whoosh, like a very light whistle, and the small flying arrow just hit the middle of the mouse's body.The mouse first ran two quick steps, then slowly swayed two steps, and then fell down, curled up in a ball, a pair of terrified little eyeballs already covered with the shadow of death. Reber said, "O.K., this curare poison is called 'nychnium,' and it's deadly. In Amazonia, we Indians use it to kill any animal. We do it very skillfully and quickly. For example, if any one of the three of you dares to take a step, then within two seconds, this person will definitely die..." He pointed the blowpipe at the three men. "I don't know which of the three of you I'll kill first," he said, in a creepy soft tone. "I haven't decided yet. You may laugh at me, but I really haven't made up my mind yet. Kill all three of you, or just two. Of course, if you make a move, if one of you tries to escape, it's much easier for me. Then I don't have time to choose gone." He smiled. "None of them wanted to escape?" silence. Then, the smallest one swallowed and managed to say something: "You are crazy. You are a Polish madman." "Now, I'm not Polish anymore," Reber said. "Earlier I was a Pole, but that's over now. Now I'm an Indian, a Guaharibo, a Samatari, and I'm very fierce." He circled the three men slowly, cutting off all possible escape routes for them. "Don't turn your back, please. Do you see? I've loaded three little flying arrows into the blowpipe. Three. Can fire three arrows in less than four seconds." The tip of the blowpipe rubbed against the neck of the smallest of the three, and he let out a near-suffocated scream. "However, I may not kill any of you in the end. In exchange, as long as you lie down on the ground. Hey...don't move!...Please don't touch that knife..." He leaned down and snatched the weapon away with his big hand, stamping on the other's wrist at the same time. "Get down, please. Spread your arms and legs, if you don't mind.... I don't want to kill you at all. Next time I see you, I will kill you. Let me make it clear, I am A shamatari, do you understand? My brother Yava and my whole family will be ashamed of me if I don't kill you next time. Our whole family will be discredited and they will have to come Kill you for me..." He put the point of the knife against the back of the hand of the smallest of the three. "The next time you appear in front of me, even if you just come to buy a newspaper from me, I will see you first, and you will die before you can see my face clearly." He pushed hard on the handle, and the blade penetrated between the bones of the index and middle fingers into the back of the man's hand.He stood up, put one foot on the handle of the knife and pressed down.The blade penetrated the palm into the ground and pinned the hand there.A scream echoed in the empty warehouse. He blocked the warehouse door with a wooden board, and the three people were locked inside, still lying on the ground, daring not to move.He smiled at Ernie. "Are you hungry, Ernie? It's time for you to go home. Your mother is probably going to be in a hurry." The boy's blue eyes were fixed on him. He asked: "Can you really hold three small flying arrows in your blowpipe?" Reb laughed. "No, Ernie, of course not. You're smart, Ernie. I like you. We might do something together someday, you and me, if you want..." He turned the boy's head The blond hair was scratched and fluffy. After walking for a while, he threw away a bamboo pole he picked up from the park last night.As for what he inserted into the blowpipe for the second time just now, it was just a wooden toothpick.Now he put the toothpick between the upper and lower teeth and began to chew it.But he carefully wrapped the match containing the curare in a piece of paper and put it back at the bottom of his cloth bag.There are two other books in the cloth bag, and the words on the books are actually hard to read due to the erosion of moisture.