The godfather on the deck
1344 Words
My boot hit the deck, and a wave of diesel, blood, and fish-rot air slammed into me, nearly knocking me off my feet. My stomach heaved violently—the thin rice porridge from breakfast threatened a reappearance. I swallowed hard. *Can’t puke. Chen Er wouldn’t.*
“Second Brother!”
The shrill shout cut through the noise. I turned to see Bao sprinting towards me, a bottle of *baijiu* in hand, liquor dripping from its neck. Sweat coated his face, gleaming under the deck lights.
*Can’t this fat bastard ever be calm?* I cursed inwardly. Outwardly, I channeled Chen Er’s lazy insolence, tilting my chin. “What’s all the yelling?”
Bao shoved the bottle into my arms, voice dropping low. “The Old Man’s waiting. Doesn’t look happy.”
My heart thudded. *Not happy? Did I slip up earlier? Or did news leak about the skinny guy?*
I tossed the bottle aside. It hit the metal deck with a sharp *clang*. Heads snapped up from the cluster of men smoking in the shadows. I glared back, deliberately striding forward with a heavy, rolling gait, as if crossing my own living room.
My legs felt like jelly, tendons jumping behind my knees. *One step, two… Don’t falter, Chen Xiao. You’re Chen Er now.*
Du Ming stood facing the sea at the deck’s center, the wind whipping his black trench coat. His back was exactly like the photos, broader—a wall. He turned slightly at the sound, the ember of his cigar flaring, illuminating a scar near his eye, sharp as a knife cut.
“Godfather,” I called, throat dry.
He grunted, a sound that somehow overrode the wind and waves.
I moved closer, catching the heavy scent of tobacco and something medicinal, bitter and sharp.
Du Ming didn’t turn. He lifted a hand, pointing out to sea. “Look.”
I followed his finger. Something dark bobbed on the inky water, waves nudging it closer to the boat.
*Oh god. Not a person?*
“Haul it up,” Du Ming said flatly.
Two men threw out grappling hooks. In moments, the thing was dragged onto the deck.
It landed with a wet *smack*. I stared. *The skinny guy!* The plastic bag still covered his head, his stomach grotesquely swollen, like he’d swallowed a basketball.
My scalp prickled. *f**k! Weren’t they holding him in the hold? How’d he get out here?*
He was utterly still, obviously dead. My throat tightened, palms slick. If Du Ming found out I’d tampered…
I caught Bao’s eye. His face had paled; he shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Du Ming crouched. He pressed the glowing cigar end against the plastic bag. It sizzled, melting a hole to reveal the corpse’s blue-grey face. He checked for breath, wiped his wet fingers on his pants, then looked straight at me.
“Your handiwork?”
My blood ran cold. I fought to keep my face blank. “Didn’t get the chance—”
Du Ming cut me off, his voice dangerously quiet. “Then whose?”
Silence crashed over the deck, broken only by waves slapping steel. Dozens of eyes locked onto me like searchlights.
My mind raced. *Plead ignorance? Look incompetent. Blame someone? Risky if caught…*
In a flash, I bent down, grabbed the corpse’s right hand, and pried it open. Lodged under the middle fingernail was a smear of black grit, smelling of rust. A spark ignited. I looked up at Du Ming, forcing a grin. “Godfather, I had him tossed overboard. Didn’t mean to kill him, just scare him straight.”
Du Ming raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
I pointed at the nail. “He scraped rust off the hold’s vent valve. Trying to leave a signal for the coast guard. Pissed me off. Told Bao to dunk him, wake him up. Didn’t expect the waves to be so rough…” I let the sentence hang, thick with feigned regret.
Bao jumped in. “Yeah, yeah! He was kicking when I threw him! Who knew…”
Du Ming stared at me. Two seconds stretched like two years. Sweat soaked my back, chilling in the wind.
Finally, he chuckled, the scar near his eye twitching. “Second Son. Still so impulsive.”
Relief washed over me, my knees nearly buckling.
Du Ming nudged the corpse with his boot. “Toss it. Fish food.”
Two men grabbed the body. As it passed me, the dead man’s hand swung down, icy fingers brushing my knuckles—a silent accusation. Guilt twisted inside, but I only clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.
As the crowd dispersed, Du Ming threw an arm over my shoulders, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Come. Have a drink with me.”
My heart hammered, but I nodded.
The captain’s cabin was on the upper deck. The door shut, muffling the storm. A single yellow bulb cast long shadows. Two unlabeled bottles of *Moutai* sat on the table—probably smuggled.
Du Ming twisted open a bottle, poured two generous glasses, slid one to me. “Steady your nerves.”
I took it. The liquid shimmered, reflecting my pale face. *Steady my nerves? I’d need the whole damn bottle.*
Du Ming threw his back in one gulp, slamming the glass down. “Second Son. Do I look old?”
My pulse skipped. I forced a grin. “Godfather, you’re joking. You could still drop a bull with one punch.”
He snorted, crow’s feet deepening. “But today… I felt tired.”
I sipped my drink, staying silent. Anything I said could be a trap.
Suddenly, he pushed up his left sleeve. A fresh scar snaked from wrist to elbow—an ugly, stitched centipede. “Last week. Cops ambushed a deal.” His tone was flat. “Hacked my own arm to get away.”
My eyelid twitched violently. *Is this why he’s been off?*
“Know who tipped them off?” His gaze hooked into mine.
My throat tightened. “N-no idea.”
He stared for three heartbeats, then abruptly laughed. “Just messing with you. Why so tense?”
*Bastard*, I cursed inside. Outwardly, I managed a weak smile.
He refilled my glass. “Finish it. Get some sleep. Big shipment tomorrow morning. You’re handling it.”
I downed the liquor. Fire burned a path to my gut like swallowed glass.
Back on deck, the night was deep. The wind screamed. Mast lights swung wildly, casting dancing shadows on the deck—ghosts at play.
I leaned on the railing, pulling out a cigarette. My hands shook so badly it took three tries to light it.
Just as I took the first drag, a faint *beep-beep* sounded near my ear.
My body tensed. *The earpiece!*
I coughed, turning away, using my hood to shield my face as I pressed the grain behind my ear.
A gravel-rough male voice scraped my eardrum:
“Chen Xiao. Still breathing?”
I breathed low: “Yes.”
“Skinny guy’s dead?”
“Accident.”
“Du Ming’s suspicious. Watch yourself.”
“Understood.”
“Midnight tomorrow. Vent valve. Hold level. Delivering something.”
“What?”
“Something to keep you alive.”
Static crackle. Silence.
I spat out the cigarette, grinding it under my heel.
*Skinny guy dead. Du Ming suspicious. Supplies arriving at midnight…*
The ropes were tightening. And I was trussed in the center.
I looked up. The sky was starless.
Waves pounded the hull. A death drum.
*Chen Xiao, don’t you dare falter. God helps those who help themselves.*
*Chen Er wouldn’t.*
*Tomorrow, the first shipment arrives. I have to stay alive to save anyone.*
The wind, thick with salt and rot, knifed through my collar. I shivered, zipping my hoodie to the top.
As I turned to head below deck, a heavy *thud* echoed behind me.
I whirled around.
At the far end of the deck, a shadowy figure vanished down the stairs leading to the hold.
*Who?*
Fists clenched, I moved forward, steps silent.
- Writer
