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Liu, gave him the college campus and neighboring streets as his delivery area. Liu had asked him. He was a wiry old man, originally from Beijing, who ran the restaurant with his small but angry wife. They gave him a map, which he folded and put in his back pocket as Fong and Wai-Ling laughed. When a delivery was wrong or late he would be yelled at and sometimes cursed at — he recognized the loud sharp tones, fiaring in the eyes.
Times like this he was glad he did not know what was said. He would just hand over the delivery and a few times the food was taken with a door slammed in his face, leaving him empty-handed.
He thought Mr. Liu would scream at him for this, but he didn't. Liu was right, but in the end he knew that none of it would matter if no one knew who he was, which was why he had told no one his real name. After his last delivery of the day he returned the bicycle to the restaurant and counted out with Mrs.
His tips for the day had been poor, except for the professor who had given him almost four dollars. He left Fong and Wai-Ling smoking out in front of the restaurant. As he walked away he heard Fong shout at him, "Don't get lost, eh? He lived close to the restaurant in a stone and brick building, a steel gate in front trimmed with razor wire. His apartment was small: an open kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom. He had found a mattress on the street and scrubbed it clean and now it lay in the corner covered with a blanket.
The black-and-white television sat on a plastic crate, and there was one rickety wood chair against the wall that he never sat in but used as a small table instead. He had his dinner in a bag taken from the restaurant — leftover rice and greasy noodles, a slop of chicken, and overcooked vegetables in brown sauce. He set it on the chair and dug in; he didn't like the restaurant's food, but it was easier than cooking and still the closest thing he could get that reminded him of home.
Since he had come to this place his pants and shirts now fit more snugly, and there was a thickness growing around his face.
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Maybe it was the food, or maybe the place itself was changing him. He thought his parents, if they had been alive, would not recognize him.
And maybe this was part of the luxury in coming to the Gold Mountain, where food was hearty and plentiful enough to fatten up even a skinny farm boy like himself. He turned on the television and watched the baseball game. The score was six to two, and only from the body language of the players could he figure out who was winning. When the score became ten to two he turned it off. See All Customer Reviews.
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Shop Books. Read an excerpt of this book! Add to Wishlist. USD Buy Online, Pick up in Store is currently unavailable, but this item may be available for in-store purchase. Sign in to Purchase Instantly. Omar Kaplan? I'm down to my last dollar. He heard footsteps and then the door opened. But I've traveled. I teach history. Continues… Excerpted from "Bronx Noir" by. Excerpted by permission of Akashic Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Bronx Noir 3. Anonymous More than 1 year ago Loved it! Varied, but all rang true to me.
Bronx Noir by S. J. Rozan, Paperback | Barnes & Noble®
Anonymous More than 1 year ago. Related Searches. Brooklyn Noir 3: Nothing but the Truth. Akashic Books continues its award-winning series of original noir anthologies, launched in with Brooklyn Akashic Books continues its award-winning series of original noir anthologies, launched in with Brooklyn Noir. This volume presents the first nonfiction collection in the series, curated by acclaimed novelists Tim McLoughlin and Thomas Adcock.
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Leslie Carroll's writing career took off when, during a drive to the Hamptons, a friend told her: "You're the most romantic person I know. Carroll, a professional actress and a graduate of PS 24 and the Ethical Culture Fieldston School, has been writing romances ever since. Released in February, Herself, Ms.
Carroll's seventh novel, asks one question: "Who says being 40 isn't fabulous?