Postcard from Chinguashi

“Joey, you ain’t gonna believe what I’m gonna tell you.  The butcher of Chinguashi that killed your father.  He’s here in New York.”

He wondered if Richie had started drinking early.  “You’re always seein’ him.  It’s ghosts, Richie.”

“Don’t be a smartass professor.  I was there with him — with ’em all — for two years.”

“And I spent a week of R ’n’ R in Taiwan trying to track the bastard down.  Like you told me.  Forget it.  He’s long gone.”

“I was walking down Canal Street and there he was, stan’in’ in the sun lookin’ over some Chink vegetables.  I pulled his sleeve and says, ‘Don’t I know you?’ and he walks away.  ‘Sure,’ I say, ‘I know you even after twenny-fi’ years.  You’re the bastard from the prison camp.’  Then he takes off runnin’.  I can’t run so good and I lost him.”

“What do you want me to do?”  Joey sat down and lit a cigarette.  Richie was flinging the nightmare in his face again.





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