Not My Thing

Ng’s story was briefly told. His mother was a Vietnamese, his unknown father a sergeant in the US army who disappeared when Ng’s mother became pregnant. She had made a tiny living selling hot snacks in the Saigon streets. Finally she decided to join the flood of refugees going to the States. By then Ng was sixteen. He had had a certain amount of education and had been fortunate to have been helped by an American RC priest who had taught him to read and write in English. Ng was a bright student, and he had slaved to improve himself. Both his mother and he hoped all would be well when they arrived in the States, but they found the going desperately hard. His mother got a lowly paid job in a Vietnamese laundry. Ng had searched and searched for work, but no one wanted him. After a year of this misery with his mother slaving to feed them both and pay the rent of the one room they had been lucky to find, Ng realized what a hopeless, useless burden he was to his mother, seeing her beginning to starve because she was also feeding him. He knew she would be better off without him. Without telling her, he took to the streets. This was now the third day of his desperate hunt for a job, no matter how menial, and without success. He felt, in misery, he had come to the end of his road.

Listening and watching Ng, Kling decided this youth had possibilities to be moulded into the slave he needed: to run his apartment, look after the chores and be faithful.

‘Okay, kid,’ he said. ‘I’ve a job for you.’ He took out his wallet and produced two one-hundred-dollar bills. He also produced his card. ‘Get cleaned up. Buy yourself new clothes and report to me at this address the day after tomorrow at eleven A.M.’

It took Kling only a few days to teach Ng exactly what he wanted and expected. Ng was a rapid learner. He seemed born a natural house-boy, unobtrusive, always on call, keeping in the kitchen when Kling was doing business or talking on the telephone. The apartment was kept immaculate. Then Kling had a call to do a hit job in Jamaica. He would be away three weeks. He had no qualms about leaving Ng to look after the apartment. He explained he wouldn’t be back for a while.

Ng nodded.

‘No problem, sir. I will take care of your home.’

Kling was paying the boy a hundred dollars a week and all found. When Kling departed, Ng went to visit his mother. He told her of his good fortune and gave her a hundred dollars.

‘Make yourself indispensable, son,’ she said. ‘Take cookery lessons. I will teach you how to wash and iron.’

Seeing the wisdom of this, Ng joined a night class for cookery. His mother taught him how to iron Kling’s expensive and fancy shirts. Again he learned quickly. Even with Kling away, Ng never sat in the luxury living-room. He either sat in the kitchen, studying English, or else, in the evenings, watching TV in his bedroom.

On his return, Kling was surprised and pleased to find a hot dinner of an excellent pot roast waiting for him. He was also pleased that his apartment never looked better.

‘Say, kid,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’ve become quite a cook!’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Ng said. ‘I have taken lessons. Please order what you wish to eat tomorrow.’

Kling grinned.

‘I’ll leave it to you, kid, so long as it’s as good as this.’ He took a thick roll of one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, peeled off three of them and tossed them onto the table. ‘That’s for the housekeeping. You fix it.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Ng said, looking at the tall, lean man with adoring eyes.

When he had cleared the table and was once more in the kitchen, Kling lit a cigarette and relaxed back in his chair. He had got this little bastard hooked, he thought. Man! Was I smart to have picked on him! He’s just what I’ve always hoped for.

A couple of weeks later, he was made to realize just how valuable Ng was to him.

He had gone out with friends for dinner, leaving Ng alone in the apartment, telling Ng he would be back around midnight, and not to wait up for him. That, of course, was unthinkable to Ng. No matter how late Kling was, he always found Ng waiting with coffee ready or an iced drink.

Around half past eleven, the front door bell rang. Ng opened the door and immediately received a violent shove that sent him reeling back.

A thickset man, wearing a shabby sports coat and a greasy hat, came swiftly into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He held a .38 automatic in his right hand.

Recovering his balance, Ng looked at him, his face expressionless.

‘Where’s Kling?’ the man rasped.

‘He’s out, sir.’

‘When’s he back?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

The man surveyed him and grinned evilly.

‘So he’s taken to boys now. I’ll wait. Get out of my sight. Just keep out of the way, and you won’t get hurt.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Ng eyed the gun and then regarded the man’s drink flushed face. ‘Before I go, can I give you a drink, sir?’

The man sat down heavily in one of the lounging-chairs that faced the front door.

‘Yeah, pansy boy… Scotch.’