That night, Koksun was seated in an alley underneath several boxes, which formed the roof of the location that had served as his home for the last few months. He was chomping on an apple he had swiped (he didn’t waste time on convincing himself he “borrowed” things, as some thieves do), along with a yummy piece of bread, and he analyzed the whole show cheerily that he had been privileged to watch earlier that day.
The way he figured it, two massive pulleys like the one he saw attached firmly to the concrete base of the building must have been attached to either side of the top of the building. The rascal kids who had tied the rope to the back wagon wheels worked for the “police officer,” who was not really a police officer but likely a higher-up in the gang that had carried out the daring robbery (which he assumed because the police officer seemed to have the most difficult job). Bulls were often led through that area, due to the presence of a nearby slaughterhouse and thus would not have aroused undue suspicion.
The occasional exaggerated inflection in the police officer’s words were likely the signal to someone at the top of the building on his side, who then probably gave a hand signal to someone on the other side of the building who then likely either yelled something down or made some kind of hand or flag signal to someone on the other side of the building who then likely cracked the whip or did whatever it took to get those bulls moving, which then started hoisting the coach up in the air on the other side of the building while looking like they were simply being taken to the slaughterhouse.
As for the rope trailing behind them, that likely would have garnered some undue suspicion, but perhaps if the bulls started with a taut line right next to the building by the time they got enough distance away for that long rope to start really becoming apparent, the coach was likely dangling high on the side of the building, and the acrobatic crooks were quickly rappelling down to recover the booty; thus, at that point it would have been a question of just cutting the rope on the oxen loose, creating a marvelous distraction via their stampede.
As for the pulley at the base of the building, that would have likely gotten some attention when it was being thunderously pounded into place. Ah—the food stand! That owner had to be either in their gang or either paid off or threatened—
“Interrupting a busy night?” Koksun heard a voice say, interrupting him from his pleasurable analysis of the wondrous drama he’d seen unfold earlier that day.
He swiveled around inside his humble abode of boxes and saw one of them had been removed, and staring at him was one of the young rascals who had tied the wagon up that afternoon. Koksun felt afraid that he was about to get killed right then and there, for the eyes studying him seemed intelligent and seemed to look right through Koksun.
“No,” he said, almost adding “sir,” but he was after all speaking to a young kid about his own age, and he feared it would have sounded a bit smart-alecky. And his senses, which he was already learning to trust more and more after just a few months of living on the streets, told him he didn’t want to be smart-alecky to this kid, even if by himself he was not all that imposing. It had already been made clear earlier that afternoon that this kid worked with others.
“Good. I’m right glad to hear that.”
Koksun had to swivel around again because the voice came from six o’ clock. It was another one of the rascals he had seen tie up the wagon wheels. Koksun started to turn again to see if the first kid was making any kind of hostile gestures, but he only got halfway through his swivel when he saw another face gleaming down on him in the moonlight.
“The Triad at your service,” the face said, a subtle smile at the corners of the lips, and perhaps even a hint of a smile—a genuine smile—in the eyes, but there was more to the eyes than that, something that said, I can be nice, but I can also not be nice.
Koksun felt truly boxed in now. He felt afraid, but not terrified. He got the impression that if the three rascals wanted to beat him to a pulp they’d have probably already started in earnest by now. Something told him they weren’t sure yet what they wanted to do.
“You’ve been watching us a lot lately,” said one. “Our boss wants to meet you, but not yet. He sent us to decide if it would be worth his time. What did you think of our little show today?”
“Those were the angriest bulls I’ve seen in a while, but I’ve seen worse,” Koksun said, not particularly sure if feigned ignorance was the best route.
“Angriest bulls, you say. So, the dangling stagecoach and acrobatics you won’t see at the circus didn’t really catch your eye?”
Koksun saw it was no use fibbing now. “Look, you guys are good; what else can I say?” He felt nonchalance was the next best thing to fibbing in a moment like this.
“There’s no reason for you to get scared. Lots of people saw too much today. If we were to deal with everyone that saw too much, we’d have to take out about three city blocks. The thing is you’re one of the few—if not the only people—who seemed like they really put the whole thing together. The boss really didn’t like it when you took to running after him.”
Koksun gulped nervously.
“But, he kind of admired it too. The stampeding bulls stole most people’s attention even better than we stole that chest of gold, but it didn’t seem that you paid them too much attention. So—”
Koksun was beginning to feel nervous, expecting at any moment to see a gleam of a switchblade in the silvery moonlight, then a sting across his throat, and then, finally, a warm bath of blood being pumped from his throat down onto his chest.
“The boss sent us to size you up.”
Koksun didn’t feel it, not even a little, but he thought this might be the moment to act a little tough.
“Well, I ain’t big, but I can swipe an apple, and I could sure as heck tie a rope.”
He was relieved that the latter part was actually true. His father, although a mere government clerk, had a fondness for an odd assortment of hobbies.
(that is, before he was—)
He cut the voice off. He didn’t need a graphic reminder of how his parents had been murdered. His discovery of their bodies had haunted him a sufficient number of times already.
One of the hobbies his dad had was tying ropes, and he had begun teaching Koksun various knots when he was just five.
“You can tie knots, huh? Let’s see you do a crazy eight!”
He handed Koksun three sticks and a rope. Koksun bolted upright, causing The Triad to startle. Their shock at his abrupt act of standing was nothing, however, compared to what they saw next. As if he were an experienced baker’s apprentice, twirling dough around like it were second nature, he began tying what was a rather difficult knot. Like a spider weaving its web, he moved each stick into the right position, intertwining the thin rope—just barely too large to be classified as string—with the precise number of wraps in the right places around the sticks and then quickly began inserting the end of the rope through various loops inserted throughout the jumble. He then gave the both ends a good tug, and, by the powers, there it was: two nearly perfect circles attached to a thick center.
One of the toughs grabbed a circle, and with no need of giving one of his cohorts instructions on what to do next one of them immediately grabbed the other side of it, and the two began yanking in opposite directions. The knot stayed tight, and both circles remained their original sizes. The two squatted and arched their backs giving every ounce of strength they had, but without effect.
Doing his best to act unimpressed—which was not very good—one of them stated, “Let’s see you do a slippery eight, and tell me which way it will slip.”
This was a bit of a trick. But first there was perhaps a bigger obstacle—untying the crazy eight. Koksun pulled out a long, sharp needle without blinking and jammed it through a section of the knot with the self-assurance of a veteran tailor. Then, he pulled out a thin piece of steel, stuck it through a narrow hole at the base of the needle, flipped it upside down, grabbed the rope wit
h both hands, lowered it towards the ground until the flat piece of steel intersecting the steel touched the ground like an upside down T, and then jumped with both feet onto the rope.
Since the needle became thicker and thicker towards the base, as Koksun jumped on the rope and pushed the needle deeper into the knot, it loosened the knot slightly. He then stuck a small rod between the small opening in the knot, grabbed it on both sides, braced the rope with both feet against the ground, and then pulled on it. It came loose. The rest was a cinch. A few tugs in the right places, and in just a few seconds he had a knot-free rope in his hand.
This time, The Triad did an extremely poor job at hiding their reaction—the tension around their eyebrows as they attempted to keep them from raising of their own accord to the tops of their foreheads was plainly visible.
But Koksun didn’t stop to bask in the thinly disguised admiration. He barely gave it a glance before he began working on the requested slippery eight knot. This time it almost looked like a whirlwind of fingers and rope had descended upon this slummy locale. Suspecting trickery was not far off, he intentionally made one circle just slightly smaller than the other, though to the unpracticed eye it appeared there were two perfect circles again, just as with the crazy eight knot.
“Okay,” one of the toughs said, grabbing the rope, “Veril here’s gonna pull on that end, and I’m gonna pull on my end. Which way’s the knot going to go?”
“Towards you,” Koksun said without hesitation.
Veril and his as-of-yet unnamed pal began pulling, and sure enough the knot went away from Veril and towards the one who had posed the question.
“My name’s Rolen,” he announced. “I’ve already introduced Veril to you, and the ugly one here’s Silder. Who are you?”
“Koksun.”
“You know how to tie a mean knot, Koksun.”
“Thanks.”
“Why are you on the streets, Koksun. Your parents disown you?”
“Did yours?”
Rolen, who had by now demonstrated himself sufficiently in Koksun’s eyes to be the leader of this rascal pack, looked like he was about to tear into Koksun, but Silder and Veril grabbed him and said, “Easy, Rolen. Calders said size him up, not beat him up.”
“It’s okay,” Rolen said, looking calmer. “A little attitude’s to be expected. It’s just if we were to recommend you to Calders I want to make sure you really do live on the streets and aren’t just some temporary runaway. If I introduce you to Calders and you go runnin’ back home—if you have a home—that wouldn’t be good for me, and so it wouldn’t be good for you. Are we understanding each other?”
“They’re dead,” Koksun said.
Rolen looked at him carefully, and Koksun saw intelligence and cleverness radiating from them. Rolen and his two pals looked to Koksun like they were somewhere around ten to twelve years old.
“You enjoy the rest of your night. Tomorrow, at noon, at the food stand where you saw us earlier today, there will be a man wearing a red hat, a white shirt, and blue pants. He’ll be carrying a gold watch in his left pocket. If you can swipe it before he grabs your hand and cries ‘Thief!’ we’ll be visiting you again tomorrow night. If he yells ‘Thief!’ don’t ever come within ten blocks of here again. If you don’t show up tomorrow and try to grab his watch, don’t ever show yourself within thirty blocks of here ever again. Do we understand each other?”
“I’ll be there,” Koksun said.