This Is a Bust Read Online Free

unpacking toys from boxes from Hong Kong. I couldn’t believe how much money kids had to spend. They were either skimming from their family businesses or selling fireworks to the tourists.
    The work was pretty mindless, but it kept you busy. Two years went by like that, and, like Moy, I didn’t meet any girls there.
    Like a lot of guys, I hadn’t had sex until I got to Nam. Some of the girls didn’t know what to make of me, but they took my money and let me go at it. It was five minutes of humping and 10 minutes of shame. I haven’t had sex since I came back to the world in 1972. I haven’t killed anyone since 1972, either. I kind of associate the two.
    Moy had never had a girl ever, and sorting out spaceship models and monster replicas doesn’t sharpen social skills. He was average looking and at 26 he was only getting older. Like me.
    The big problem with Moy was the hearing aid in his right ear. He was born with some kind of defect, but until he saw a doctor about it, he’d gotten hit on the head by various balls in gym class. Even now when you talked to him, Moy would cock his head and point his good left ear at you.
    I popped my head into the toy store.
    â€œMoy, you up for lunch?”
    Moy leaned back against a glass case that showed off astronaut figures. He had freckles like Howdy Doody and bushy eyebrows shaded his watery eyes. Moy reached up with one hand and played with the wire that ran from his ear to the shirt pocket of his dark blue t-shirt.
    â€œI ’m hungry,” he said, “but I can’t leave. Dad’s at the post office and we’re getting a shipment in soon.”
    â€œWhat’s coming in?” I asked.
    â€œModels of robots and Godzilla.”
    I left, got some noodles from a sidewalk cart, and walked them back to the toy store. We were almost done eating when Moy’s dad came in. He was wearing a worn felt beret and holding an orange plastic bag and a cane with side legs and a tiny seat that a folded out into a tiny stool. He looked like Moy, but with about 25% less fat, and had a voice harsh enough to tear through a sheet of Reynolds Wrap.
    â€œYo u idiot, I said I would bring lunch! Why did you waste your money on that?” Moy’s dad growled.
    â€œI’ ll eat what you brought. This is just noodles,” said Moy.
    â€œHow are you, Uncle?” I said to Moy’s dad. “You’ve made enough money here. Time to move to California.” He frowned as he took plastic soup containers out of the orange bag.
    â€œWh at for? Everything I ever knew about America is right here. I still have my friends here,” he said. Little bits of saliva sprayed on the glass counter as he talked. “I like it here. Don’t have to change anything.”
    â€œYo u have to find a wife for your son,” I said. He laughed while Moy put his head down. I jabbed Moy’s arm. It felt  a little flabby.
    â€œOn ly thing I have to do is stay away from blacks,” Moy’s dad said. “When you see a black face around here, you better watch your wallet. They can slip it out of your pocket and you won’t even feel it. The only places they know how to behave are on the basketball court or in jail.” Then he laughed like he was saying, “It’s funny but it’s true!”
    I stayed quiet. What can you say to a guy who was old and ugly, and had such a heavy accent when he spoke English it would make the white guy in “Kung Fu” cringe. He just wanted to be surrounded by Chinese faces for the rest of his life, which wouldn’t last much longer. Let him die like that.
    â€”
    After the 10-minute lunch, I left and walked to Columbus Park. A dark-skinned black man with a medium build was leaning against the iron fence. He was wearing a brown leather jacket with a ripped vest pocket and a Yankees hat with the brim curled down as far as blinders. He was watching men playing Chinese chess and