Page 29 of A Long Con
“How does it taste?” asked Berkeley as I nibbled at the fin, imitating O’Bell and the couple from LA. “You don’t have to do this, Royal. Killing yourself for a painting isn’t worth it. You’re worth way more than that.”
Maybe it was the sake, but Berkeley’s words made me even more lightheaded. My ego soared to be told I was worth more than a forged painting. I chomped the fin with confidence. “It’s okay, Berkeley. O’Bell wouldn’t be doing it if it was lethal.”
I wasn’t so sure of that. It seemed like O’Bell shared a few meaningful glances with the chef. Meaning what, I wasn’t certain.
The chef himself gave us our plates. The presentation was gorgeous. Edible flowers, daikon, and sprouts decorated the fugu itself, which bloomed like a supernova.
O’Bell said, “This is arranged to look like a chrysanthemum, which in Japan means death.”
Berkeley said, “I know you feel no fear. You don’t need to do this to prove it.”
“I’m doing this to get your damn painting back. Hey O’Bell, that guy who just came in. Wasn’t he standing next to your target this morning?”
When O’Bell fell for it, even rising on his toes a few inches, I swiftly switched plates, mine for his. No one had touched theirs yet, so it wouldn’t be noticed. I can’t explain in words why I did this. It was just a gut feeling, and wrestlers were trained to go with their gut.
Sinking slowly to his pillow, O’Bell mumbled, “I don’t know who you mean. I was only focusing on my target, not anyone else.”
“Oh well,” I said. “It’s probably not him, since he’d still be dealing with the body.”
I tenderly peeled a slice from my plate with chopsticks and dipped it into some sauce. Berkeley had seen me make the ol’ switcheroo, but he watched with even sharper eyes as I slipped the onionskin-thin wafer into my mouth.
Nothing. No tingling, dizziness, or even flavor.
I looked over to O’Bell. He, too, had placed his first wafer in his mouth, but he was chewing. Maybe I needed to chew, instead of sucking on it like shredded ginger.
“Should I be chewing?” I asked O’Bell.
He frowned, all serious. “Oh hell yeah! You need to masticate to get the full experience.”
“Fugu means river pig,” said Melanie, eyes gleaming at her plate.
It wasn’t until our fourth bite that I noticed a change in O’Bell. With eyes squeezed shut, his nostrils flared as though he tried to ward off the urge to puke. But I had to hand it to him—he soldiered ahead like the heedless adventurer he was. In contrast, I felt like my normal self and even took pleasure in the sickly sweetness of the slivers of fish.
When I elbowed O’Bell to ask, “How’s it going, brah?” he nearly toppled off his pillow. “Everything okay?”
It seemed to take him a great effort to force open his eyes and glare dully at my plate. With his chopsticks, he pushing my beautiful pieces of fish around without any rhyme or reason. He was making a giant, fishy mess of the perfectly positioned pieces!
“Hey, hey, hey, brah!” I yelled, grabbing him by the wrist. “What you think you’re doing?”
“Is he okay?” asked Melanie.
“I don’t think so,” I told her.
O’Bell slurred, “I’m dizzy.”
“Hey!” Berkeley shouted at the chef. “What’s wrong with him? Did you put an ovary on his plate?”
The chef came over and pretended not to know English. So I tried. “Was ist sein problem?” He still shook his head and shrugged. Then in what language had he been confabbing with O’Bell? Don’t tell me O’Bell knew Japanese.
Berkeley hissed, “Stop eating that shit immediately, Royal!”
I said to Melanie, “What’s wrong with him? Look, he’s having trouble breathing. You know fugu. What would happen if he ate a poison part of the fish?”
She said, “Well, yes, he’d get dizzy. He’d lose autonomic motor functions, things like heart rate, digestion, and involuntary functions.”
Steve said, “After about an hour, he’d become totally paralyzed.”
“O’Bell!” I shouted, holding him by the shoulder. I looked him in the eye, and his pupils were like solid orbs of obsidian, utterly dilated. “Is the poison affecting you? Is that what it is? Did you get some bad stuff?”
