‘Where did you find him?’
‘He found me,’ DeLaroza said cryptically and ended that part of the conversation. ‘The restaurant is over there. On the other side of the pond. It is a replica of Tai Tak, the finest restaurant in all Hong Kong — at least my favourite. But first let me show you one more thing. I think this may excite your imagination more than all the rest of this.’
They walked up a curving pathway to the end, near the outside wall of the building. Lowenthal saw the looming figure before they reached it, seven feet tall, his eyes gleam. ing slits, his moustaches plunging down to his chest, his fingernails curved like talons.
‘Meet Man Chu, the war lord,’ DeLaroza said proudly. The giant turned its head and glared down at the two men. For an instant Lowenthal almost held out his hand to shake its menacing fist.
‘It’s almost real,’ Lowenthal breathed in wonderment.
‘The definitive Arcurius,’ DeLaroza said. ‘Nikos does not make toys or robots; he makes people and creatures. Sometimes I find myself talking to them as though they were alive.’
‘What is this?’ Lowenthal asked.
‘The piece de resistance. A thrill ride like no other in creation. This is where the park gets its name. Pachinko.’
The robot stood in front of a hollow stainless-steel ball large enough to seat two people. The door in the front of the hall opened towards the floor.
‘Step inside,’ DeLaroza said. Lowenthal got into the ball and settled into the soft leather seat. DeLaroza closed the door. The top half was open so that the rider had a clear view out of the round car.
‘Now imagine Man Chi, here, firing this ball into that tunnel in front of you. You drop down a chute to the floor below, which is an enormous pinball field. Bumpers, lights, tunnels, mirrors. The car rolls freely on ball bearings, it never turns upside down and the speed is electronically controlled by an operator who sits in the middle of the pachinko board. Once it leaves the chute here, it is on its own. Only the speed is controlled, so it does not fly out of control. Otherwise it bounces from bumper to bumper up to thirty miles an hour at times before it drops through another chute and arrives on the first floor . . . where your attendant hands you your car keys.’
Above the entrance tunnel was a large replica of the pachinko board itself, an electronic grid on which a blip followed the course of the ball, lighting up the bumpers and registering the score on a digital counter.
DeLaroza helped Lowenthal from the ball. ‘Now come along,’ he said.
He led the way from the entrance to the ride, along a narrow alley and through a fire door. A flight of steps led down to a second door, which opened onto the field itself. Its walls were mirrored. Strobe lights flashed intermittently and the bumpers gleamed gaudily. It was the bumpers that intrigued Lowenthal, for they were like a vast field of strange statues, each in the shape of a Chinese deity.
DeLaroza strode out on the board, and was immediately dwarfed by the jazzy hardware of the giant pinball machine. He pointed first to this bumper, then that, talking continually.
‘This is Shou-Hsing, the god of long life. I call him the laughing god. That one, the serene one, is Lu-Hsing, the god of salaries. Over there, that fat one? Who else but the god of wealth, Ts’ai-Shen? And this lady here, this is Kuan-Yin, goddess of mercy and compassion. Forty-two bumpers in all, enough to satisfy even the most masochistic thrill-seeker. The ball makes one complete revolution of the board here at thirty miles an hour before it rolls through that chute up there. The box in the centre is the control- board. One man can control three balls. On opening night, of course, we will shoot them through one at a time.’
He turned and looked at Lowenthal. It was indeed a fitting climax for Pachinko!
‘Well,’ DeLaroza said grandly, ‘now what do you think?’
Lowenthal held his hands out at his sides, palms up. ‘What can I say? It is the definitive fantasy. Congratulations.’
Obviously pleased, DeLaroza led him back to the main floor of the park.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘we shall enjoy the creme de la creme. Wan Shu is waiting. Now that we have excited your emotions, we shall do the same for your palate.’
Chapter Thirteen
Barney Friscoe stormed through the lobby of the Lancaster Towers West with Papa trotting at his side. The security guard watched them enter and came out of his office with his eyebrows arched into question marks.
Papa managed a lame smile. ‘Superintendent,’ he said, pointing to Friscoe, whose
Everything hunky-dory up there?’ the guard said, with a touch of panic in his voice.
‘Fine, fine,’ Papa said, ‘nothin’ to worry about. Routine.’ They got into the elevator. The guard watched the door shut and finally shrugged and returned to his television set.
‘What’s this “superintendent” shit?’ Friscoe snapped.
‘A cover. He thinks we’re workin’ on the elevators,’ Papa said.
‘The elevators? Jesus H. Christ, Papa, this better be important, that’s all I got to say, puffin’ me outa the symphony, right in the middle of Prokofiev. And
Papa said nothing.
‘A fantastic programme, we got Brahms, we got Schubert, and we got Prokofiev! And there I am, third row centre.’ Friscoe, who -was wearing a tuxedo, pulled his velvet tie loose and opened the top button of his shirt as the elevator stopped.
‘To the right, first door on the right,’ Papa said.
