Thai Horse

They were almost nose to nose, her eyes demanding agreement. They stared at each other.

‘There is one other thing. . . .‘ He stared down at her, the brash smile she remembered playing at his lips.

‘Yeah?’

He reached out cautiously with one hand, stopped an inch from her mouth, then slowly moved his fingers to her mouth, touching her lower lip with his fingertips, exploring it with his forefinger, squeezing it with his thumb and middle finger until it pointed toward him. Her tongue glistened an eighth of an inch from his finger, flirted with it and finally swept across it, and his finger, moistened, slipped more easily across her lips.

‘Hai . . .‘ she said.

Her eyes closed and she tilted her head back and he leaned to her, gently squeezing her mouth as his touched hers. Her breath came out in a rush and she bit his lips, explored them with her tongue until finally the tease was no longer a tease but a passion.

She reached up and slipped her jacket off, let it fall to the floor as they kissed.

He reached up with his other hand and untied the slender string on one shoulder, then the other, but she pressed against him, keeping the dress from falling. She slid her hand between them, pressed the flat of it on his stomach. Her fingers nimbly unbuttoned his shirt. She slipped her hand inside, sliding it across the hard muscles, her thumb encircling his navel. She slid her fingers under his belt, turned her hand toward the floor, slid it down until she felt him rising to meet her hand.

Then she leaned back. And the dress slipped slowly down, dangled for a moment on her hard nipples, then slipped over her breasts and down to her hips. They kept kissing, their eyes closed as their hands explored each other, gave each other clues.

With her free hand she undid his belt buckle, unsnapped his pants, slipped her hand around his buttocks until they dropped off, then did the same with his shorts; he reciprocated, loosening her dress until it too fell away. She was naked under the dress.

Their lips were still locked together as she took his hand and moved it slowly to her stomach and then down, until it was between her legs and then she pressed it hard against her and began moving it up and down, then moved her hand, pressed the back of her hand against the back of his until they were stroking each other in perfect rhythm, their lips moving in the same rhythm.

‘My God,’ he whispered into her mouth, ‘slow down.’

He felt her twitch, press more tightly against his hand.

‘Cheng. . . nei, now, cheng nei. . .‘ she said as her breath became shorter, more urgent. ‘Please .

please . . .‘ And she began to grind against his hand, began stroking him faster and he began to move with her hand. She was trembling now, she sucked in her breath and rose on her toes and he could feel her getting harder under his fingers and then as she cried out she thrust him into her.

She ground her head into his shoulder, her muscles taut, trembling as he continued to massage her, faster and faster, lowering her slowly onto the bed until her arms fell away and he was over her, his eyes closed, his biceps twitching, and then suddenly he took in a breath and held it as he, too, exploded. She reached up with both arms, wrapped them around his neck and pulled him down on top of her, still grinding against him and he could feel her tightening again.

‘Cheng nei, Hatcher .

yen dui yen

It did not surprise Cohen when Tollie Fong called him. It was customary — a requirement of honor by anyone who belonged to the triad societies, whether it was the traditional society, the Sun Lee On, or its underworld offshoot, the Chiu Chao. As was the tradition, Fong suggested a meeting that afternoon in an offbeat restaurant deep in Wanchai. They agreed on the basics. The meeting was set for four o’clock. Each would have three representatives of his own triad with him; each would select a judge from the Society in general to monitor the meeting; there would be no weapons. The attack on Cohen’s house was not specifically mentioned.

Cohen selected his most conservative cheongsam for the meeting. He left in the Rolls at three-forty-five, taking with him Sing, who was already out of the hospital, and two other members of his ‘family.’ Hatcher and Daphne were still behind closed doors in the bedroom. No need to tell them about the meeting yet.

The Rolls swept quietly down the mountain, past the governor’s mansion and the U.S. consulate and down Connaught Street to noisy, rowdy Wanchai and then crept through teeming streets, threading its way between rickshaws and pedestrians, to Lan Fung Alley, a dismal and deserted connector. A small sign in hand-painted calligraphy halfway down the narrow alley announced the presence of Lon Song, a tiny, nondescript restaurant favored by locals. The driver parked the Rolls as close to the entrance as he could get, and Cohen entered behind Sing and his two other aides.

Lon Song was a narrow, feebly lit place, barely big enough to accommodate its ten tables. The smell of garlic hung heavily in the air. It was four-ten and it was deserted except for the owner, an elderly but very erect man with a wisp of gray chin whiskers. He stared at Cohen through bifocals, smiled and bowed.

‘It is an honor, Tsu Fi,’ he said.

‘Are the others here yet?’

‘Hai. Also the judges.’

‘Ho,’ Cohen said. He and his three men followed the old man back through the dingy corridor to a door at the rear. The owner opened it for him. There was a small landing and a staircase that led down to a cellar room, a room that was dusty and poorly lit and obviously rarely used. In the center was a small table with two chairs facing each other on opposite sides. A tea service sat in the middle of the table. There were two cups.