upper lip with his thumb.
Old instincts were stirring in Hatcher. And old memories. Once, many years before, 126 and 127 had been having one of their long philosophical discussions.
‘Sometimes it is necessary for a man to play God,’ 126 had said. ‘Sometimes God is too busy to take care of things himself and he delegates the authority.’
‘How do you know?’ 127 had asked. ‘How do you know it’s not prejudice or hate or envy?’
‘Because it will not matter to you,’ 126 answered. ‘Because it will be a job without satisfaction.’
There would be no satisfaction in killing Tollie Fong. He was simply a volcano waiting to erupt. The time had come, Hatcher couldn’t wait any longer. But Fong was no amateur. To do the job right would take everything he had. Just like the old days - as S loan used to say, ‘Do it and do it right.’
‘An operation like this, there are only two choices,’ Hatcher said. ‘Either you go to him or you bring him to you. Either way, we’ve got to get him right. He doesn’t travel alone, and if I count correctly, there’re only five of us. We’d have to find the stash, figure out how to get to it — and to him.’
Earp smiled. ‘I told you, soldier, we always know where he is. One of us always has the bastard in view. Right now he’s on that junk. Arid you can kill two jackals with one shot.’
‘How’s that?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Because Sloan’s there too, in the House of Dreams,’ came the answer.
A TIME FOR KILLING
Hatcher recognized the area. He had been there once gangplank stretched to the wharf. Thais moved up and down the plank and argued in loud tones with the men on the deck. On the side of the junk facing the river, several boats — longtails, snakes and klong buggies — huddled around the side of the big boat as the river merchants unloaded their purchases onto their river craft.
‘I was here once before with Sy,’ Hatcher said. ‘That junk is sitting on the spot Wol Pot gave as his address.’
‘That was his front,’ said Earp. ‘He ran the produce haul for Fong, bringing in fresh produce from Chon Buri down the coast. They sell it right off the boat to local dealers.’
‘What makes you think his stash is on the junk?’
‘Because the courier Murph aced picked up the package here,’ Earp continued. ‘Sy was following him.’
‘The son of a bitch wants to stay as close to his fortune as he can get,’ said Corkscrew.
‘And the House of Dreams is in there, too?’ Hatcher said.
Earp nodded. ‘Fong’s junk of plenty.’
‘You’re sure Sloan and Fong are in there?’
‘They were half an hour ago.’
There were five of them in the van: Earp, Corkscrew, Potter, Riker and Hatcher. Hatcher was wearing his flying belt and a coil of rope thrown over his shoulder.
There was a clinking of metal n metal as the team prepared their weapons: Hatcher’s Aug, loaded with three extra magazines in his belt, Corkscrew’s 870 riot shotgun and 9 mm. H&K, Potter’s AK-47, which he had borrowed from Sweets Wilkie, and Earp’s trusty .375 ‘Buntline Special’ stuck in one side of his belt, two pockets full of quick loads and two pipe bombs stuck in the opposite side of his waistband. Riker had a trusty old M-16. Plenty of firepower, thought Hatcher. With that kind of firepower, they could hit Fong by surprise and quickly however bad the odds were.
Sy appeared from the shadows and jumped in the side panel door. When he saw Hatcher, he looked embarrassed and lowered his head in a sign of shame.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Hatcher said.
‘I am sorry, Hatch,’ he said without looking up.
The little Thai looked relieved. ‘I went on board,’ he said excitedly. ‘They think I am checking out their stuff to buy. The Chinese are all down below.’
‘How about that bunch?’ Potter asked, pointing to several men in black on the deck of the junk.
‘They are Thais,’ said Sy. ‘They make talk for the food.’
‘Salesmen,’ Earp said and Sy nodded. ‘They’ll leave soon. The junk market closes at nine.’
‘Be good and dark by then,’ Corkscrew said.
‘Let me show you,’ Sy said. ‘Paper and ball point, please?’
He was a good spy. Pretending to be a produce dealer, he had studied the junk well. His map was full of little details, location of hatchways, stairwells, cabins. The junk was a giant. The main hold ran the width of the junk and half its length, an enormous yawning cavern that could be filled with lettuce, rice, watermelons and whatever other produce Fong’s front men had to sell. On one side of the hold was an open booth, a pleasant, comfortable space with pillows on the floor and a low-slung table where Fong and his men could sit in comfort, sip their scotch and monitor the produce market.
