Thai Horse

‘What’re you whispering for, you in trouble?’ Cohen asked in a very confidential tone.

‘It’s a long story and, no, I’m not in trouble — at least not yet.’

‘Get your ass over here now! God, wait till I tell Tiana. I can’t believe this, man, I can’t fucking believe it! Hatcher, back from the dead!’

China Cohen’s excitement seemed genuine, and Hatcher felt better after he hung up. In his heart, he believed that Cohen was still a loyal friend. But this was Hong Kong. Allegiances changed a quickly as the wind.

Joe Lung never got up before noon. He spent his evenings in Monitor’s casino or doing his rounds of the various nightclubs. If the pickings were slim, he usually ended the night in one of the various whorehouses in Macao. Lung rarely got to bed before three or four in the morning, and he rarely changed the routine unless there was a job to do.

He lived in one of the new condos that were already beginning to destroy the centuries-old beauty of Macao, the tiny city at the gateway to China.

He stirred and reached over, touching the woman beside him. She was a blonde, a beauty he had picked up the night before in the Fire Duck Club. Lung liked the gwai-lo women, and this one was wilder than usual. She moaned and turned over on her back, still asleep, and he rolled over on his side and pressed against her, sliding his hand across the top of the silk sheet. He began to stroke her awake.

The phone began to ring. Annoyed, he turned away from the woman and gruffly answered it.

‘Hatcher is here. Room 512, the Peninsula,’ the voice on the other end said in Chinese.

Lung sat straight up in bed. ‘No mistake?’ There was urgency in his voice.

‘No mistake. It is Hatcher.’

‘Is he there now?’

‘Hai, but who knows for how long.’

‘Mm goi,’ Lung said and hung up. Lung’s pulse was racing. Lung long ago had given up any hope of avenging the murder of his partners by Hatcher. Then Tollie Fong had sworn to kill him, and since Fong was his boss, the possibility of revenge became more remote. He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, smiling, for Tollie Fong was out of town. What a sweet surprise it would be, thought Lung, to stick the gwai-lo before Fong got back. Otherwise Tollie Fong would perform the execution himself.

The girl responded to his overtures. She was fascinated by the green dagger tattooed on his forearm, aroused by his muscular body, and she found his faulty attempts to speak English attractive. It was a new experience for her, making love to someone whose culture was so totally alien to hers. At first she was frightened by his gruff manner, afraid that perhaps he was into some strange Oriental sex rites and would hurt her. But it was just his manner, and it had turned out to be one of the most satisfying sexual experiences of her life. She leaned over and began to stroke the inside of his thigh. He slapped her on the rump. ‘We will have again later,’ he said in English. ‘I do business now.’

After he had sent her back to the hotel, Lung took an ice-cold shower. He toweled off, opened a chest in the corner of the bedroom, and slid a long, narrow dagger out of its soft calfskin sheath. He tied the sheath to his left forearm, covering the tattoo, then got dressed in traditional Chinese workingman’s clothes, black sateen pants and a shirt with wide sleeves. He studied himself in the mirror, shifted his gaze to the reflection of a dart board behind him on the wall.

Lung folded his arms across his chest, then whirled, lashing out his right arm, pulling the dagger and snapping it across the room. The silver blade flashed in the morning sun, hit the board dead center and stuck there, its handle quivering.

Lung smiled and uttered a tight little grunt of satisfaction. What was it the gwai-lo said? Practice does perfection?

Hatcher had checked his main bags through to Bangkok, so he had only an overnight bag with a change of clothes and the usual overnight necessities in it and his Halliburton case. He took both when he left the room. He went first to the wine store in the lobby of the hotel, a connoisseur’s shop, and bought a bottle of wine, a Lafite Rothschild ‘72, that seemed to fit the occasion. When he left the hotel, he walked around the corner from the hotel and strolled up Nathan Street, window-shopping while he checked behind him in the window reflections. By the time he reached Kowloon Park four blocks away he had spotted the car.

Two men. One in the car, the other on foot. One Oriental, one Occidental. In five blocks they switched off twice. Pretty good.

Hatcher was sure these were Varney’s men, and now he became even more suspicious of the Hong Kong cop. It was possible that a computer had turned up Hatcher’s name. But after all these years, it did not make sense for them to be this interested in him. Cops throughout the world were overworked. It was highly suspect for them to be ‘protecting’ Hatcher without his request.

He walked across the park, doubled back down Kowloon Drive to the Star Ferry slip and boarded the ferry, standing near the stern, staring out over the bay. To Hatcher’s surprise, the two men did not follow him. The man on foot got in the car; they drove off up Salisbury Road as the ferry pulled out.

They were very good, Hatcher thought to himself. By now they’ve alerted their people on the island. The new tail would be waiting for Hatcher when he got there. He would have to play the game again when he got to the island. He did not want Varney and the Triad Squad to know he was going to visit the Tsu Fi.

Joe Lung entered the hotel through the servants’ entrance. Because of his dress, he was easily mistaken for one of the laborers that worked around the hotel. Lung went straight to the fifth floor and quickly, silently, picked the lock on Hatcher’s door. He let the door glide open, standing alert as it did, then jumped inside and closed it just as silently. He entered the room cautiously, checked it thoroughly.

Hatcher was not there, nor was his luggage.

Lung stood in the middle of the room thinking. Had Hatcher left the city? Perhaps he was on the way to the airport at that moment.

Lung went to the lobby and checked the desk from the house phone. Had Mr Hatcher in 512 checked out? No, the desk answered.