product to every single aspect of Hong Kong. And there you have the dusk-time tour.
The Peak tramway’s slow climb shafts the clouds to set you on a mountaintip surely intended for an eastern Olympus. The giant net of lights and reflections is spread out below to make you gasp.
A car had driven to meet us, and we were taken to marvel at the famous beaches of Repulse Bay, Stanley, the astonishingly uninhabited hills of the island, the luxury shops and bars, the smaller townships so unbelievably varied.
For a couple of hours afterwards we danced in a night club, sharing a table. We watched a garish but mediocre Western-style floor show, gamboled some more. We strolled along the evening shoppers’ haven of Wan Chai and Causeway Bay, admiring the spice shops, spectacular decorations, colors, the busy nightlife.
Then it was nine o’clock, and by a fluke we found ourselves outside the Digga Dig, surprise surprise. Supper time, drinks, more laughs, talk of Hong Kong’s wondrous dynamism, all that jazz.
We had different rooms from last time. I honestly thought I’d had quite a good time, experienced a marvelous tourist’s day.
At one point quite far on in our activities she said shyly, “Lovejoy. Because I’m the, uh, y’know? Does it mean I can, well, say, y’know, whatever?”
Warily I considered this proposition from Wittgenstein. What the hell did she mean? “Er, if you like.”
She considered this lengthily. “Do I just, right out, y’know, you to, y’know? Or not?”
Christ. Were many permutations left? “Sure.” I assumed a campaign veteran’s gruffness.
She stayed until three in the morning. I’d asked what time Mame was supposed to meet her, but she only pressed a hand on my mouth and went, “Shhhh.” I also worried about Irwin. I could see him bursting in with a shotgun. Surreptitiously I checked the fire escape.
Maybe it was this worry or the loving we got up to that vexed me when she did the envelope bit. My refusals are never any good with women, so I went all reticent and simply said, “Don’t, love.”
She was dressing, me still in bed. “But it’s your… Won’t you get in trouble from the, y’know, agency? James told Mame how strict the rules are.”
“No.” I must have sounded harsher than I’d intended because her eyes filled. “No money. Understand?”
She came to me. “Oh, darling. That’s perfectly sweet. Can’t I just give it you as a present?”
See? Tell them no and they argue the hind leg off a donkey. “Just go,” I said. I could see Irwin and his sixty revenge-seeking assistant dealers gunning for me as despoiler of the honor of Brookers Gelman, Inc.
She departed smiling through her tears, really odd. Worn out, I rolled over for a quick zuzz, wishing I’d told her to have some tea sent up on the way out.
I’d just dozed off when my bad dream came true. The men burst in with the shotguns I’d been so terrified of.
Gift
18
« ^ »
TRUTH to tell, it wasn’t such an invasion. I just became conscious that somebody else was in the room. Still dark, but the door was ajar and light cut in from the corridor. If it’s ever happened to you, you’ll know that instant nausea, how your heart bangs.
“Who is it?” I spoke feebly, pulling the sheet up like a surprised matron.
The door clicked shut. Lights came on. Leung and Ong were standing there, Ong with a stubby shotgun. That was okay—they looked incredibly neat, dark suits, ties. Uneven bookends, except for that gun. What scared me most was their gloves. I’ve never yet met an honest man wearing black leather gloves, and that’s the truth. They’re all criminals.
“You’re ready to come, Lovejoy.” Leung was telling me, not asking. I decided he was right.
Babbling assurances I scrabbled on my gear and went. People calm as this pair never experience palpitations like us cowards. They don’t need to.
Three in the morning. The hotel foyer was curiously empty, the night outside hot. The streets were calm, a few people walking to work, some sleeping in doorways of cinemas, the odd car, bar girls brightly tumescent in neon- stenciled doorways, trucks collecting rubbish. We drove to a place that was strangely familiar, a high-rise block with balconies. The queasy feeling returned. The place where Johny Chen lived?
We were let in on the eighth floor without knocking. Fatty was colossally there, almost filling the room, his piggy eyes maddened. A small table, one armchair, television set, American posters plastered everywhere. A pungent stench sickened me further.
Something was smeared down one wall near ground level. Paint, or not? A long bundle was blanketed on the floor.
“Lovejoy,” Fatty piped. He was smoking, wheezing, quite crazy. “You disobeyed!”
“Me?” I’d done every bloody thing I’d been told by everybody. “No, er, sir. Honest.”
Something blackened the world with a whoomph of excrutiating pain in my belly. Little Ong had crumped me with a single blow. He belted me down onto hands and knees.
More blows came. I retched from the vast ache. His fist must have gone through to my backbone. Thank God it wasn’t his huge partner, Leung. Thrutching emptily, I gaped at my hands propping me up. Blood. That paint smear was blood. It was puddled on the floor and down the table leg.
“Uncover it, Lovejoy.” Fatty nodded at the bundle.
With effort I stood. The room careered about for a bit. I retched it to a groggy standstill, went and gently pulled
