I launched myself at him, the top of my head aimed at his face, my hands for the gun.
I hit him like a rocket: my head smashing into his mouth and nose. My hands closed over the gun, wrenching it aside as it went off with a sound no louder than a bursting paper bag.
He and I and the chair went over backwards with a crash that shook the room.
But he was tough all right. I couldn’t get the gun out of his hand. He had a grip like a vice. He was partially stunned, otherwise he would have nailed me, but I had time to roll over and hit him on the side of his thick neck with a chopping blow that slowed him down. His grip loosened and I got the gun. Then he hit me between the eyes with the heaviest punch I’d ever walked into. It was like being hit with a hammer.
I let go of the gun. For a brief moment all I could see were flashing lights dancing before my eyes. I was crawling to my knees as he pushed himself off the floor, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. He aimed a kick at my face, but there was no steam in it. I had hurt him, and when a junkie like him gets hurt, he stays hurt.
I blocked the kick with my arm, rolled away front him and somehow stood up. We faced each other. The gun lay on the floor between us.
He snarled at me, but he was smart enough not to bend for the gun. He knew I would nail him before he reached it: instead he came at me like a charging bull. I got in one solid punch to his face as he thudded into me and then we both crashed against the wall, bringing down two water-colours of Rome I had picked up out there when on an assignment and had carted, home for the memory.
I used my head in his face again and slammed six fast punches into his belly, taking two swings to the head that made my brain reel. He drew back. Those punches, in his belly had softened him. He was looking wild-eyed now. I jumped him, hitting him again. He swerved aside and then I saw the knife in his hand.
We paused and stared at each other. He was in one hell of a mess. My head had mashed his features and his face was a mask of blood, but he was still a killer. The look in his eyes and the knife in his hand rattled me.
I backed away from him.
He snarled at me and began to creep forward.
My shoulders hit the wall. I pulled off my coat and with one quick movement wrapped it around my left arm. He came at me then as fast and as viciously as a striking snake. I caught the knife thrust on my padded arm and socked him on the side of his jaw with my right fist. It was a good, explosive punch. The whites of his eyes showed and he reeled back, sagging at the knees. The knife slipped out of his thick fingers. I kicked it across the room, then as I set myself, he began to fall forward. I hung a punch on his jaw again that ripped the skin off my knuckles. He went down with a thud, scraping his chin on the carpet.
I leaned against the wall, panting. I felt like hell. I had taken some of the heaviest punches I’ve ever taken and they had done something bad to me. It was as if some of my life had been drained out of me.
The door burst open and two cops stormed in, guns in hand.
You can’t stage this kind of fight in my kind of apartment without alerting the whole block.
As they came in, the punk rolled over on his side. He had fallen on his gun and now it was in his hand. He was still trying to earn his money. He took a snap shot at me and I felt the slug fan my face before it made a hole in the wall, bringing down a shower of plaster.
One of the cops fired. I yelled at him, but it was too late.
The punk died, still trying for a second shot at me. He was conscientious if nothing else.
The fat man, sweat beads on his balding head, leaned forward to look out of the window as the ‘No Smoking’ sign flashed up.
“Well, here we are—Hong Kong,” he said over his shoulder. “Looks pretty good. They say there’s no place quite like it on earth. Could be they are right.”
As his big head was cutting off my view, I busied myself with my safety-belt. Finally when he leaned back to fix his own belt, I managed to catch a glimpse of green mountains, the sparkling blue sea and a couple of junks before we were bumping gently along the runway.
The fat man who had been my companion from Honolulu, reached up to collect a camera and a Pan-Am overnight bag.
“Are you staying at the Peninsula?” he asked me,
“I’m on the other side.”
His sweating face showed disapproval.
“Kowloon’s better: better shops: better hotels, but maybe you’re here on business?”
“That’s right,” I said.
The explanation seemed to satisfy him.
The other passengers in the aircraft began to collect their hand luggage. The usual polite pushing and shoving went on for a while before I could squeeze myself out into the hot sunshine.
It had been a good trip, slightly over-long, but I had enjoyed it
Ten minutes later, I was through the Customs and out into the noisy, bustling approach to the airport. I saw my fat companion being whisked away in a tiny hotel bus. He waved to me and I waved back. Half a dozen or so rickshaw boys converged on me, shouting and waving anxiously. Their old, yellow, dried up faces were imploring. As I stood hesitating, a broad, squat Chinese, neatly dressed in a city suit, came over to me and gave me a little bow.
“Excuse me, please,” he said. “Perhaps I can help you? You would like a taxi?”
“I want to get to the Celestial Empire Hotel at Wanchai,” I said.
“That will be on the island, sir.” He looked slightly surprised in a polite way. “It would be best to take a taxi to the ferry and cross to Wanchai. The hotel is close to the ferry station on the other side.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said. “Will the driver speak English?”
“Most of them can understand a little English.” He signalled to a taxi at the head of the rank. “If you will permit me ...”
He went on ahead. I picked up my bag and went after him. He spoke to the driver in what was probably Cantonese. The driver, a lean dirty-looking Chinese, grunted, glanced at me, then away.
“He will take you to the ferry, sir,” the squat man said. “The fare will be one dollar: not an American dollar, you understand, but a Hong Kong dollar. As you will probably know mere are approximately six Hong Kong dollars to the American dollar.” He beamed at me. Every tooth in his head seemed to be capped with gold. “You will have no trouble in finding the hotel on the other side. It is opposite the ferry station.” He hesitated, then added apologetically, “You know this particular hotel is scarcely for American gentlemen? Forgive the interference, but most American gentlemen prefer to stay at the Gloucester or the Peninsula. The Celestial Empire is for Asians.”
“Yeah, but that’s where I’m staying,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
“You are welcome, sir,” he said, and taking a limp wallet from his pocket, he presented me wirli his card. “You may need a guide. It is my business to take care of American gentlemen when they visit Hong Kong. You have only to telephone. . . .”
“Thanks. I’ll remember that.” I tucked the card under the strap of my wrist watch, then as he stepped back, bowing, I got into the taxi.
On the flight over I had. boned up on Hong Kong, discovering the mainland where the Kai Tak airport is situated is called the Kowloon Peninsula and across the Straits is the island of Hong Kong, reached by fast ferry- boat service in four or five minutes.
Wanchai, where Jefferson had lived, was a waterfront district of Hong Kong.
The drive to the ferry took only a few minutes. The Kowloon waterfront teemed with jog- trotting humanity. There seemed to be about only one European to every hundred Chinese: the scene reminded me of a disturbed ants’ nest. Coolies, carrying fantastic burdens slung on duck bamboo poles, trotted in and out of the traffic, oblivious of the risk of being run down. Big American cars, driven by fat, sleek Chinese businessmen, rickshaw boys dragging crates and odd looking merchandise in their two-wheeled chariots and heavy trucks crowded the broad street. Gay
