Natasha had raised her head, her face suddenly fearful, and Field turned to see a man whom he knew instantly to be Lu Huang reaching the top of the stairs. He was smaller than he’d appeared in the photographs, his hands hidden in front of him, in the folds of a long silk robe. His face was round, coarse, and ugly, his hair in a long pigtail. Even in this light, Field could see evidence of the poor skin that had earned him his nickname. He was accompanied by two Russian bodyguards, with closely cropped hair and black suits, who moved confidently, drawing the attention of the other customers but making no acknowledgment of their presence.
Natasha had half turned toward him, as if drawn by some magnetic force. Her face, now coldly beautiful and brittle, seemed drained of all spirit. She followed him, not bothering to excuse or explain herself to Field, and as Lu sat down at a corner table that was obviously reserved for him, she took a chair a few feet away. They did not even glance at each other or exchange a word, and it was a few moments before Field understood what was happening.
She was sitting straight and stiff, like a doll. She was there for Lu to look at, to be seen with. She was his trophy.
People had turned discreetly to look in their direction. Lu now acknowledged one or two with a curt nod.
Charles Lewis walked toward the table, a waiter scurrying forward to pull back a chair. Lu turned to face him, suddenly animated, his bullet head level with Lewis’s shoulder. They looked familiar with each other’s presence, as if from long acquaintance. They both ignored Natasha, who stared vacantly down at the dance floor.
Field could not move, could not think clearly. His stomach turned over so fast that he felt like vomiting.
Lewis was gesticulating with his right hand, as if emphasizing a point. Lu’s head was motionless as he listened, then he nodded, raising his head and looking around the room. Lewis lit up a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs.
Lu stood and moved around the table. Natasha stood, too, her elegance somehow diminished as he came level with her. She allowed him to place a hand on her arm.
He led her down the stairs to the dance floor and then they were locked together, Lu’s head only just above her breasts, so that, when they turned away from him, Field could not see the Chinese at all.
Field searched Natasha’s face for some acknowledgment, but received none, her gaze and smile frozen. The other dancers had quietly made space for them, but were careful not to look too closely, and at the tables people had turned away and resumed their conversations.
Lu and Natasha turned again and Field could see his chubby hand placed firmly against the base of her spine, pushing her hips toward him.
Field watched in a daze until the music stopped and Lu Huang returned to his seat, without touching or acknowledging his dance partner. She sat down and stared again into the middle distance.
Field turned, forcing his feet forward. He walked toward the two bodyguards, who had retreated to the door, and knocked into the one with blond hair. The man pushed him back, swearing in Russian.
Field moved fast. The man ducked, but Field was too quick, his right hand catching the bottom of the man’s jaw and spinning him into the cigarette girl.
Field turned and drew his revolver as the other bodyguard was still struggling for his gun. As he fumbled for his badge, Lewis appeared. “All right, boys . . .” He lowered Field’s weapon and turned to the Russians. “Police,” he said. “Let’s forget it, shall we?”
Before they could answer, Lewis gripped Field hard on the arm and marched him toward the stairs, not letting go until they reached the street. Field noticed that both Lu and Natasha had affected not to notice the scuffle.
Lewis exhaled, facing him in the shadowy gloom of a gas streetlamp still cradled by the fog. It was cool here, after the sweaty heat of the Majestic. “Jesus.”
Field stared at him.
“Wait here.”
Lewis walked back into the nightclub and Field was about to leave when he returned. “You walk in, you apologize, you bow your head once, you wait until he speaks. If he does not, you leave.”
“I’m not—”
“You’ll do as you’re fucking told or you’ll be on the next boat home.”
Field pulled his mouth back, furious at being treated like a child. “So we have to kowtow to a gangster.”
“So he’s a businessman now.”
“He is as far as you’re concerned.”
“I’m not going to go in there and crawl—”
“Then you’re an arrogant fool.” Lewis shook his head contemptuously. “I’m only standing here because I’m fond of your uncle, so don’t insult your own intelligence and mine any longer.”
Field stared at Lewis. He breathed in deeply and walked back into the Majestic. The band still played, but at the top of the stairs, a flustered Chinese man in a dark suit—the manager of the nightclub, Field assumed—guided him through a heavy red velvet curtain and into what appeared to be a private dining room. As he entered, a door was slammed shut behind him.
Lu was flanked by his two glowering bodyguards. Natasha sat in the corner, head bowed. Lu had his hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his gown, and his eyes, too, radiated a cold fury. Field had never before been in the presence of someone who appeared to exist solely to damage and destroy.
Field could not look at Natasha, but he was overwhelmed by her presence. His heart was thumping, his palms sweaty, his mind confused.
