“Hello, Officer,” he said. “I know, I was speeding. Sorry about that.”
“Step out of the car, sir,” the patrolman said.
“I have my license right here…”
“Please step out of the car, sir,” the man repeated.
“Okay, if you say so.” Wu pointed the pistol out the window and squeezed the trigger. The bullet caught the patrolman in the chest, propelling him backward to the road. Wu opened the car door, stepped out, and aimed the gun at the policeman’s forehead. The patrolman, gasping for air, shook his head and attempted to cry out.
Wu squeezed the trigger a second time, got back into his car, and drove off, leaving the dead man at the side of the road in front of the police vehicle. He decided that the best thing to do next was to go ahead with his plan to stop at the motel and get some sleep. The police would be looking for him, all right, but they wouldn’t expect him to be so close, set up in a fleabag motel. He’d simply make sure the car was out of sight. Later, after he was rested, Wu would steal another car and continue his journey to freedom.
14
I find the Purple Queen nightclub easily enough. The place is huge, more like the size of a theater. This area of Kowloon, Tsim Sha Tsui East, is a major center for nightlife in Hong Kong. All around me I see not only these ritzy hostess clubs like the Purple Queen, but also karaoke bars, disco clubs, restaurants, and even leftover British- style pubs. The neon is mesmerizing and you can feel excitement in the air. Kowloon after sundown rivals anything Las Vegas has to offer. It’s difficult to believe this is now a Communist-controlled land.
Two large Sikhs stand outside the front doors ready to intimidate anyone they think might not be desirable clientele. I’m dressed in my uniform because I’d like this to be purely a reconnaissance mission. I want to get the lay of the land.
I keep out of sight in the shadows and circle behind the building. There’s a small parking area with a slot marked RESERVED, probably for the big guy. All the other spots are taken. I can’t imagine where the valet parks the overflow, for the streets are packed with automobiles. There’s a back door, no windows, and an enclosure where they store the garbage until it’s hauled away. It’d be nice to get inside that back door.
As if on cue, a guy comes out the back and throws a bag of trash into the pen. He’s dressed in a suit, wears sunglasses, and obviously works as muscle for the joint. I walk over to him and say in Chinese, “That garbage stinks. How often do they pick it up around here?”
He looks at me as if I’m insane. “What?” he asks.
“I said the garbage here stinks. Oh, I’m sorry, it’s not the garbage. It’s you I smell.”
This gets a reaction. He reaches for the inside of his jacket and I quickly chop the side of his neck with a spear-hand. The gun, a Walther from the looks of it, drops to the ground. I punch the goon hard in the stomach, causing him to bend forward, then clobber him on the back of the head. Once he’s in Dreamland, I drag his body into the garbage pen, stuff him unceremoniously into the only empty can, and put the lid on. That should keep him snug for at least a half hour, maybe more. I then throw his pistol into another can and cover it up.
I step inside the open back door and find myself in a corridor lined with four doors. I hear rock music and bad karaoke singing coming from the club beyond a door at the end of the hallway. The space to my immediate right is some kind of meeting room. There’s a table and six chairs around it, a whiteboard on the wall, and a telephone. What’s strange is that there are plastic sheets hanging on two of the walls. It’s the kind of coverings painters use to protect furniture, but the room doesn’t appear to be recently painted. I’m about to move on when I notice a spot of paint at the bottom of one of the sheets. I crouch to take a closer look and discover that it’s not paint at all.
It’s dried blood.
Looking back at the room I can picture the place entirely covered in plastic at one time. Something bad happened in here and they haven’t quite cleaned it all up.
Very quickly, I tear off the section of plastic. I stuff the strip into my pocket and then move on down the corridor to try the next door. This is a messy office. Papers are strewn over the desk, filing cabinet drawers are half open, and someone’s leftover takeout carton of Mu Shu Crap is smelling up the room. I glance at the papers and can barely make out the Chinese script. They’re bills, orders, and employee records for the Purple Queen.
I step into the next room, expecting to bump into a couple of Triads at any moment. But it’s just another office, not quite as messy as the first, containing nothing of interest.
The next room is the kitchen, where they wash the dishes and glasses. There are two guys wearing aprons, backs to me, busy at the sinks. They both have headphones on and are listening to Walkmans attached to their belts. I can see a swinging door on the other side of the kitchen that most likely leads to the club.
The door at the end of the corridor suddenly opens. I step inside the kitchen and stand on the other side of the threshold. Two men wearing suits and sunglasses walk past, ignoring the kitchen, and head down the hall. They go out the back door, slamming it shut behind them. I pause for a moment, thankful that the dishwashers are too preoccupied by their jobs to turn and notice me standing behind them.
When I feel it’s safe to move, I smoothly slip out of the kitchen, swiftly dart to the back door, and crack it open. The two men are getting inside a car. I wait until they pull out of the lot and disappear before I exit the building. I figure it’s time to become Joe Tourist and enter the nightclub for real.
As I find a dark corner in the alleyway to put my civilian clothes on over my uniform, I ponder what the blood on the plastic sheet might mean. Seeing that Triads run the club, I suppose it could be anyone’s blood. I’ll have Hendricks run it to check the blood type. If it’s the same as Gregory Jeinsen’s then I might be on to something.
Now appearing like an average
It’s a dimly lit room bathed in red and there are dozens of planters holding small palm trees. An aquarium stretches along one wall. I estimate there are about fifty tables in the place, with a dance floor dominating the area. There are also several divan-coffee table combinations scattered around the perimeter. Middle-aged Chinese gentlemen accompanied by anywhere from one to four “hostesses” paying rapt attention to them occupy many of these seats. In fact, the place is surprisingly crowded. I didn’t expect to find so many big spenders in post-handover Hong Kong.
Apparently the patrons of the Purple Queen can purchase “time” with a hostess. She’ll sit and have a drink with you, dance with you, talk with you… whatever you happen to arrange. There are even private rooms you can escape to. Whatever happens in there must be arranged beforehand and probably costs you more than you can afford. I understand that naive visitors can be taken for a ride financially; simply having a drink with a hostess can be very expensive.
I take a seat at one of the tables near the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, which is written in both English and Chinese. I can read Chinese fairly well and can make out some of the other signage around the place that isn’t translated into English. There’s an emergency exit behind the band’s setup and the restrooms are near the bar.
I’m not at the seat twenty seconds before a lovely young Chinese girl wearing a
“No, thank you,” I say. “Just bring me a drink, please. Fruit juice, if you have it.”
The girl blinks as if I’ve said something completely gauche. I hand her one hundred Hong Kong dollars and this seems to appease her. She rushes off using those dainty small steps so typical of Asian women and I concentrate on the “entertainment.” A Chinese — or maybe a Japanese — businessman is onstage trying to sing “We’ve Only Just Begun” karaoke-style. It’s horrific. When he’s done, the three hostesses he had been sitting with applaud enthusiastically. The man leaves the stage and a four-piece band returns to their instruments. The guitarist announces that they’re ready to play another set and invites everyone to “get up and dance.” The band then launches into a passable cover of “Funkytown” and maybe ten or twelve people migrate to the dance floor.
The girl brings me my juice and again offers to sit and chat. Once more I refuse and act disinterested. She
