“Malaysia,” Kate said.
“Ahh, yes. Malaysia.”
“I wouldn’t be caught with a lone spliff in that God forsaken country,” Crust said. “Those buggers will hang you for humming along with Bob Marley.” Crust must have read the incredulity on Michael’s face because he went on. “But the good news is, your gruel, the months of imprisonment during your trial, even the length of rope they use to string you up, none of it will cost you a penny.” Crust took a swig of his beer. “If, however, you were to step out of this fine city of Hong Kong, into China proper, you’d be looking at a whole new cricket match. You do the crime, they throw you in prison, and not only do you have to work twenty-one hour days vulcanizing rubber to pay your way, your family gets the bill for the bullet after the firing squad.”
Crust lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ve heard from a reliable source, and not some gap year tourist by the way, but someone in government, that some of these executioners are such bad shots that the poor families end up paying twice. Two bullets. Sometimes even three. Best case scenario, you get busted, they imprison you in a munitions factory and your family gets a trade discount on the shells.”
Larry laughed drunkenly but Crust went on, “I kid you not, the court hears daily requests for imprisonment in armament factories, hence Crust’s number one rule for round the world traveclass="underline" something goes down....”
To Michael’s surprise, a chorus sounded around the table: “Don’t stick around.”
As tall bottles of beer were toasted in the air, Michael reflected that this was it — the Circuit — the round-the-world backpacking trail upon which travelers of all ages and stripes met up time and time again. There were a thousand variations to it, but a typical broad strokes tour on the Circuit might mean working up the required traveling funds in London, catching a cheap flight to Kenya, maybe hopping a safari before lounging on the island of Lamu, then jumping to India for a stint in Goa, followed by a sabbatical in Thailand, or a brush with Bali. Circuit goers were ever working their way eastward for a little urban entertainment, which is where Hong Kong entered the equation. From there they might double back into South Asia, or head out across Siberia before refueling for funds in a suitably affluent Western land. It was a big world, and there were a million ways around it, but a good backpacker could always count on running into his cronies in the local hot spots, the ones only the other backpackers knew about. Michael had first heard about the Circuit years before, but he’d delayed actually getting on it until he at least had college behind him. Or he had a reason. Now he had both.
The Frenchman must have been about done with Crust’s sermonizing because he put his arm around him and said, “This man has been traveling for too long, no?”
Michael wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical, but the Frenchman quickly followed it up with another query; one that was bound to come up sooner or later.
“So, tell me, Michael, where are you backpacking on our lonely little planet?”
Michael had already sensed that travel itineraries were more than a simple A to B with this crowd. What he was about to find out though, was how much more. He coughed to clear his throat, reflecting back on the Chinese geography he had picked up from his guide book. “I was thinking,” he said, “I’d kick around Hong Kong a bit, then ease my way north up the Pearl River Delta to Guangzhou, before heading a ways west to Guilin and Yangshuo, then maybe onto Kunming.”
The table lapsed into silence. Finally, Kate asked, “Why Yangshuo?”
“My father spent some time there years ago. He always used to talk about it.”
“That’s,” Crust said with little enthusiasm, “interesting.”
Kate sprung to Michael’s defense. “Lay off, Crust.”
“What? I’m talking about the route, not his dad.”
“So am I,” Kate said. “The Hong Kong—Yangshuo Express. It’s a great route. A classic. We’ve all done it.”
“Like I said, it’s interesting.”
“You said interesting like it was day old bread.”
“Okay, you got me. It’s just that Yangshuo, so early in the game, I don’t know if Michael here is ready for its simple pleasures.”
Kate slid a palm over Crust’s mouth. “It’s a great route, Michael. A good first leg in China and Crust is just jealous. He’ll be getting his ass bit off by malarial bugs, drinking from tire treads in Tibet when he could be joining you.”
Crust rose to his own defense. “Not true.”
Kate didn’t back down. “Tell me you wouldn’t prefer to kick back with a banana pancake contemplating your next rub down instead of bribing some corrupt PSB official to sign your permit so you can set up your frozen teepee on the leeward side of Mount Kailash.”
“Kailash is in the Himalayas.”
“Hmm, banana pancake,” Kate weighed out the options like the scales of justice, “frozen balls.” She looked Michael in the eye. “It’s a good route. You’re going to have a great time.”
It was at that moment that Shanghai Larry, whom Michael was convinced had been slumbering in the corner, came to life.
“Great time. Fantastic time. Tickly-boo like a pussy tourist in Patpong.” Looks were exchanged around the table, but Larry went on. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it, Michael? Because he hasn’t told you what he’s really doing here.” Larry pulled his shoulders up from a full body slouch as he stretched his arms high, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Sport, here, has come to find his father.”
He followed his grand pronouncement with a belch before rising from the table. “Piss anyone?” A moment later Larry’s knees buckled out from under him and Michael knew in earnest that the evening had begun.
Chapter 4
Two murders and forty minutes later and they were lost in the neon crowds of Nathan Road. Michael had removed his bloody t-shirt and pulled on a clean white one from his backpack. He was running on adrenalin and he knew as much. You couldn’t be shot at, roll through the trash, and watch a man die without taking some of that with you. And right now, Michael felt as though he had taken it all. In truth, Michael was acquainted with violence. At his father’s behest he had trained in the Shito Ryo style of karate since he was a kid, earning his junior black belt at the age of sixteen and going on to get his first real belt and Second Dan in college. Oddly, in the age of ultimate fighting, karate had a bit of an old lady image to it, but it was a martial art and martial meant war. It was meant to prepare you for battle.
That was the theory anyhow. In practice, real violence, the kind where your opponent wasn’t bound by a set of tournament rules, was a whole lot more visceral than any martial art. Michael knew this first hand, even though he often wished he didn’t. And so, even though he felt a strong desire to slow down and clear his head, now wasn’t the time and he knew as much. The police were no doubt already scouring the city. Given the quick escalation of the evening’s events, what mattered in the near term was that they get away.
The electric intensity of Hong Kong wasn’t helping Michael’s state of mind. There were people everywhere. It wasn’t like Seattle, or even a busy evening in Manhattan; here it was the middle of the night and it looked like a coliseum had emptied on every glittering block.
Following Kate through the crazy crowds, Michael noted that they stopped and started frequently, Kate checking her back constantly to determine whether they were being followed. When, after a series of circuitous stops and starts, they finally arrived outside a hulking residential skyscraper, Michael had the distinct feeling they weren’t far from where they had started. Kate took him around a side entrance and they entered a swinging security door marked in flaked gold leaf with the words Mirador Mansion. Michael knew they needed a safe place to regroup and as such didn’t question Kate as she led him up the dingy concrete steps of the tenement. When, however, they stopped before a dirty pink door that read “Happy Tom’s,” Michael had to wonder. Kate must have read his look, because her reply was absolute.