The girl brings me my juice and again offers to sit and chat. Once more I refuse and act disinterested. She glares at me unpleasantly and walks away. The girl whispers to another hostess, who decides to try her luck. Perhaps the gweiloprefers someone a little taller? Someone with larger breasts? Maybe the one with the blonde wig?
No, no, thank you. Just let me drink in peace so I can observe what's going on around me.
When I think they've finally got the message, I take note of the various thugs posted around the place. I count three Chinese men--all gangster types--who are obviously keeping an eye out for trouble. Chances are I've been noticed and they're pondering why I'm not spending money on a girl. Screw 'em. I wonder if they miss their pal who's in the garbage bin out back.
The first hostess brings me the obligatory second drink before I've finished the first. Apparently since I'm not spending any more money they want to get rid of me. I thank her but she barely acknowledges me.
Before long a group of men enter the place and parade through the room as if they own it. Sure enough, one of them does. I recognize the older guy in front--it's Jon Ming. The other six must be his bodyguards or lieutenants. They're all wearing expensive suits and look as if they just waltzed out of a John Woo movie.
The group walks right by my table but none of them glance my way. They head straight for the Employees Only door and step through into the corridor where I was earlier. The door shuts before I manage a better look.
Now's my chance to slip outside and plant a homing device on Ming's car. If his bozos aren't watching it too closely I just might be able to get away with it. I quickly down my second drink and leave another hundred dollars on the table and catch the hostess's eye. I point to it and mouth the words, "Thank you." She smiles but doesn't give me much encouragement to return. I stand and begin to walk toward the front when none other than Mason Hendricks enters the joint. He looks very dapper decked out in a fancy white suit.
What the hell?I thought he didn't want to be seen anywhere near me. Something's up.
Instead of moving toward the door, I make a detour for the men's room. I take my time doing it, watching Hendricks out of the corner of my eye. He ignores me. Several of the hostesses greet him as a regular; he smiles, puts his arms around a couple of them, and whispers in their ears. They laugh and lead him toward a divan. I find the men's room, go inside, enter a stall, and wait.
After a minute or two, the door opens and I see the bottom cuffs of his white trousers. I open the stall and Hendricks is standing at one of the two sinks, washing his hands. I step beside him in front of the other sink and turn on the water.
"What the hell, Mason?" I whisper.
"I have some information for you. Thought you could use it immediately." He quickly lays a business card on the counter and begins to dry his hands. "One of my sources tells me the Lucky Dragons are receiving a shipment of arms tonight. I wrote the address on the back of the card. It's supposed to go down at half past midnight."
I dry my hands and slip the card into my pocket. "Thanks," I mutter. Maybe this is what I need to establish a link between the Triad and the Shop. In exchange, I give him the piece of plastic with the dried blood on it.
"Get this analyzed," I say. "It might be Jeinsen's."
Hendricks sticks the evidence in his pocket and nods. "Will do."
At that moment one of the Triad thugs enters the washroom, barely glances at us, then steps up to a urinal.
Hendricks then addresses me at normal volume with the persona of a good ol' boy who just happened to bump into a fellow countryman. "Well, friend, did you get a load of those dames out there?" he asks.
"Um, yeah, I did," I say, playing along.
He winks at me. "I think I'mgoing to get lucky tonight. Happy hunting!" Hendricks leaves the washroom and I linger for a moment to finish drying my hands. When I'm done, I go out into the nightclub and head for the front door. I notice that Hendricks is back on the divan with three of the women, having a grand old time.
Once I'm outside I circle the building to look for a limousine or something that might be Jon Ming's car. There's a Rolls-Royce parked in the special Reserved spot but two men are busy washing and polishing it. I'll have to forget planting a homer this time around. The best thing for me to do is go back to my fleabag hotel, change into my uniform, and wait until twelve-thirty to check out the arms delivery.
I have a feeling it's going to be a long night.
15
ATmidnight I take a taxi to a district known as Kowloon City, located near the former Kai Tak International Airport. This infamous area was once the site of the legendary Kowloon Walled City, the center of everything illegal in Hong Kong. Technically the enclave remained part of China throughout British rule and therefore became the primary stomping grounds for Triads. You name it, it was there--vice, prostitution, gambling, drugs, poverty, illegal dentists and doctors, and even black market organ trading. Even sensible Chinese were afraid to go into the Walled City, which consisted of dark, dirty, narrow streets and filthy tenement buildings. If a Westerner was foolish enough to venture inside, he took his life with him.
In 1984, though, the Hong Kong government acquired the area, rehoused the residents, and tore down the walls. Now, ironically, a beautiful park occupies the grounds. In my opinion the change certainly did away with an eyesore but it also meant the Triads had to integrate themselves throughout the rest of the territory. At least in the past they congregated in a single spot.
Today, Kowloon City is still a low-rent neighborhood and probably a place that Westerners should avoid at night. The "warehouse" I'm looking for is located very near the old airport. The building is condemned, the windows boarded over, and I'm beginning to wonder if Hendricks was given a bum steer. Nevertheless, I'm nearly a half hour early and it could be that these Triads are anally punctual.
I circle the place and consider using my lock picks to get inside the back door, a steel job that appears to have been broken into before. But there's a window with only one board tentatively fastened to it, probably a weeks-old access created by a homeless person looking for a warm shelter for the night. I'm able to leap to the bottom sill, pull my body up, and peer inside the dirty glass. With my night vision goggles I can see that the floor inside is bare save for dirty pieces of junk metal lying along the sides of the space. The slat covering the window is about to come off anyway, so with one hand I pull it out and let it fall to the ground. Sure enough, the window isn't locked--it moves inward via a rusty, squeaky hinge at the top of the pane. I wriggle inside, hold on to the sill, and then somersault into the room.
The place smells moldy. From what I can tell, it hasn't been used in ages. Even the cobwebs have cobwebs. I'm about to label the so-called tip as bullshit when I hear the sound of vehicles outside. Headlights flash across the front windows, creating eerie slats of light streaming between the boards. I quickly look around for a decent place to hide and run to a large piece of scrap metal that's leaning against the wall in a corner. I crawl behind it, crouch, and wait as another pair of headlights cross the windows.