And no matter what his race, nationality, or occupation, they would not let him through the security checkpoint without a ticket.
So he found a comfortable place to wait, taking a bench where he could watch the trickle of people flowing in from the Y-shaped gate corridors beyond. It was fortunate the crowds were so light. The arching entranceway was broad enough that it would have been tough to pick out an individual in the usual mobs that filled the place in more relaxed times. A bank of flight information monitors reassured him that the JAL flight from Tokyo was on time.
And, just thirty-five minutes after her flight was due in, there she was, walking out of the gateway in her trim, dark, flight-attendant's uniform, trundling her small suitcase on its casters behind her. He rose from the bench and went to meet her.
"Tom!"
He grinned as he took her in his arms. "Konichiwa, beautiful."
"K-Konichiwa yourself. I wasn't expecting you to meet me!"
"Thought I'd surprise you. Things were squared away on the boat and they didn't need me as OOD, so… " They kissed.
The kiss started as a quick smooch, but swiftly degenerated into a long, comfortable hello, with rich promise for later. Garrett pulled back when he realized a number of people in the concourse were staring at them.
"Uh, we might need to find a place more private," he said.
She laughed. "There you go, Tom, frightening the locals again!"
"Well, watching's free."
"Uh-huh. And maybe we should take this show inside."
He looked around. "We are inside."
His eyes met those of a Chinese man standing near the security checkpoint, perhaps twenty yards across the concourse. It was hard to read the bland expression, but Garrett thought he saw disapproval there, and possibly anger.
Different people, different customs. The Chinese tended to be conservative and traditional. Expressions of public affection between men and women were frowned upon, though allowances were made for foreigners, who were automatically thought of as a bit crazy to begin with. It was the same in Japan, actually. Kazuko was so thoroughly western in her attitudes, beliefs, dress, and speech that it was easy to forget and give her a hug or a kiss or simply walk with her hand in hand, and garner disapproving stares from the local people. "Frightening the locals" was their private, joking term for it.
Kazuko noticed the watching man. Others in the concourse were looking at the two of them as well, openly staring, but only the first man seemed to be doing so with open hostility. "I think that guy doesn't like gwailos."
"Let's get out of here. Have you eaten?"
"Actually, yes. At the airport in Tokyo, before the flight." She gave him a sidelong look. "You?"
"I'm fine. What I want to eat doesn't involve food."
"Oooh, I was hoping you'd say that. Come on, Lion. Let's check into my room, and we'll see about dessert."
Arm in arm, they walked across the East Hall toward the airport hotel.
The entire group, American and Russian, was steadily sinking deeper into a buzzing, light-headed whirl of inebriation. The Russians clearly had the head start in that direction, but the Seawolves were coming on strong. Ken Queensly alone maintained a reasonably clear head… clear, at least, of alcoholic fumes. The strangeness of the evening, the surroundings, and the company, plus the promise of things to come, however, had him feeling a bit drunk himself, and he'd had nothing stronger than a succession of overpriced soft drinks.
"We should get over to the Fuk Wai," Larimer said at last, slamming an empty glass onto the tabletop with an air of finality. "Have to teach Queenie what… what life is all about!"
"Suits me," Toynbee said. "Much more of this panther piss and I'm sozzled."
"Sozzled?" Ritthouser said. "Chief, you were sozzle — sozz — sozzelated an hour ago."
"That's what I said, isn't it? You ready, Queenie?"
"I'm… not so sure about this, Chief."
" Sure y'are! We got a fund goin', the guys an' me. Guarantees ya an A-number-one time."
"What is this Fuk you are talking?" one of the Russians asked. He was a burly michman, the equivalent of a warrant officer in the Russian Navy, and his name was Dimitri. Queensly hadn't heard a last name.
For some reason, that made the other Americans at the table crumble into gales of laughter. "It's this place up the road," Queensly explained to the bemused Russians as the others fought for breath. "A, um, brothel."
"No, not a brothel!" Toynbee managed to say, gasping past the laughter. "Not quite! This is a high-class joint. A hostess club. But, um, if you have the money, you can make special arrangements with the girls…."
The Russians found this most fascinating, and for several moments they spoke among themselves in rapid-fire Russian, punctuated by bursts of, "Da, da, da!"
"Why don't you guys come along, Dimitri?" Larimer asked. "Make this a truly international party?"
"In spirit of comrades and — and good friendship, da!"
They paid their tabs and made their way out onto the street. Somehow, they ended up walking arm in arm up the middle of Hankow Road, past the shops and kiosks and garishly lit bars, with the Russians singing the "Internationale" and the Americans, who knew the tune but not the words, humming along in ragged chorus.
The Fuk Wai was on Hankow close to the intersection with Peking Road, with an almost invisible door tucked in between a tattoo parlor and an electronics store. Narrow and rickety steps led up to a larger, gold-painted door with an ornate, dragon-headed knocker. The sailors were admitted by a tough-looking fireplug of a man in a pinstripe suit and dark glasses who looked like the perfect parody of a Hong Kong gangster film.
Inside was an odd mix of bar and lounge, with comfortable sofas, garish lighting, and tons of crimson gossamer curtains. A stage and runway at one end provided the venue for a pair of naked women bumping and grinding away to the thump of rock music. Other customers were scattered about on the sofas or at tables, most in the company of attractive young women wearing high heels, jewelry, brightly colored panties, and nothing else.
A quartet of topless women met the sailors as they gathered in the entranceway. "Ooh, I want this one," one of them said, running her hands over Toynbee's beefy arm. "He so strong!"
"Thanks, baby, but why don't you spend some time with my buddy Queenie, here?" He winked. "There'll be a good tip in it if you treat him extra nice!"
"You got it, sailor. You come with me, Queenie…."
"Uh… it's 'Queensly.' "
She made a face. "That what I say. You like Hong
Kong?"
The next half hour was one of the stranger periods of time in Queensly's life. The woman, who said her name was either "DeeDee" or "TiTi" — even Queensly's sharp ears couldn't quite cut through the thick layers of her accent — led him to a table where she ordered drinks. He tried for another Coke, but she wanted him to order a mao-tai. "You try! You try!" she insisted, then leaned over and nibbled on his earlobe for emphasis. "You like lots, you see!" she whispered, and the sensation that sizzled up his spine was like a lightning bolt, guaranteed to make him agree to just-damn-about anything.
TiTi seemed like a nice girl to him. They talked about this and that… the sights in Hong Kong, the pleasant weather, the mao-tai—which, when it arrived, was colorless, odorless, and slightly greasy — but his tentative first sip went down with a sudden spurt of raw flame that left Queensly gasping for air and brought tears to his eyes.