"Look at this," he said, pulling out the picture. "Know her?"
Charlie took the photo, furrowed his forehead so that the single eyebrow dipped in the center.
"Cute. Is she sleeping or dead?"
"Ever sell her?"
"Me?" Charlie feigned hurt feelings. "I'm a restaurateur, not a flesh peddler."
A roar of approval rose from the crowd at the tables. Bruce Lee had just finished vanquishing a small army of bad guys.
"The mysteries of the Orient," said Charlie, watching the film. "Right up your alley."
"Cut the shit. I'm tired."
Something in the detective's voice wiped the smile off
Charlie's face. Handing the photo back, he said: "Don't know her."
"Ever seen her around?"
The faintest hesitation, but the Chinaman picked up on it.
"No."
The Chinaman inched closer to Charlie, so that they could smell each other. "If you're holding out on me, I'll find out, shmuck. And I'll come back and jam one of those melons up your ass."
The bartender looked up. Smiling faintly, enjoying the sight of the boss being bossed.
Charlie put his hands on his hips. Raised his voice for the benefit of the bartender: "Get the hell out of here, Lee. I'm busy."
The Chinaman lifted a melon from the pyramid, knocked on it as if testing for freshness, then let it roll off his palm and fall to the ground. The melon landed with a dull thud and exploded, pink pulp and juice splattering in the dust. The barman looked up, remained in his place. No one else seemed to have noticed. All locked in on Bruce.
"Oops." The Chinaman smiled.
Charlie started to protest, but before he could say anything the Chinaman placed his right boot heel on the tent-keeper's right instep, leaned in, and put a little weight on it. Charlie's eyes opened wide with pain.
"What the-" he said, then forced himself to smile. The grand-daddy pooshiak, toughing it out, not wanting to look like a pussy in front of his fans. Not that they had eyes for anyone but Bruce.
"Tell me what you know." The Chinaman smiled back.
"Off my foot, you baboon."
The Chinaman continued smiling. Pressed down harder and talked nonchalantly, as if the two of them were buddies. Having a chat about sports or something.
"Listen, Adon Khazak," he said, "I've no interest in finding out what naughtiness you've been up to. Tonight." More pressure. "Just tell me about this girl."
Charlie gasped and the bartender came closer, bottle of Goldstar in one hand. "Charlie-"
"Get the hell out of here, stupid! Do your job!"
The bartender cursed under his breath, went back to washing glasses.
"Like I told you," Charlie said between his teeth. Sweat ran down his nose, beading at the tip of the beak, rolling off into the dirt. "I don't know her. Now get the hell off my foot before you break something."
"You've seen her around."
"What of it? She's a face, a nothing."
"Where and when," said the Chinaman.
"Get off and I'll tell you."
The Chinaman gave a good-natured shrug and broke contact. Charlie spat into the ground, did a sneaky little dance. Concealed his pain by pulling out a pack of Marlboros and a box of matches, jamming a cigarette between his lips, and making a show of lighting a match against his thumbnail. He sucked in smoke, blew it out though his nostrils. Repeated the gesture. Formed his features into a tough-guy grimace.
"Very impressive," said the Chinaman. "The girl."
"She's been around once or twice, okay? That's all."
"On a Friday?"
"That's the only time we're here, Lee." A kick at a stray chunk of pulp.
"Was she alone or with someone?"
"I saw her with a guy."
"What kind of guy?"
"An Arab."
"Name."
"How the hell should I know? They never came in. I just saw them hanging around. It was a long time ago."
"How long?"
"Month, maybe two."
"How do you know he was an Arab?"
"He looked like one. And he was talking Arabic." As if explaining to a moron.
"What did this Arab look like?"
"Skinny, lots of hair, mustache. Cheap clothes."
"How tall?"
"Medium."
"Be more specific."
"Not tall, not short. In the middle-maybe a meter eight."
"How old?"
"Eighteen or nineteen."
"What else about him do you remember?"
"Nothing. He looked like a million others."
"What'd you mean, lots of hair?"
"What does it mean to you?"
"Charlie," said the Chinaman, meaningfully.
"Thick, bushy, okay?"
"Straight or curly?"
"Straight, I think. Like yours." A smile. "Maybe he's your cousin. Lee."
"What style?"
"Who the hell remembers?"
"She an Arab too?"
"Who else would hang around with an Arab, Lee?"
"One of your cousins."
Charlie spat again. Inhaled his cigarette and ordered the bartender to clean up the mess.
"Street girl?" asked the Chinaman.
"How would I know that?"
The Chinaman cracked the knuckles of one hand.
"You're a cunt peddler is how, Charlie."
"I'm not into that shit anymore, Lee. I sell melons, that's all. Maybe this guy was pimping her, but all I saw was them hanging out. Once or twice."
"Ever see her with anyone else?"
"No. Just the two of them, hanging around-it was over a month ago."
"But you remember her."
Charlie grinned and patted his chest.
"I'm a connoisseur of beauty, you know? And she was good-looking. Big round ass, nice tits for someone that young. Even in those stupid clothes she was all right."
"She wore cheap clothes too?"
"Both of them. He was a nothing, a farmer. Give her a makeover, she'd be a fine piece."
"Tell me what else you know," said the Chinaman, restraining an urge to slap the little shit.
"That's it."
"Sure about that?"
Charlie shrugged, took a drag on his cigarette.
"Step on my foot again, Lee. From here on in, anything I tell you will be fairy tales."
"Ever see this Arab without her?"
"I don't look at boys. Do you?"
The Chinaman lifted his hand. Charlie recoiled, stumbling backward, and the Chinaman caught him before he fell. Lifted him by the scruff, like a rag doll.
"Tsk, tsk," he said, patting the tent-keeper's face gently. "Just a love pat."