Feiffer got to his feet and ran after him. Somehow, Chen seemed caught up in the avalanche of rice. He kicked at it and took wild swipes in the air with his knife. Feiffer’s left hand began to hurt. There was oil on it, sizzling the hairs above his fingers and on his wrist. He tried to wipe it away with his other hand. Chen kicked at the near empty rice sack and yelled, ‘I’ll kill you!’ and just then the rice owner knocked him cold with a metal saucepan.
‘He killed two people,’ Feiffer told the rice owner when he finally managed to rearrange his holster, verify that the oil had not burned through a vital artery, and make it over to where
Chen lay stretched out like a poisoned rat in a grain warehouse.
‘He ruined my rice,’ the rice owner said, ‘I’ll expect compensation.’
Feiffer felt a great glow of fraternal love and gratitude towards the rice owner flow over him. ‘You’ll probably get a medal.’
‘Just the compensation,’ the rice owner said. ‘A good businessman protects the reputation of his neighbourhood.’
Feiffer said—Feiffer put his mind in order and said—Feiffer pontificated, ‘A good businessman—’ but the rice owner put up his hand like a traffic policeman to stop him.
‘No,’ the rice owner said. He considered Feiffer carefully and judiciously. He was sorry he had ever lowered himself to intellectual dispute with him, ‘No.’
The rice owner said, ‘I just don’t think you’re that bright,’ and commenced saving what he could of his ruined stock.
The rush for water from the single rationed tap in the western section of Hong Bay would start in the morning, as it would for the single taps in the northern, southern and eastern areas.
By each of the taps a Landrover carrying members of the Police Riot Squad from their headquarters near the border at Fanling got into position well in advance.
They noted that the constables from Yellowthread Street had signposted the taps, warning about the shortage, and they expected a quiet night.
It suited them, they were due to come off duty before dawn, and the day shift from Fanling would have the hard part. They sat around picking broken threads from their rattan shields and talking about Saturday’s race meeting at Happy Valley.
Mr Skilbeck was very, very drunk and he was doing his best to rape Apricot Tang Lee. That is to say, he said in a very loud voice that if she wasn’t going to take him upstairs he
was damn well going to rape her and Chinese women were no different from New Jersey women and you might as well take it by force because you never got anywhere being nice.
The sailors, one of whom was also from New Jersey and who paid alimony to an address there he had spent twenty years in the Navy paying for, all nodded and said, ‘Yeah, get on with it!’ and shot threatening glances at the barman.
The barman polished glasses and looked the other way.
‘Do me a favour,’ Hot Time Alice said to Spencer at the door of her office. No one knew better than she that drinking provoked the desire but took away from the performance, ‘Go and arrest that drunk.’
Spencer looked over at Skilbeck. Apricot had taken refuge under the table and Skilbeck was looking under the tablecloth—which had the tabletop between it and Apricot—for the object of his rapine.
‘I don’t want you to do anything private about this Mongolian thing, Alice,’ Spencer said, ‘it’s a police matter.’
‘I reported it, didn’t I?’ She still seemed a little surprised about it herself.
‘Yes,’ Spencer said, ‘Leave it to us. We’ll handle it.’
‘Hmm,’ Alice said. She seemed far from happy. The thought of the Jap boy who said he could disembowel had grown on her since the decision from Hanford Hill. She said, ‘It’s a pity.’
‘Alice—’ Spencer said. On the way out he arrested Mr Skilbeck.
O’Yee saw the African sailor in the queue. There were two schoolgirls—one European and one Chinese—a young man with glasses, his girlfriend, someone’s mother and then the African. O’Yee glanced down at Gregory Peck and the barrel of the Colt that came out at about the right ear. The African was tall and thin and towered over the young man, his girlfriend and someone’s mother.
The Chinese schoolgirl said, ‘Front or back?’ to her
European friend and her friend said, ‘Can we afford back stalls?’
They both consulted their purses.
O’Yee waited for them to decide and watched the African. The African read a poster on the wall nonchalantly. O’Yee looked for gun bulges under his tunic, but someone’s mother moved impatiently and blocked him out.
The Chinese schoolgirl said, ‘Back stalls,’ and O’Yee gave her the ticket and the wrong change.
‘Pardon me,’ the Chinese schoolgirl said.
O’Yee gave her the right change.
‘Back stalls,’ the European girl said. Her friend read the starting times of the features near the poster and said, ‘Come on, Mary.’
O’Yee gave Mary her ticket and the right change.
The young man with glasses disengaged his girlfriend from the line and said, ‘Two back stalls,’ and handed O’Yee eight one-dollar notes and change.
O’Yee clicked out two tickets from the machine on the benchtop.
The young man said, ‘I gave you the right money.’
‘Did I shortchange you?’
‘No. But you didn’t count it.’
‘I trust you,’ O’Yee said. He glanced around someone’s mother at the African. The African caught his eye, held it curiously and then looked away.
‘O.K.’ the young man said. He thought that was no way to make a profit. He went over to his girlfriend, said something about the changing state of the world and hope for tomorrow based on mutual trust and respect, and took her inside.
The gun was under Gregory Peck’s face. O’Yee had a sudden doubt that he could get his hand around the butt fast enough and what if the hammer caught in the pages of the magazine or—
‘Please,’ someone’s mother said abruptly, ‘Money, ticket.’
O’Yee gave her a ticket.
‘Front stalls,’ someone’s mother said, ‘I’m not paying more
just because you give me the wrong ticket. I asked for front stalls—’
‘It’s all right,’ O’Yee said. The African began feeling in his pocket for something. O’Yee thought that the gun would point at his face because that was almost the only part visible above the cashier’s box.
‘No,’ someone’s mother said, ‘it’s a trick to get more money out of people who can’t afford it. I haven’t see you here before. You’re not the right cashier.’
O’Yee watched the African. He said, ‘I’m new.’
‘Are you sure you work here?’
The African looked curious. He couldn’t understand a word of Cantonese but he knew from the tone that something was wrong.
‘We’re having a sale on back stall tickets,’ O’Yee said. ‘Take it with our compliments.’
‘Well—’ someone’s mother said. She glanced behind her at the African. The African raised his eyebrows and wondered if they were talking about him. Someone’s mother said something to him in Cantonese and he smiled reassuringly at her and moved to the head of the queue as someone’s mother went muttering to herself towards the entrance.
O’Yee put his hand on his gun and got the butt, slid it out from under Gregory Peck’s ear and held it pointing at the floor by his side.
‘Do you speak English?’ the African asked very slowly and carefully.
‘Yes.’
‘I want to ask you something.’ He glanced behind him: he was the only customer. There was time.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Has the movie got, ah—’ The African thought for the word, ‘Is it in English? You know, um—’
‘Subtitles,’ O’Yee offered. He curled his finger around the trigger of his revolver and felt the spring pressure on it.
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s in English. The subtitles are in Chinese.’
‘But John Wayne talks in English?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great,’ the African said, ‘Good movie. John Wayne always makes good movies. Is this the one where all the cops get killed and John Wayne shoots it out on a beach and kills the detective?’
‘That’s the one,’ O’Yee said. He cocked the hammer. It made a faint clicking sound. The cartridge under the claw of the hammer waited to be consummated.
‘Great movie,’ the African said. He handed over a ten dollar note, ‘Is that O.K. for the ticket?’
O’Yee looked at the banknote lying on the counter. He took it up with his left hand, put it in the cashbox with his left hand, extracted the change with his left hand, and punched out the ticket with his left hand.
‘What’s wrong with your other hand?’ the African asked politely, ‘Hurt it?’
‘Yeah,’ O’Yee said.
‘Bad luck,’ the African said. He took his ticket, glanced at the poster of John Wayne slaughtering multitudes with the gleeful anticipation of a man who knew there were over two hundred John Wayne movies to catch up with all over the world, and went inside.
He wasn’t the one.
There was a little swing-out stool top in the cashier’s booth against the wall behind him. O’Yee swung it out and sat down.
When he came upstairs from the detention cells Feiffer’s phone was ringing. He picked it up and said, ‘Feiffer.’
‘Hullo, Feiffer.’ It was his wife. There was the sound of television in the background. A quiz show. Quiz shows bored his wife to distraction. He was the distraction.
‘Hi.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine, fine.’
‘Have you been out tonight?’
‘I have, as a matter of fact. I met all sorts of interesting people.’
‘One of your long philosophical discussions?’
‘Two or three.’
‘And?’
‘How are you anyway?’ Feiffer asked. ‘There’s a quiz show on television. Am I right?’
‘A lightweight animal starting with O.’
‘An ounce,’ Feiffer said. ‘It’s a sort of lynx.’
‘You make me sick.’
‘It’s like a snow leopard only smaller.’
‘You looked it up.’
‘How could I have done that? I’ve been out arresting a double murderer.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ He glanced at his coatsleeve, ‘I got a stain on my coat but it should come off.’
Her tone changed. It sounded as though she switched the television off, ‘Not blood, Harry?’
‘Peanut oil.’
‘I wish to God you’d buy a new suit. That one looks like Orson Welles last wore it in
Ferry to Hong Kong
.’
‘I like it. It makes me look weatherbeaten and cynical.’
‘You are weatherbeaten and cynical. You won’t be working overtime with your murderer?’
‘You’ll be delighted to know he made a full confession. He’s sitting comfortably downstairs in the cells waiting for the Magistrate. I’ll be home on time.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘What time does your quiz show finish?’
‘Any moment. I just thought I’d ring you up and tell you about the lightweight animal. I wish I hadn’t.’
‘Do you love me?’ Feiffer asked. Auden looked over from
his desk and shook his head. He said, ‘Tell her that I love her.’
‘Auden says he loves you.’
‘Tell him to get knotted.’
‘She says to get knotted.’
‘Harry?’
‘Yes?’
‘I do love you.’
‘What’s on after the quiz show?’
‘
The Maltese Falcon.
The one about Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade—Humphrey Bogart.’
‘Take notes.’
‘Goodnight, Harry.’
‘Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Harry?’
‘Yes?’
‘You do love me, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’ He put the receiver back gently on its cradle and thought about his wife.
‘That was Nicola,’ Auden said. He smiled enviously.
Feiffer looked at him. He nodded his head in admiration. ‘You ought to be a detective,’ he said to Auden.
‘Get knotted,’ Auden said.
Constable Cho was out when Spencer brought Mr Skilbeck in, so although he did not see anyone he knew at the Police Station he knew the Police Station.
He said, ‘I’m not staying here!’ and hit Spencer in the stomach. Spencer fell back against the door jamb and almost toppled down the front steps of the Station. He had a look of utter surprise on his face. He stared up at Mr Skilbeck with the look of surprise still on his face and said, ‘You were docile—’
‘I’m not staying here!’ Mr Skilbeck, who was not in the right humour to discuss treachery with British cops, said.
He said, ‘Apricot—it was all your fault!’
‘Hey—’ Spencer said. He began to get up. He felt very surprised that someone had hit him in the stomach. After actually having a crime reported to him by Hot Time Alice Ping he had thought it was going to be such a good night. ‘Hey—’ Spencer said.
‘Oh, no,’ Mr Skilbeck said and drew back his fist to hit him again.
‘Wait—’ Spencer suggested reasonably. He was sure that if he could actually talk to Alice Ping he could easily reason with a—
‘They lost my goddamned luggage in goddamned Djarkarta,’ Mr Skilbeck said.
Detective Inspector Auden thought that was a very odd thing to say after you had just assaulted a police officer, but he did not think about it too long. He hit Mr Skilbeck and handcuffed him on the floor.
‘What’d he say?’ he asked Spencer.
‘I don’t know,’ Spencer said. ‘He was very docile up till now.’ Mr Skilbeck had cried in the back of Spencer’s car and Spencer had had to get the driver to stop to agree with him that no normal human being in his sane mind would ever really want to leave the comforts and tranquillity of New Jersey anyway.
‘Where’s New Jersey?’ Spencer asked Auden.
‘In America.’
Spencer looked down at Mr Skilbeck. Tears were in Mr Skilbeck’s eyes and he was making short frustrated grunts and banging his forehead on the floor.
‘I can’t understand it at all,’ Detective Inspector Spencer said. ‘It must be a thoroughly peculiar place.’
He glanced down at Mr Skilbeck, absolutely at a loss to understand him.
O’Yee looked at his watch. The John Wayne movie was half through. The young man and his girlfriend came out with
an expression of set, different purpose on their collective faces and went quickly—almost indecently orgiastically, O’Yee thought—into the first taxi that passed. The young man gave frantic instructions to the driver and fell back upon his girlfriend as the taxi sped away. A flurry of blank gunshots cracked out from inside the cinema as John Wayne, impervious to lead, shot it out with the crooked detective and the crooked detective shot it out with John Wayne.