A Coffin From Hong Kong (8 page)

Just for a brief moment there was a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but it was quickly gone. She opened the door of the car and got in. It was neatly done: there was no show of knees.

She slammed the door shut before I could put my hand on it.

"Good night, Mr. Ryan," she said, and stabbing the starter button, she slid the car into the traffic and was away.

I watched the car out of sight, then looked at my strap watch. The time was thirty-five minutes past eight. I would have liked to have had her as a companion for dinner. The evening stretched ahead of me: empty and dull. I stood on the edge of the kerb and thought of the four or five girls I knew who I could call up and have dinner with, but none of them were in Miss West's bracket: none of them would amuse me this night I decided to eat another goddam sandwich and then go home and watch television.

I wondered what Jay Wayde would have thought if he knew I was planning to spend this kind of evening. He would probably have been shocked and disillusioned. He would have expected me to have been at some clip-joint talking tough to a blonde or wrestling rough with some redhead.

I walked into a snack bar. The juke-box was blaring swing. Two girls in jeans and skintight sweaters were perched on stools at the bar, their round little bottoms pushed out suggestively, their hair in the Bardot style, their grubby fingers red-tipped.

They looked at me as I came in, their hard worldly young eyes running over me speculatively, then they looked away. Too old, too dull and obviously no fun.

I ate a beef and ham sandwich, feeling depressed. Even going to Hong Kong in the morning failed to light a spark. I took out the photographs of Herman and Jo-An and studied them. They made an ill-assorted pair. The man worried me. I couldn't understand how a girl like Janet West had not only fallen for him but had produced his baby.

I thought the hell with it and put the photographs away. Then paying for the sandwich, I went out onto the street, aware the two girls were staring after me. One of them laughed shrilly. Maybe she thought I was funny to look at. I didn't blame her. There were times when I was shaving I thought so too.

I drove back to my top-floor apartment that consisted of a reasonably large living-room, a tiny bedroom and an even tinier kitchen. I had lived there ever since I had come to Pasadena City. It was central, cheap and convenient. It had no elevator, but I didn't worry about that. Walking up five flights of stairs kept my figure in trim and kept anyone but a good friend away.

I was panting slightly by the time I reached my front door. As I fumbled for my key, I told myself I'd better cut down on the cigarettes, but I knew I was just kidding myself.

I unlocked the door and walked into my living-room. I didn't see him until I had shut the door. The room was very dim: it was dusk and he was in black.

There was a big neon sign advertising a soap powder across the way and its gaudy blue, green and red tubes made a reflection on the ceiling. If it hadn't been for the sign, I wouldn't have seen him at all.

He was sitting in my best armchair that had been moved close to the window. He sat with his legs crossed, his hands on a folded newspaper on his lap and he seemed relaxed and at ease. He certainly gave me a shock that set my heart thumping. The light switch was just by me. I snapped it on.

He wasn't much more than a kid: around eighteen or nineteen, but powerfully built with thick lumpy shoulders. He, had on a black greasy leather jacket, a black woollen cap with a dirty red tassel, black corduroy trousers and a black cotton handkerchief knotted at his thick throat.

You can see the type any night hanging around in gangs outside bars: a typical product of the streets: as vicious and as dangerous as a cornered rat.

His skin was the colour of cold mutton fat. His eyes were the flat, glittering eyes of a muggle smoker and a killer. His right ear was missing and he had a thick white scar of an old knife wound running along his jaw line. He was the most terrifying looking specimen of a delinquent I had ever seen. He scared the hell out of me. He gave me a cold, sneering grin.

"Hi, Buster, I thought you were never coming," he said in a hoarse, rasping voice.

I thought of my gun somewhere at police headquarters. I was getting over the shock now, but I would have been a lot happier if I had had the gun under my coat. "What the hell are you doing in here?" I said.

"Relax, Buster: squat. I got business with you." He waved to a chair. I saw he was wearing black cotton gloves and that brought me out in a sweat. I knew this young punk was lethal and he could be lethal to me. He was too confident: much, much too confident. I looked closely at him. The pupils of his eyes were enormous. He was junked to the tassel of his woollen cap.

"I'll give you two seconds to get out of here before I throw you out," I said, forcing my voice to sound tough.

He sniggered, rubbing the tip of his waxy-looking nose with a gloved finger. He shifted his legs and the newspaper slid onto the floor. I saw the .45 resting on his thighs. It had a twelveinch metal tube screwed into the barrel.

"Squat, Buster," he said. "I know you ain't got a rod." He tapped the extension tube. "It's silent. I made this hicky myself. It'll last for three shots, but one'll be plenty."

I looked at him and he looked at me, men moving slowly, I sat down, facing him. There were six feet of carpet between us. From this distance I could smell him. He smelt of dirt, stale sweat and reefer smoke.

"What do you want?" I demanded.

"You tired of life, Buster?" he asked, making himself more comfortable by shifting his thick body in the chair. "You'd better be. You ain't got long to live."

Looking into those flat, drugged eyes that were as impersonal as the eyes of a snake sent a chill up my spine.

"I like life," I said for the sake of something to say. "I get along fine with it."

"Too bad." He moved the gun slightly so that the black tube was suddenly pointing directly at me. "You got a girl?"

"Several—why?"

"Just wondered. Will they be sad when they hear you've been knocked off?"

"One or two might. Look, this is a crazy conversation. What have you against me? What have I done to you?"

"Not a thing, Buster." His thin bloodless lips curled into a sneering smile. "You look a nice guy. You got a nice apartment. I watched you arrive. You got a nice car." I drew in a long, deep breath.

"Suppose you put that gun away and let's get pally," I said without much hope. "How about a drink?"

"I don't drink."

"Good for you. There are times when I wish I didn't. I could do with a drink right now.

Would drat be all right with you?"

He shook his head.

"This isn't a drinking party."

While this insane conversation was going on, my mind was busy. He was big and strong and tough. If it wasn't for the gun, I would have been ready to take him. I'm not all that weak myself and I've learnt a trick or two to take care of a punk his weight and build. I was within six feet of him. One quick jump would put me on equal terms with him if it wasn't for the gun.

"What kind of party is it then?" I asked, moving my right foot so that it was slightly behind the front leg of my chair. In that position I had the correct leverage to catapult myself at him if I got the chance.

"Shooting party, Buster," he said and sniggered.

"Who's getting shot?"

"You are, Buster."

I wished I wasn't sweating so hard. It irritated and bothered me. I've been in tight spots before, but none quite so tight as this one. I wished I wasn't feeling so goddam cowardly. "But why? What's it all about?"

He lifted the gun and rubbed the hole where his ear should have been with the barrel of the gun.

"I don't know. I don't care either," he said. "I'm just making some easy dough."

I licked my lips. My tongue was so dry it was a waste of an effort. 

"You getting paid to shoot me? Is that it?"

He cocked his head on one side.

"Why sure, Buster. Why else should I want to shoot you?"

"Tell me about it," I said in a strangled voice. "We've got lots of time. Who's paying you to shoot me?"

He shrugged his lumpy shoulders indifferently.

"I wouldn't know, Buster. I was playing pool when this jerk comes up and asks me if I'd like to make five hundred bucks. We got in a comer and he gives me a hundred and he tells me to come here and put a slug into you. When I've done it, he'll give me the rest of the dough. So here I am." "Who was this guy?"

"I don't know: just a guy. Where would you like to have it, Buster? I'm good with this rod. A brainshot is the quickest, but you please yourself."

"What did this guy look like?" I said desperately.

He scowled and lifted the gun so it was pointing at my head.

"You don't have to worry about him," he said, and there was a sudden savage note in his voice. "You start worrying about yourself."

"Five hundred isn't so much. I could top it," I said. "How about putting that gun away and I pay you a thousand?"

He sneered at me."When I make a deal, I stick to it," he said.

Then the telephone bell rang.

For the past twenty seconds I had been bracing myself. The bell startled him and he looked towards the telephone.

I launched myself at him, the top of my head aimed at his face, my hands for the gun.

I hit him like a rocket: my head smashing into his mouth and nose. My hands closed over the gun, wrenching it aside as it went off with a sound no louder than a bursting paper bag. He and I and the chair went over backwards with a crash that shook the room.

But he was tough all right. I couldn't get the gun out of his hand. He had a grip like a vice. He was partially stunned, otherwise he would have nailed me, but I had time to roll over and hit him on the side of his thick neck with a chopping blow that slowed him down. His grip loosened and I got the gun. Then he hit me between the eyes with the heaviest punch I'd ever walked into. It was like being hit with a hammer.

I let go of the gun. For a brief moment all I could see were flashing lights dancing before my eyes. I was crawling to my knees as he pushed himself off the floor, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. He aimed a kick at my face, but there was no steam in it. I had hurt him, and when a junkie like him gets hurt, he stays hurt.

I blocked the kick with my arm, rolled away front him and somehow stood up. We faced each other. The gun lay on the floor between us.

He snarled at me, but he was smart enough not to bend for the gun. He knew I would nail him before he reached it: instead he came at me like a charging bull. I got in one solid punch to his face as he thudded into me and then we both crashed against the wall, bringing down two water-colours of Rome I had picked up out there when on an assignment and had carted, home for the memory.

I used my head in his face again and slammed six fast punches into his belly, taking two swings to the head that made my brain reel. He drew back. Those punches, in his belly had softened him. He was looking wild-eyed now. I jumped him, hitting him again. He swerved aside and then I saw the knife in his hand.

We paused and stared at each other. He was in one hell of a mess. My head had mashed his features and his face was a mask of blood, but he was still a killer. The look in his eyes and the knife in his hand rattled me.

I backed away from him.

He snarled at me and began to creep forward.

My shoulders hit the wall. I pulled off my coat and with one quick movement wrapped it around my left arm. He came at me then as fast and as viciously as a striking snake. I caught the knife thrust on my padded arm and socked him on the side of his jaw with my right fist. It was a good, explosive punch. The whites of his eyes showed and he reeled back, sagging at the knees. The knife slipped out of his thick fingers. I kicked it across the room, then as I set myself, he began to fall forward. I hung a punch on his jaw again that ripped the skin off my knuckles. He went down with a thud, scraping his chin on the carpet.

I leaned against the wall, panting. I felt like hell. I had taken some of the heaviest punches I've ever taken and they had done something bad to me. It was as if some of my life had been drained out of me. The door burst open and two cops stormed in, guns in hand.

You can't stage this kind of fight in my kind of apartment without alerting the whole block. As they came in, the punk rolled over on his side. He had fallen on his gun and now it was in his hand. He was still trying to earn his money. He took a snap shot at me and I felt the slug fan my face before it made a hole in the wall, bringing down a shower of plaster.

One of the cops fired. I yelled at him, but it was too late. The punk died, still trying for a second shot at me. He was conscientious if nothing else.

The fat man, sweat beads on his balding head, leaned forward to look out of the window as the 'No Smoking' sign flashed up.

"Well, here we are—Hong Kong," he said over his shoulder. "Looks pretty good. They say there's no place quite like it on earth. Could be they are right."

As his big head was cutting off my view, I busied myself with my safety-belt. Finally when he leaned back to fix his own belt, I managed to catch a glimpse of green mountains, the sparkling blue sea and a couple of junks before we were bumping gently along the runway.

The fat man who had been my companion from Honolulu, reached up to collect a cameraand a Pan-Am overnight bag.

"Are you staying at the Peninsula?" he asked me,"I'm on the other side."

His sweating face showed disapproval. "Kowloon's better: better shops: better hotels, but maybe you're here on business?"

"That's right," I said.

The explanation seemed to satisfy him.