Thai Horse

  ‘London,’ Hatcher said quickly.

  The smile vanished. She nodded curtly. ‘Monsieur,’ she said in a French accent and a low voice that made one strain to hear her and turned away. Hatcher pressed o,.

  ‘I’m a lawyer,’ Hatcher went on. ‘In fact, I represent some old associates of yours.’

  She turned back toward him, her chin pulled down, staring coldly at him from under ebony eyebrows.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, Howard Sylvester and Allen Mitchell.’

  Nothing changed in her face, but Cohen almost swallowed his tongue. He could see his friendship with Daphne Chien vanishing with every word Hatcher spoke. Hatcher stepped close to her, took her elbow very gently and steered her toward the terrace.

  ‘You see, they’ve put together quite a dossier on your knock-off business, prior to the merger? They feel that they have a fairly strong case against the new Blue Max. . .

  Their voices died out in the crowd as Cohen stood watching them. Her eyes were the eyes of a killer, and then suddenly they both stopped and faced each other. Hatcher leaned over to her and spoke very quickly. Her mouth dropped open, she seemed to lose her composure for just a second, then there was an exchange, back and forth, and when it was over, Hatcher bowed, kissed her hand and left. He strolled back to Cohen, smiling.

  ‘Lunch tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Just the two of us. Wait here, I’ll bring you a drink. Scotch, a dash of water, no ice, right?’ And he was gone again.

  Daphne followed a few seconds later, glaring at him as she drew to within inches of him.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was Hatcher?’ she said.

  ‘I have no excuse whatsoever,’ Cohen stammered.

  She stared after Hatcher as he edged through the crowd.

  ‘Are you really having lunch with him?’ Cohen asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘What did he say to you out there?’ Cohen asked.

  She smiled vaguely, stared at him for a second and said, ‘Ask him.’ And then she too was gone.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ Cohen asked when he returned with the drinks.

  Hatcher shook his head. ‘I’ll never tell,’ he said.

  Now Cohen sensed a different Hatcher. The hair trigger seemed to be on safety. The hard, brash edge seemed softer, more contemplative. It was not that he felt Hatcher was getting soft, but rather that the two sides were slightly out of balance. And while Cohen liked that new side, it also worried him. If Hatcher was going upriver, he could not afford to lose that old edge. In the land of the Ts’e K’am Men Ti, instinct precluded provocation. ‘Shoot first’ was the law of survival.

  The doorbell ended his ruminations.

  The woman in the doorway was the color of café au lait and she stared down at Cohen through almond-shaped green eyes. She was tall and elegant, dressed in a pale pink shantung silk jacket over a ruby-red silk sheath, an outfit that was sexy, yet in good taste. As she entered the house she kicked off her shoes with long, cocoa-colored legs.

  ‘Hello, China,’ she purred softly and kissed him on the forehead. Then without hesitation, she asked, ‘where is he?’

  ‘Out on the balcony.’

  ‘Has he changed?’

  ‘He’s a little older, like all of us. Picked up a few more scars.’ But he didn’t go on. She was already on her way to the deck.

  ‘I never thought I would see you again,’ she said, standing in the doorway. ‘You look like the same old Hatcher.’

  Daphne’s ch’uang tzu-chi was also stimulated by the sight of him, alive, after all the years. For the year after they met, Hatcher had lived with Daphne whenever he was in Hong Kong. He left without warning and returned the same way, never discussing his business. She had heard of him before they met — Hatcher, the daring Yankee river pirate, the lone wolf feared even by the mighty Sam-Sam Sam himself. It was only after he was gone that new rumors started. That he was a paid assassin. That he worked for the CIA. That he nurtured friendships and then double- crossed those closest to him. That he was a member of a secret section of the Army called Ying bing, shadow warriors.

  Having known him for a year, they were rumors Daphne dismissed, for she had seen both sides of him—the cold side that went off in the night to do whatever deeds he had to do and the other side, the caring lover, t whom sex was fun, not a conquest, for whom it was open, and slow, sometimes agonizing play that ended in what he called ‘the purest feeling,’ the small death, the orgasm that was his one positive, total escape from reality, as momentary as it might be.

  She knew also in her heart and from her experience with him that any or all of the stories could be true,

  But it didn’t matter. He was alive and he was here and, like Cohen, she remembered the night she had met Hatcher, a night she would never forget.

  She had hardly been able to contain her anger at this impudent mei gwok lawyer as he led her out of the crowded ballroom of the Chinese Palace and onto the terrace. And she was just as angry that Cohen had introduced them. Then he stopped and smiled at her. ‘My name’s not London, its Hatcher,’ he said in perfect French. ‘And I think what you did to those Americans was lovely and I can get you Indian cotton, top grade, delivered wherever you want it, for half of what you’re paying now, which should be worth as much as — at least a ten percent markup for you.’ He paused for a moment, then added, ‘Not only that, bud can make you laugh a lot.’

  She had stared at him for several seconds, amazed at his audacity, and drawn to his gray eyes. But she quickly recovered.

  ‘How much?’ she asked.

  ‘How much what?’

  ‘How much cotton can you deliver, how fast and at what cost?’

  ‘I’ll have to figure that up. I don’t do that kind of thing in my head.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ she heard herself say.

  ‘Lunch tomorrow. Strictly business. I’ll have the figures, you bring the check. No managers, no accountants, no lawyers, just you and me.’

  ‘I warn you, I don’t compromise.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ he said. ‘Everybody, loses in a compromise. I negotiate. When you negotiate, everybody wins.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘You decide up front what you don’t really care about. Narrow it down to what’s important. That’s your line. I’ll do the same. Trust me, we’ll deal fast a7zd have time to do a lot of laughing before the meal is over.’

  ‘How come laughter is so important to you?’ she asked.

  He smiled. ‘Laughter is the key to heaven,’ he said.

  And to her surprise, she had agreed to lunch.

  There had never been any cotton deal between them.

  But he had made her laugh — a lot. And he was right, it was the key to heaven.

  ‘I’m going back to my room,’ Cohen said from the living room. ‘My side is beginning to act up a little.’

  They ignored him. He shrugged and went off toward the rear of the house.

  There was an awkward minute or two when neither Daphne nor Hatcher knew exactly what to say. She broke the ice.

  ‘What happened to your throat?’ she asked, staring at the scar on his neck.

  ‘I was in a very bad prison. I spoke when I shouldn’t have. A guard decided to discourage me from ever speaking again.’

  ‘Is it painful?’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘I am glad,’ she said, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Your voice is very sexy.’

  ‘Merci. Wasn’t it always?’

  ‘Not like now,’ she said. Then after a pause, ‘What happened to you? You just vanished. Everyone thought you were dead.’

  ‘I went back to America to do a job and got in trouble. Three years’ worth of trouble. In a prison where everything was forbidden.’

  ‘And what of the other three years?’

  He shrugged. ‘I figured I was history by then, Daffy.’ She threw back her head and laughed, a throaty laugh that set off bells in his memory.

  ‘Daffy,?
?? she said. ‘I have not heard Daffy for so many years. No one else would ever call me Daffy.’ She let the laugh die and then said quietly, her green eyes flashing, ‘No, Hatcher, you were never history. Not for me.’

  He let it pass.

  ‘Is Cohen serious?’ Hatcher asked her. ‘Can you really help me?’

  ‘Straight to business,’ she said. ‘So it’s going to be like that, eh?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I feel a little awkward. I know I owe you —‘

  She put her fingers against his lips. ‘You owe me nothing. We made no promises. I shared my bed with you . . . with anticipation. Sometimes even . . . impatience.’

  He remembered, the words conjuring moments of delirious joy, but he pushed the thoughts away again.

  ‘I owed you at least a proper good-bye,’ he said.

  ‘Is that why you came back? To say good-bye to the friends who thought you were dead?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he whispered huskily. Then, trying again to avoid the inevitable, he said jokingly, ‘Besides, I could use a sauna treatment at the Estoril. And the Thai massage there —,

  She turned and walked to the bedroom door. ‘You don’t have to go to the Estoril Hotel to get a massage, Hatcher,’ she said. ‘And you must say jo sahn properly before you say joi gin again.’

  He followed her into the room.

  ‘How can you help me, Daffy?’ be asked.

  She walked to the other side of the bed. ‘I told China I would help — but only on my terms.’

  Hatcher looked at her suspiciously. ‘Uh-huh, and what are they?’ his frayed voice asked.

  ‘You must stay out of Macao.’

  ‘I have no reason to go over there now.’

  ‘And we must do this thing exactly as I say.’

  Hatcher smiled. ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ he said.

  ‘Agreed?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘What is this about a prison camp, anyway?’ she asked. ‘I’m trying to find someone,’ he said. ‘We were comrades in the Navy together. 1-fis father is a hero in America. He may have been in a prison camp in Laos. It was called Huie-kui. The commandant’s name was Taisung, or something like that. I figure somebody must have done business up there during the war. Maybe they’ll remember something.’

  She turned her back to him and stared out at the bay, shaking her head. ‘You’re looking for one man?’ she said.

  ‘It’s why I came back,’ he said. ‘All the rest of it — you, China — that’s all a bonus.’

  ‘Perhaps we can sneak upriver and avoid Sam-Sam, maybe I can set that up. There is only one man I think who might help you. You remember Samuel Anstadt, the one they call the Dutchman?’

  ‘I never met the Dutchman.’

  ‘That’s because he operated in Laos and North Vietnam. I buy material from him new. But ten years ago he sold drugs, guns, clothing, everything, to the Vietcong.’

  ‘Can we get him down here?’ Hatcher asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘He is wanted by the Hong Kong police. They would recognize him in a moment. But there is a place called Leatherneck John’s in Tsang, forty miles upstream.’

  ‘An American joint?’ Hatcher interrupted.

  She nodded. ‘A lot of dealing and drinking is done there,’ she said. ‘Drug deals are made and so is the exchange. It is a kind of — free spot. We can meet the Dutchman there, but only if we’re sure Sam-Sam Sam is out of the area.’

  ‘You’re not going,’ Hatcher said.

  ‘Of course I’m going. They will only talk to you because I ask them to. I will have to make the deal.’

  A forgotten shard of mirror glittered in the corner, reminding him of the night before. He had put China’s life at risk. Now he was about to do the same to her. Once again, he was taking, not giving, like the old times.

  ‘Maybe—’ he started.

  She whirled and glared at him with flashing green eyes.

  ‘No maybe. Yes.’

  They were almost nose to nose, her eyes demanding agreement. They stared at each other.

  ‘There is one other thing. . . .‘ He stared down at her, the brash smile she remembered playing at his lips.

  ‘Yeah?’

  He reached out cautiously with one hand, stopped an inch from her mouth, then slowly moved his fingers to her mouth, touching her lower lip with his fingertips, exploring it with his forefinger, squeezing it with his thumb and middle finger until it pointed toward him. Her tongue glistened an eighth of an inch from his finger, flirted with it and finally swept across it, and his finger, moistened, slipped more easily across her lips.

  ‘Hai . . .‘ she said.

  Her eyes closed and she tilted her head back and he leaned to her, gently squeezing her mouth as his touched hers. Her breath came out in a rush and she bit his lips, explored them with her tongue until finally the tease was no longer a tease but a passion.

  She reached up and slipped her jacket off, let it fall to the floor as they kissed.

  He reached up with his other hand and untied the slender string on one shoulder, then the other, but she pressed against him, keeping the dress from falling. She slid her hand between them, pressed the flat of it on his stomach. Her fingers nimbly unbuttoned his shirt. She slipped her hand inside, sliding it across the hard muscles, her thumb encircling his navel. She slid her fingers under his belt, turned her hand toward the floor, slid it down until she felt him rising to meet her hand.

  Then she leaned back. And the dress slipped slowly down, dangled for a moment on her hard nipples, then slipped over her breasts and down to her hips. They kept kissing, their eyes closed as their hands explored each other, gave each other clues.

  With her free hand she undid his belt buckle, unsnapped his pants, slipped her hand around his buttocks until they dropped off, then did the same with his shorts; he reciprocated, loosening her dress until it too fell away. She was naked under the dress.

  Their lips were still locked together as she took his hand and moved it slowly to her stomach and then down, until it was between her legs and then she pressed it hard against her and began moving it up and down, then moved her hand, pressed the back of her hand against the back of his until they were stroking each other in perfect rhythm, their lips moving in the same rhythm.

  ‘My God,’ he whispered into her mouth, ‘slow down.’

  He felt her twitch, press more tightly against his hand.

  ‘Cheng. . . nei, now, cheng nei. . .‘ she said as her breath became shorter, more urgent. ‘Please .

  please . . .‘ And she began to grind against his hand, began stroking him faster and he began to move with her hand. She was trembling now, she sucked in her breath and rose on her toes and he could feel her getting harder under his fingers and then as she cried out she thrust him into her.

  She ground her head into his shoulder, her muscles taut, trembling as he continued to massage her, faster and faster, lowering her slowly onto the bed until her arms fell away and he was over her, his eyes closed, his biceps twitching, and then suddenly he took in a breath and held it as he, too, exploded. She reached up with both arms, wrapped them around his neck and pulled him down on top of her, still grinding against him and he could feel her tightening again.

  ‘Cheng nei, Hatcher .

  yen dui yen

  It did not surprise Cohen when Tollie Fong called him. It was customary — a requirement of honor by anyone who belonged to the triad societies, whether it was the traditional society, the Sun Lee On, or its underworld offshoot, the Chiu Chao. As was the tradition, Fong suggested a meeting that afternoon in an offbeat restaurant deep in Wanchai. They agreed on the basics. The meeting was set for four o’clock. Each would have three representatives of his own triad with him; each would select a judge from the Society in general to monitor the meeting; there would be no weapons. The attack on Cohen’s house was not specifically mentioned.

  Cohen selected his most conservative cheongsam for t
he meeting. He left in the Rolls at three-forty-five, taking with him Sing, who was already out of the hospital, and two other members of his ‘family.’ Hatcher and Daphne were still behind closed doors in the bedroom. No need to tell them about the meeting yet.

  The Rolls swept quietly down the mountain, past the governor’s mansion and the U.S. consulate and down Connaught Street to noisy, rowdy Wanchai and then crept through teeming streets, threading its way between rickshaws and pedestrians, to Lan Fung Alley, a dismal and deserted connector. A small sign in hand-painted calligraphy halfway down the narrow alley announced the presence of Lon Song, a tiny, nondescript restaurant favored by locals. The driver parked the Rolls as close to the entrance as he could get, and Cohen entered behind Sing and his two other aides.

  Lon Song was a narrow, feebly lit place, barely big enough to accommodate its ten tables. The smell of garlic hung heavily in the air. It was four-ten and it was deserted except for the owner, an elderly but very erect man with a wisp of gray chin whiskers. He stared at Cohen through bifocals, smiled and bowed.

  ‘It is an honor, Tsu Fi,’ he said.

  ‘Are the others here yet?’

  ‘Hai. Also the judges.’

  ‘Ho,’ Cohen said. He and his three men followed the old man back through the dingy corridor to a door at the rear. The owner opened it for him. There was a small landing and a staircase that led down to a cellar room, a room that was dusty and poorly lit and obviously rarely used. In the center was a small table with two chairs facing each other on opposite sides. A tea service sat in the middle of the table. There were two cups.

  Following tradition, Tollie Fong, who had committed the insult, had arrived first. He sat on the side of the table facing the stairwell. Behind him stood his three aides, their arms crossed over their chests.

  There were two other men in the room. One was Sam Chin, an elder in the Chinese community and a respected banker, who was the san wong of one of the most honored triads in the Sun Lee On. The other was Lon Tung, san wong of the House of Seven Drums, one of the most dangerous of the Chiu Chao triads. They were there to monitor the meeting, to make sure there was no violence and that whatever the problem was it would be resolved satisfactorily, either with accepted apologies, or with a formal declaration of war between the two houses. Among the triads, a sudden and undeclared attack from one on another was considered dishonorable. Members of the offending family were ostracized. Fong’s alacrity in asking for the meeting was obligatory.