Perhaps it would lead to more opportunities; the American-born cared more about the markup than where the gold and jewels came from. Besides, she believed her new identity would shield her. After all, Chinese families sold off jewelry and gold all the time.
Or may tor fut. She whispered the Buddhist chant, rubbing the jade between her palms. Her fingers crossed the hexagrams as she read Heaven Over Lake. An escape route opens. Be mindful of small steps, and there can be safety even on dangerous ground. Tread around the tiger’s tail.
Savoring the Cherry
Gee Sin powered off the bionic hand, lest its electric murmur intrude, spoiling the mood of the expected debauchery.
A female cho hai, a new Grass Sandal, 432 rank, had selected them from an aspiring pimp, Kowloon Charlie, who’d guaranteed the girls were at least seventeen years old, even if they could easily pass for fourteen. Two siu jeer, “young ladies,” recruited from the impoverished zones and orphanages: the poor, the desperate, forsaken children. Gee Sin knew Grass Sandal would never place Paper Fan in jeopardy, given Hong Kong’s rigid underage prostitution-human trafficking laws. And the continuing police efforts targeting him. It was difficult to guess a young whore’s age anyway, he thought, even if you were Chinese and knew the clues.
Gee Sin also knew Kowloon Charlie had a growing interest in the triad’s prostitution rackets; he was an up-and-coming gai wong, pimp player, whom competing triads wanted to lure away. Or kill outright. Kowloon Charlie had been eager to please, to fulfill Paper Fan’s requests. Charlie had the best whores, and for the time being, nobody had wanted to bring the vice dogs from the Royal Hong Kong Police down into the lucrative operations, especially in Tshim Sha Tsui.
Sin motioned with his quiet arm, directing both girls into his bedroom. “Chue som,” he said in a low voice. Get undressed.
The first one would have been the age of a granddaughter if he’d had one: short, but Bok bok jeng jeng, with light skin and pretty, sweet with long black hair. She offered a crooked half-smile and a look of resignation as she stripped. She had small breasts with thick nubby nipples, but they were nicely shaped, he thought, and made her appear more juvenile. A waifish body, hardly any hips, but her backside was rounded and plump. Gow leng, cute enough.
Naked, she lay down on the bed, placed a thick pillow under her rear. She put one hand into her hair and fanned it across the comforter, extending her pink high heels toward the bed corners. She spread her knees open with her free hand.
The other girl was darker, ethnic Chinese from Southeast Asia, he’d guessed. Malaysia, Indonesia-he couldn’t tell which. Dark, silver-dollar nipples. Also short, barely five foot two, but with curves everywhere on her: a firm, virginal, country-girl body.
She’d been wearing a schoolgirl’s uniform, with a white see-through bra and a split-thong underneath.
He unbuckled his belt. Unzipped his fly.
Naked, she sat on the rear edge of his bed, with the other siu jeer behind her, and raised one leg, leaning back on her hands. Gee Sin stepped up to the bed, took a breath, sucking in the hom sup salty scent of the sex flesh splayed before him.
“Gway day,” he said softly to the dark-skinned one, kneel, just before he let his trousers drop.
She knelt down on the beige carpeting, slowly reaching for him as he leaned over the bed. He was bracing himself on his spread fingers, his attention turning to the one on his bed.
He was mesmerized by the hairless vulva, yum bo, fleshy labia, yum soon, cutaneous folds spreading toward soon hut, the hooded little pearl. Devouring the glistening pudendum with his lustful eyes.
He lowered his head, close enough that he could smell the sweet muskiness emanating from her.
She kept her eyes on him and slowly arched her back.
The one on her knees had tugged down his shorts and taken hold of him in her hands, caressing the swelling look go, tube of flesh. He noticed the faint mound of downy hair just above the hooded lips, the mons, below nymphae nestled there.
He dry-swallowed, marveling at the bo, orifice, beckoning to him, an old man in his twilight, drinking at the fountain of youth. It made him feel like a young man again, when he had two good hands, and touching a woman brought a lusty tingle to his fingertips.
The siu jeer on the carpet cradled his swollen gwun against her cheek, strummed her fingers across the taut balls beneath it.
He’d lost his bearings.
His legs began to tremble as he bent close enough to blow gently on the bo pearl, to gasp a hot breath onto it. He was caught in its spell. The tip of his tongue would make it hard, bring it to attention. Precious, bo. Worshipping at the orifice of precious pudendum. Labia. Yum soon.
Licking his lips in anticipation.
South
South Andover ran between two sets of railroad tracks, trapped inside the industrial spread and the freeway beyond, a beat-down neighborhood.
Number 44 was one of a forsaken inner-city string of row houses that’d fallen into disrepair. Now it was a rooming house for migrant workers, makeshift quarters, beds for rent in squalid conditions. It reminded Jack of the Fukienese crash pads along East Broadway where modern-day worker-coolies were stacked on top of one another in basements and tenement apartments.
Jack knocked on the door until someone answered, opening up cautiously to a shadowy interior of whispers and furtive faces.
“Si, que quiere?” asked a young face creased with wrinkles.
Jack showed his badge, said “Policia de Nueva York. No inmigracion.” Jack assured him, “No problema. I only have some questions for Carlos Lima. And Jorge Villa.”
There was a silence as the door opened wider and another Mexican man stepped forward. “Si,” he said. “Soy Jorge.”
“Jorge,” Jack began, “you sold two watches that were stolen-”
“No, no, senor,” interrupted Jorge. “I no stealin nossing, please.”
“I don’t care about the watches,” Jack insisted.
“No me. Fue el chino bajo,” Jorge said. “Chino malo, el chaparrito.”
Bajo, remembered Jack. Short, short Chinese. Eddie was fronting the watches? “Where?” Jack asked. “Donde?”
“No say. He calling, telefono, only.”
“Where did you meet him?” Jack scanned the dim hushed room. “And where is Carlos Lima?”
Comida Mexicana
Jack brought Jorge along and they followed the freeway back north to Holgate until they came to a fast-food restaurant next to a Metro bus stop. El Amigo offered a counter with stools and four small tables inside an old-time diner. There was an oven and grill setup with a microwave on one side, then a big steam table with pots of beans, sides, and assorted ingredients.