This was Sam-Sam Sam, the Do Wong, the Prince of the Knife, a one-man Teamsters Union. Nothing happened on the river unless Sam-Sam Sam said okay. The booty stacked behind him was all tribute, collected from others who wanted to do business with the taipans.
Cohen’s mouth got drier.
Behind Sam-Sam Sam there were at least twenty other men, all wearing the black shirts, shin-length hauki pants, and red headbands of the Khmer Rouge, all armed with Uzis, AK-47s, M-16s and .357 Pythons. They looked as if they expected an invasion. Behind them were the women, all young, all probably cold-blooded, dressed the same, with knives and pistols stuck in their red sashes.
All of the weapons seemed to be pointed at Cohen’s stomach.
Leaning against a stack of crates was a white man, his uncut black hair covering his ears and sweeping almost to his shoulders. He was tall, handsome in a scruffy, unshaven way, and was wearing khaki cotton pants and shirt. A blue windbreaker was tied around his waist by the sleeves; a 9 mm. H&K automatic dangled under his arm in a shoulder holster; his wide-brimmed safari hat was faded and limp from sun and rain. He had his hands in his pockets and was grinning. No, thought Cohen, not grinning, the son of a bitch is leering.
‘They look like Khmer Rouge,’ Cohen whispered to Han.
‘Disguise,’ whispered his boatman, who was supposed to act as a bodyguard. ‘Nobody bother them this way.’
Cohen quickly appraised the situation. He became temporarily paranoid, afraid they would hear his heart pounding. The odds were about thirty to two and there was no future in any kind of confrontation. Cohen immediately made his move.
‘I’ll go over alone,’ Cohen said.
‘Not good. They don’t know you,’ answered Han.
‘I have this,’ said Cohen, opening his hand. In his palm lay a Queen Victoria twenty-dollar gold piece. ‘Stand up in full view so they don’t get nervous. If there is trouble, the two of us aren’t going to last long anyhow.’
He stood on the point of the bow as the motorboat idled up to the barge and opened his cheongsam wide to show he was unarmed, then stepped cautiously onto the barge.
‘I didn’t come here to fight,’ he said in Chinese to the ugly one. ‘I came here to make us all rich.’
The ugly man glared at him.
‘I’m Cohen,’ Cohen said.
The ugly man still glared at him.
Cohen made his way to the stacks of contraband goods, threading his way through the men and women, and flipped a corner of a bolt of Thai silk, felt it, and nodded.
‘Good stuff,’ he said, then turned to the ugly man. ‘This is what I want.’ He held up his fingers and counted. ‘I want cameras from Japan, good brands. I want stereos, Sony and Panasonic. I want Thai silk — not cheap — good stuff, like this, and madras from India.’ He flipped the corner back on the bolt. ‘I’ll buy green jade, no white — and don’t try to dye it on me, I can see right through that. Statues, idols, stuff like that from China, I’ll give you good price on all that, as much as you can bring down from Chin Chin land or over from Thailand.’
The ugly man stood with his hands on his hips, a cigar clenched in his teeth. Its tip glowed in the dark. Okay, thought Cohen, he’s got to show his balls here, push me around a little.
‘Who the hell you think you are?’ Ugly said.
‘I told you, I’m Cohen.’
The ugly man looked around at his men and they all laughed. There was some jabber between them and then the ugly man turned back to Cohen and said, ‘They think I ought to skin you alive and hang you to the side of my boat.’
Cohen threw his wallet on the table. ‘Kill me, all you get is ten Hong Kong dollars. I don’t think you got to be the do wong by being stupid.’
The white man whistled low through his teeth and shook his head very slowly.
The ugly man’s eyes flamed. He bit down hard on his cigar and his hand dropped over the stock of the Uzi.
‘You say I am stupid, gwai-lo, that what you say?’
‘No no, I say I don’t think you are stupid. If you were stupid you’d skin me for ten dollars. Instead, I’ll make you fat.’
‘I am fat already,’ the ugly man said proudly.
‘One is never too fat.’
‘You have a fast tongue.’
‘A man wouldn’t last long up here with a slow one.’ The ugly man liked that. He threw back his head, laughed heartily, and his men relaxed.
‘So how do you pay?’ the ugly man asked.
‘Hong Kong paper. You want American dollars or gold, you won’t do as well.’
‘And why should I do business with you?’ the pirate asked.
Cohen held up the gold coin between a thumb and forefinger. He twisted it in the beam of one of the lights. The coin twinkled in his hand. Sam-Sam walked very close and inspected the coin.
‘You come from the Tsu Fi?’ the ugly one asked. Cohen nodded. ‘I talk for the Tsu Fi. I got lots of dollars and there’s plenty more. None of that tea-and-crumpets shit like dealing with the British. You deal with me, it’s down and dirty, everybody makes a pound, no bullshit, no waste of time. And the big reason is I’ll take delivery upriver. I’ll make the Macao run myself and worry about customs. All you got to do is get the goods to me.’
The white man shifted slightly and said in English, ‘You got the balls of a Brahma bull.’
‘How did you know I speak the language?’ Cohen asked.
‘Boston accent.’
‘You got a good ear. Cohen’s the name.’
‘Hatcher,’ the man in khaki said in a flat, no-nonsense voice. It was not unfriendly, it was a voice that said, simply, Don’t mess with me. They shook hands. Hatcher had cold eyes that gave away nothing, and his smile came with an effort. Not a man to stand on the wrong side of, thought Cohen. Hatcher — Remember that name.
‘You’re not part of this bunch, surely,’ Cohen said.
‘Naw, just trying to make a buck like yourself.’
‘How do you think I’m doing?’
‘Sam-Sam hasn’t cut your throat yet, that’s a good sign. What’s that you showed him?’
‘Little down payment,’ Cohen said and winked.
‘Where’s the rest of your swag?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Downriver a ways,’ Cohen whispered. ‘Ten men and a chest of paper. I don’t like to show my hole card until the bets are all in.’
The ugly man had a short conference with several of his men, then came over to Cohen.
‘I’m Sam-Sam Sam, do wong of the Ts’e K’am Men Ti. You tell me what you want, you tell we how we make deal, okay, you and me do business, nobody else.’
Cohen smiled and winked at Hatcher.
‘Let’s do some dealing,’ he said to the ugly one.
That had been two years before their meeting in the dismal office on Cat Street. Cohen lad come a long way by then, had become the Tsu Fi, the master conniver of the island. And in the next few years he and Hatcher became allies, each feeding information and assistance to the other, ultimately learning to trust each other as friends.
Hatcher stared across the bay at the sprawling houses almost hidden by trees near the peak of Victoria Mountain.
Cohen’s lair.
My God, Hatcher wondered, is the little guy still alive?
ch’uang tzu-chi
As he sat staring across the bay, his eyes occasionally drooping with exhaustion, Hatcher suddenly began to feel a vague sense of malaise. The old clicks were at work. Perhaps it was coming back to the East, the sudden flood of memories invoked by the past. The Far Easterners had a strong premonitory sense; they believed not only in reincarnation but in visions. Hatcher bad never bought the concepts, and yet at times in the past his clicks, or instincts or memories or whatever they might be called, had warned him of danger.