"You have his paper?" he yelled back, meeting the Han's eyes once again.
The Han sneered. "What fucking paper? He owe me money. You pay or you fuck off!"
Kustow took a long breath. Five hundred. He had it on him. Twice that, in fact. But it wouldn't do to let them know that. He felt in his pocket, separating out three of the big fifties and three tens.
"I can give you one-eighty. It's all I have. But I can give you my note for the rest, if that's okay?"
The Han hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously, then nodded. "Okay.
But get him out of here right now. And don't come back. Not if you know what good for you!"
FORTY MINUTES LATER and a hundred levels up, Kustow held Michael Lever steady as he leaned over the sink, heaving. Michael's hair was wet where Kustow had held his head beneath the flow, but the two tablets he'd forced down his throat were beginning to take effect.
Michael turned his head slightly, looking back at his friend. "I'm sorry, Bryn. I..."
Kustow shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Really it doesn't. But what the fuck were you doing down there? You could have been killed."
Michael turned back, staring down into the bowl again. "Maybe that would have been for the best."
"Don't say that. It's not true."
"No?" There was a strange movement in Michael's mouth and then his whole face creased in pain. "It's finished, Bryn! It's all gone fucking wrong!"
"No, Michael. No. There's the Movement, remember? And there's Mary. . ."
Michael shook his head. "She's gone. I got her note."
"No, Michael. You're wrong. She wants you. She told me so. The note... it was a mistake. She didn't understand what had happened."
Michael snorted. "She understands all right! I'm washed up! A failure! And my father hates me!" He shuddered violently. "There's nothing, Bryn! Nothing!"
Kustow gripped his shoulders firmly. "You're wrong, Michael. You don't know how wrong. She needs you, even if the old man doesn't. And I need you, too, you silly bastard. Don't you understand that?"
Michael turned, looking up at him uncertainly. "She needs me? Are you sure about that? What did she say?"
"She loves you, Michael. Don't you understand that? She loves you. So stop all this bellyaching and go to her. And for fuck's sake do it before you end up dead in some clapped-out, five-piece drinking den!"
Michael stared at him. "Do what?"
Kustow stared back at him a moment, then laughed, surprised at his naivete. "Why, marry her, of course. Marry her. Now, before it's too late."
"Marry her?" Michael laughed sourly and shook his head. He shivered, then, straightening up, pushed away from the sink. Kustow tried to stop him, but, breaking free of his friend's grip, Michael stumbled toward the door. For a moment he stood there, his forehead pressed against the door's surface, then he turned back, swaying unsteadily, meeting Kustow's eyes.
"Look, I know you mean well, but just leave me alone, Bryn, understand? Just fucking leave me alone!"
CHAPTER TEN
Monsters of the Deep
THE SWEEPER PAUSED, leaning on his broom, staring across at the scene outside Hsiang Tian's Golden Emporium. Black dog banners were everywhere one looked, the triangular silks fluttering gently in the false wind generated by the big fans sited above the storefront. There was a low buzz of expectation and then the crowd began to move back, Triad runners pushing them back from the front of the store. There was a moment's angry jostling and then the crowd settled again, watching as Whiskers Lu strode out, his stylishly cut black silks glistening in the bright overhead lights.
Lu Ming-shao was a big, exceedingly ugly man, with a melted, misshapen face and an air of uncouth brutality. He spat, then turned, summoning Hsiang Tian from within. Hsiang came, his head lowered, ingratiating himself, yet uncomfortable all the same.
"Bring them out," Lu Ming-shao ordered, his rough voice booming. "The four I liked best. I want to see them out here, in the light." Hsiang turned, snapping his fingers. At once there was hurried movement within. A moment later the first of the sedans emerged, a long, sleek model with delicate satin coverings, carved dragon-head lamps, and a high-backed "wooden" chair, designed to seat two; a tien feng, or "Heaven's Wind." It was carried by six of the Emporium's runners, their dark mauve one-pieces emblazoned front and back with the bright red pictogram, a box within a box, hsiang, and their status number. Setting the sedan down close to Whiskers Lu, they knelt, heads bowed, waiting patiently while he mounted the chair and settled his huge bulk across both seats. Then, at Hsiang's signal, they lifted slowly, taking the sedan in a slow, smooth circle.
Whipped up by the Triad runners, the crowd yelled and cheered, genuinely enjoying the sight, but when Whiskers Lu stepped down, it was with a curt shake of his head.
"Next!" he barked, turning his back on Hsiang. There was a further commotion inside, and then the second sedan appeared. This was a bigger, seemingly more substantial model, an eight-man yu Jco, or "Jade Barge." It was broader and squatter than the previous model, and Lu Ming-shao looked less out of place in its huge, thronelike chair. What's more, the extended canopy, with its bloodred er-silk covering, gave the whole thing a slightly regal appearance, reminiscent of the state carriages of the Minor Families. Even so, when Whiskers Lu stepped down again, it was with an expression of distaste.
Seeing that look, Hsiang turned quickly, summoning the next sedan. As it came out under the bright exterior lights, the sweeper made his way across and, pushing his way through the fringes of the crowd, stood near the front of the press, close to the line of runners, watching as Lu Ming-shao mounted the sedan.
He had heard many tales of Whiskers Lu, of his legendary fearlessness, of his heartlessness and casual brutality, but his eyes saw something else. Whatever Whiskers Lu might once have been, he was no longer the man of legend. Sharpness had given way to self-indulgence, brutishness to a kind of uncultured hedonism. Oh, there was no doubting that Lu Ming-shao was a big, fearsome-looking monster of a man, and not one to casually make an enemy of, yet those special qualities that had made him a 489—that had allowed him to wrest power from the hands of his deadliest rivals—were phantoms now. He saw how Whiskers Lu looked about him, aware not of the possible danger from the crowd—the ever-present danger of assassination— but of the impression he was making on them. He noted the big expensive rings the man wore, the elegant First Level fashions and understood. Three years of unopposed leadership had changed Lu Ming-shao. Had made him soft. Worse, they had made him vain.
As he watched, Whiskers Lu climbed up into the wide, deeply cushioned seat and settled back among the padded silk. Yes, only a fool paraded himself this way before the hsiao jen, the "little men." Only a fool closed his eyes, relaxing, when an assassin's bullet lay only a fraction of a second from his heart.
Lehmann turned, then made his way back through the throng, satisfied. He had seen enough. It would be easy to take Whiskers Lu. Easier than he'd anticipated. But it was best not to be too cocksure. Best to plan it properly and make sure the odds were wholly in his favor.
Returning to his cart, Lehmann folded down the handle of his broom and fixed it to the two clips on the side. Then, for all the world like a common sweeper going off shift, he swung his cart in a sharp half-circle and began to push slowly toward the side corridor, making for the down transit.
the nurse handed Jelka back her pass and came around the desk. Behind her, in the glass-fronted booth that overlooked the spacious reception area, the clinic's security guard relaxed, returning to his game of chess.
"Is he expecting you?"