Typhoon. Charles Cumming
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up at a clock on the wall, then at his watch. ‘It’s still the late afternoon in California…’
Chris interrupted him. ‘Listen, man, if you need some privacy to talk things over with Miles…’
‘No, no, that wasn’t what I meant. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply…’
‘You didn’t imply anything.’ Chris was in his late thirties, a decent, obliging American, and he adopted an expression of infinite wisdom and understanding in the presence of the younger man. ‘You got a tough job, Joe, and –’
‘No, no, please don’t worry. We can do it later.’
‘– and I’d like to help you out.’ Chris laid a firm, understanding hand on Joe’s arm and gave it a meaningful squeeze. ‘You don’t wanna be sitting here listening to me all night when you’ve got this shit preying on your mind. And you’re right. Miles is exactly the guy you should be talking to. That man is unbelievable.’ He stalled a little here, as if unsure whether Joe was aware that Miles was CIA. ‘I can see how frustrated you are and I totally understand. In any case, I could do with an early night. When he gets back I’ll finish my beer and slip away.’
Joe, who was certainly not above using his looks to gain an advantage in such a situation, whispered, ‘That is very kind of you, Chris, thank you so much,’ and offered up what might have been construed as a flirtatious smile. Then they both spotted Miles returning from the bathroom. Joe calculated that Chris would be gone in under fifteen minutes.
It took ten. He smoked one of Joe’s cigarettes, drained his Michelob, then stood up from the table and announced that he was heading for home.
‘You sure, man?’ Miles asked. There was neither concern nor particular surprise in the question.
‘I’m sure. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. You guys be good. Take care now.’
Joe rose to his feet.
‘Thanks,’ he mouthed as Miles bent down to pick up a fallen beer mat. Chris gave a second airing to his expression of infinite wisdom and understanding and whispered the word ‘Pleasure’ back. After handshakes all round, Chris left a hundred-dollar tip on the table and disappeared into the crowds of Wan Chai.
‘What got into him?’ Miles was fingering the hundred-dollar note, as if weighing up whether or not to steal it. ‘I go to the bathroom, I come back, suddenly he wants to leave.’
‘Search me.’
‘Did you arrange for him to take off, Joe? Did you want me all to yourself?’
Joe smiled as the chorus of ‘With or Without You’ played loud on the Samba’s sound system. They were sitting opposite one another at the table, drunk blondes from England singing at the bar. ‘If you play games with me,’ he said, ‘I’m obliged to play games with you.’
Miles looked away. ‘Noisy in here,’ he said. Their relationship was frequently a sparring match in which neither side was prepared to concede ground or admit to weakness. Isabella once compared them to a couple of alpha-male gorillas grappling it out in the eastern Congo, which may have been hard on Joe, but was certainly a compliment as far as Miles was concerned. Their mutual bravado concealed a deep affection, but it saddens me to look back and realize that any loyalty between them was strictly one-way traffic.
‘So you wanted to know about Wang?’ Miles said finally.
‘Yes. I want to know about Wang.’
‘Why didn’t you just ask Kenneth?’
‘I did. And now I’m asking you.’
Samba’s is the sort of place where expats gather to drink in the evening before moving on to dinner or a nightclub in Lan Kwai Fong. It is always packed and always noisy and, with the music as a constant smothering background, there is little danger of conversations being overheard. Nevertheless Miles lowered his voice as he said, ‘I’m prepared to tell you anything you want.’ The lime-green Hawaiian shirt glowed against the dull red upholstery of his chair, sculpting gym-toughened shoulders into slabs of power. Very few men in Hong Kong could have worn that shirt and not looked ridiculous. ‘You look a little pissed, Joe,’ he said. ‘Everything OK?’
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