Four
There was a minute or so when I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have a g*n on me—or a permit to carry the g*n that was up in my room. There were plenty of people on the street, but none of them was paying any attention to me. On the other hand, I told myself, this was what I’d been asking for. I had gone into the criminal section of Hong Kong and asked about Po Hing. I’d done it in order to force him to make a move. What had I expected—a box of chocolates? I said to hell with it and returned the smile of the big man.
“I am ready,” I said. “How do we go?”
“I have a car,” he said. “Come.”
I went with him down the street. The car, a small European make, was parked about a block away. There was another Chinese at the wheel. I climbed in the back, followed by the man who had accosted
