Page 121 of Roberto

“And you think he’ll have what I want?”

“If he doesn’t have it, he can get it. And if he can’t get it, I doubt you’d find it anywhere in Hong Kong.”

We entered a grungy-looking noodle shop. Plastic tables and chairs crowded the dirty linoleum. Locals slurped down bowls of noodles which, despite the shabby surroundings, smelled delicious.

Mei-ling wore a modest cream-colored dress, but she was so beautiful that she still turned heads. I supposed it didn’t help that she was followed by an Italian in an expensive suit.

Mei-ling called out something in Cantonese to one of the cooks behind the counter. He pointed at the rear of the shop, and we walked through a curtain made of strands of cheap plastic beads.

In the back, across from a food pantry full of giant aluminum cans, was a cheap wooden door. Mei-ling knocked on it three times.

A gruff voice called out in Chinese – most likelyWho is it?

“Chan Mei-ling,” she answered.

The voice became much friendlier.Come in!

We entered a tiny office with fake wood paneling. The rickety desk was covered with stacks and stacks of credit cards – either stolen or fakes, I couldn’t be sure. An overflowing ashtray sat among the cards, and the stench of stale smoke filled the air.

Behind the desk sat a thin man with a cigarette dangling from his lips, an inch of ash about to fall off. He wore a black long-sleeve shirt, and his shaggy haircut hung down in his eyes. His age was indeterminate – maybe mid-30s, possibly early 40s – but there was a hardness in his expression that I recognized from career criminals back in Italy.

He looked up. When he saw Mei-ling, he smiled and said something in Cantonese.

Then he saw me and immediately started shouting.

Mei-ling yelled back at him, and the man lapsed into sullen silence.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“He thought you were a cop.”

“No policeman dresses likethis.”

“That’s whatItold him.”

The man started speaking Cantonese –

“English,” Mei-ling said sternly.

The man glared at her, then scowled at me.

“What you want?” he asked in a thick accent.

“I need a gun,” I said. “A pistol.”

“And agoodone,” Mei-ling interjected. “Not the normal pieces of crap you sell.”

“Everything I sell good,” the man snapped.

“Riiiight,” Mei said sarcastically.

“ForyouI do this,” he said, pointing at her. “Now we even.”

“You owe me at least half a dozen favors,” she replied in a bored voice. “Actually – since I’m sure you’ll overcharge him – now you owe me another one.”

The man grumbled, then looked at me.

“You want revolver? Semi-automatic?” A smirk spread across his face. “Automatiiiic?” he asked in an insinuating voice like he was offering me something particularly naughty.

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