My whole body bounces as I stand by the rusted-out cannon, full of wild, untamped nerves. Up and down. Up and down. I wish Tsang would hurry his ass up. We never seem to get here at the same time. One of us is always late.
I see his cigarette first. Bobbing through Seng Ngoi’s almost-dawn dark like a firefly from hell. The very first time I saw Tsang—the night I drew the marks on my apartment wall—he was smacking the pack of cancer sticks against his palm. Pulling out the perfect one and setting it ablaze. That was many weeks, many charcoal lines, many clandestine meetings ago. I’d bet the number of cigarette butts he’s left at the Old South Gate would add up to cartons.
I stop bouncing, hold my breath when Tsang gets closer. Smoking is one of the few vices I never really took to. Probably because my father forced me to smoke an entire pack when he caught me lighting up in the rock garden. By the time it was over, I was the greenest, sorriest eight-year-old in Seng Ngoi.
It makes me wonder what my life would be like if he’d taken that approach for everything else.
“What’ve you got for me?” My handler hasn’t even stopped walking.
“Longwai isn’t budging. He’s keeping me in the lounge. I’ve still got the boy doing runs.…” I trail off, wonder if I told the truth. Jin’s gone now—leaving just enough cat fur in my apartment to give my allergies hell. Not that I’m surprised. He’s one of the smartest kids I’ve come across. He probably figured out what I was up to and ran.
I wish he’d thought to snitch my first aid kit. That wound of his is going to need another cleaning.
“What about the whore?”
Whore… Tsang’s talking about the window-girl. It takes me a moment to realize this. To reconcile this brutal, bat-bashing word with the girl who’s been on my mind the past few days. I keep remembering the look that washed over her face when I set out the shell. The joy and longing. One hundred percent concentrate.
She looked at the nautilus like it was sunlight on a string. The most beautiful, pure thing in the universe.
She looked at me the same way. Like I was someone worth seeing. A goddamn hero. It was a stare that made me want to stand straight, look the part.
Too bad she’s wrong. For both of us.
“I’m testing her.” I spit the truth out like a bad pill: no hero here. “She’s trying to find out their names.”
“Still?” Tsang growls.
“I gave her four days.”
“Four days!” He sucks a sharp breath. His cigarette flares, lights his face like anger. “That’s awfully generous.”
“It’s what she needed.” Four lines. It’s a lot for me to give, but what I’m asking for is worth so much more.
“You’ve got to move faster. Get rid of the boy. You don’t need him anymore, and the last thing I need is you getting gutted for a failed drug run. Focus on the whore.”
Get rid of the boy. Focus on the whore. Up and down. Up and down. Maybe if I jump hard enough I can shake off his words. I go faster. Up, down. Up, down.
“Are you even listening?” Tsang’s cigarette is down to the nub, which means he’s getting crabbier than usual. His eyes gleam with its last ashes as they watch me jumping. Up, down.
“I need both of them.” Plan A and Plan B. “The boy is my only way into the brothel. I’ll need that when the girl comes through.”
“Why not let the whore do it all?”
My feet land flat on the ground. Stay there. I stare straight at Tsang. At the orange fire choking in a wreath of smoke. Almost dead.
“Stop using that word,” I tell him.
Tsang’s features twist into a smirk. He starts to laugh. “Sounds like someone’s got a crush. Now there’s a match made in heaven: a prostitute and a—”
“We done?” I cut off my handler. His cigarette winks out on cue.
“Next time we meet, I want results.” Tsang plucks the dead, smoking thing from his lips. Tosses it into a grimy puddle, where it hisses its own pitiful eulogy. “Stay focused, Sun Dai Shing. Your time is running out.”