Colin Harrison - Afterburn

It was enough to make Charlie want to plunge Mr. Lo's pointer into his eye. Tom Anderson squirmed unhappily, sensing Charlie's irritation. He needed the expeditious solution, the move across the board, the air strike. I'll be rude, Charlie thought. He looked at his watch. They didn't notice. He bent his head, looked at his watch, and counted to fifteen slowly.

Mr. Lo said something sharply. The slide show stopped.

Charlie looked up. Mr. Lo smiled. The sons smiled. The tea-girl smiled.

"Mr. Lo's description," Charlie announced authoritatively, filling the room with his voice, "of his family's very distinguished… bamboo scaffolding company… has been most informative." He nodded gravely at the translator. "Please tell him… I understand… what he is saying."

When Mr. Lo heard his name, his eyes creased with pleasure.

"Please tell him… that I feel that my company… has not shown enough appreciation…" Charlie watched Mr. Lo blink. "For the history and importance… of his very distinguished company

… and for the excellent management he provides."

The translator relayed the statement. Mr. Lo beamed.

"Please tell Mr. Lo… that I would take it as a great and important honor… if he would be my private guest… for dinner tonight… at the Phoenix-Dragon restaurant… in the Peace Hotel."

The translator said, "Mr. Lo please to meet you. He say perhaps six o'clock is very good."

Charlie stood and shook hands.

The translator added, "Mr. Lo asks if you are needing me to translate your dinner talking."

Charlie looked at Mr. Lo. "No," he said softly, keeping his eyes on Lo. "Just the two of us."

At five o'clock he was sitting on his hotel bed watching CNN's football commentators hype the coming Sunday NFL games. How many touchdowns can a man watch? wondered Charlie. The phone rang. "Okay," Towers began in a tired voice, "I've done what can be done in a day. No more, but certainly no less."

"Tell me."

"Melissa Williams is twenty-seven years old," he began. "She lives on East Fourth Street. She works at SharkByteMediaNet, Inc. That's what it's called. This is a very successful design firm specializing in Internet Web sites. They have offices at Broadway and Prince. She has no criminal record, no outstanding liens or traffic tickets. Her New York driver's license indicates that she wears corrective lenses. She has a perfect credit record." Towers paused, presumably to consult his notes. "I estimate her income at thirty-eight thousand dollars a year, based on her credit record. People of her age and education tend to carry predictable percentages of income as consumer debt. Her social security number was issued in the State of Washington, and a national directory search for a name match suggests she once lived in Seattle. We ran an Internet search and found out that she graduated summa cum laude from Carleton College in Minnesota. That's a good school."

"What else?" he asked. None of Tower's information seemed very specific.

"She's never been married-in New York State, at least. She has an inactive bank account in Seattle, and an old car loan there co-signed by a John J. Williams. A professional directory search of the Seattle area reveals that there's a fifty-two-year-old corporate lawyer named John J. Williams, who is probably her father. He's locally prominent, owns a house on Bainbridge Island he bought three years ago for eight hundred and twenty thousand dollars. A family member, John Jr., probably a younger brother, has a record of minor drug and traffic offenses." Towers took a breath. This is more like it, Charlie thought. "We have a confidential source in the Red Cross who says that Melissa Williams successfully donated blood earlier this year, which means she passed all of their screening tests for HIV, hepatitis, and so on. Our contact in the medical insurance information company that we consult with says she's had routine medical check-ups and care for the last few years in New York. That's what we've been able to find today."

"Pretty damn good," Charlie said, standing to test his back. It felt warm, loose. "Reading between the lines?"

"A good kid, I'd say. Clean-living, works, pays her bills, gets regular check-ups, comes from a stable family in a good part of the country. The younger brother is the screw-up, not her. That's my gut on this."

The fuckers always spoke more English than they let on. Mr. Lo's blink at the word appreciation. He and Mr. Lo drank and ate silently, the sweat creeping down Charlie's back as he considered how to do this. Not in the room, not in the restaurant, not next to the river walking along the Bund, where they could be followed or observed.

"Let's go outside," Charlie suggested after he had signed the check. He checked his watch. Seven p.m., which meant Ellie was just waking up in Julia's apartment.

They took the elevator down without speaking, then passed through the revolving door. Charlie turned to Lo. "A taxi?"

"No, no," answered Lo. "You see."

They walked a block away from the hotel through the carbon-choked dusk. Motorcycle rickshaws puttered by. Lo looked at Charlie and he nodded. Lo signaled one of the rickshaws and said something to the driver. Then they got in, Charlie first, his greater weight sinking the three-wheeled vehicle on his side. The rickshaw clattered forward through the bicycles and other traffic; exhaust fumes filled Charlie's lungs. But, amazingly enough, sitting in the noisy, cramped space didn't hurt his back. Mr. Lo pulled the curtain shut, and so it was just the two of them.

"Okay," Charlie said. "How much?"

Lo pulled out a calculator. No one could overhear, no one could see. Nothing was on paper. Lo punched in the number 70,000.

"Dollars?" Charlie said.

Lo nodded.

Charlie took the calculator and punched in 30,000.

"No, no, no." Lo waved his hand. "Much appreciation, okay?" He punched in 55,000.

Charlie took the calculator, stared at the sum. Against what was being leveraged here-Teknetrix's market capitalization, Ming's $52 million, Ellie's mental condition-the amount was infinitesimal. Gumball money. The rickshaw lurched back and forth. Lo's face watched impassively. "I want the job done fast," Charlie said finally. "You understand?"

"Yes, number one."

"No fuck-ups."

"Yes."

"You understand the word fuck-ups?"

"Fuck-ups. Fuck- ups." Lo smiled. "Very bad."

"Yes. You are a strong man," Charlie said.

"I think you are very strong. Too much strong for me."

"No, no." Give him face, Charlie thought. This is what he wants from the gweilo, along with the cash. "I pay you thirty thousand now and twenty-five thousand when the job is done. Six weeks."

"No, no."

"What, then?"

Lo punched in 40,000. "Now. So we can do very number-one job." Then he cleared the calculator and punched in 15,000. "Six weeks. U.S. dollar."

Charlie looked at Lo's face. Old enough to have been a soldier thirty years prior. The Chinese military had helped North Vietnam with almost everything. Much scaffolding required, of course, ha-ha. He held out his hand. "Forty thousand U.S. now. Fifteen thousand in six weeks, when the job is done."

Lo shook his hand vigorously. "Yes, good."

Twenty envelopes rested in his coat pockets, each with five thousand dollars inside. The manager at the Peace Hotel had nodded at Charlie's request for cash, and merely added the funds and a small fee to the hotel bill. Charlie pulled out eight of the envelopes and handed them to Lo. In the dimness, Lo glanced into each, counting the hundred-dollar bills with a brisk flicking of his fingers that suggested he'd handled quite a bit of yuan in his time. No one on the street could see, and the driver was busy in the noise of the traffic. "Good," exclaimed Lo. "Six weeks. Job finished very good."