Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

The establishment’s waiting area smelled of sandalwood incense. There was an electric fountain plugged into the wall, spilling water over a miniature landscape carved out of jade. There was a curtained window above the back of a couch, and two lovely young women in maroon qipaos behind an elegant counter. A red dragon inlaid into black lacquer was coiled on the wall. Knox was greeted and welcomed, both women’s smiles slipping into girlish giggles. A waiguoren! In poor, choppy English, Knox was asked if he would like a cocktail. It was not yet lunchtime. He ordered a beer.

The women in charge sat down across from him and explained the cost of club membership, which was discounted if visits were purchased as part of a package. He was told the cost of entertainment would be discussed once he was upstairs and his membership had been approved.

The beer was fantastically cold and easy to drink, and if the hostesses looked anything like these two, there was no questioning the popularity of the place.

Grace entered and she sat next to Knox. The senior woman in the qipao, clearly accustomed to female clients, began pitching the membership to her as well.

“Vodka rocks,” Grace ordered. She rattled something in the Chongming dialect at the hostess so fast that Knox only caught a piece of it-something about Knox being her man and that after a drink she’d be taking him home. She laid a hundred-yuan note on the coffee table and sat back comfortably.

Her vodka arrived. Grace hit it hard and easily. We all have our secrets, he thought.

Knox pulled out a fifty-yuan note and asked the hostess to sign him up and show him upstairs.

Grace grabbed him by the wrist. “What are you doing?”

“The driver isn’t here. We can’t just sit! We’ll attract attention.” What the hell was she thinking?

He drank half the beer in a few neat swallows. “I’ve been looking for a place like this. My kind of relationship: intense, but quick.” Then he added, “Not too quick. Don’t get the wrong idea. Short-lived is more what I meant.”

“Sweetheart,” she said, playing her part.

“Why don’t you join me?” he offered. “Us.”

She released his arm. “I will not be here when you come down.”

The vodka was gone, the ice barely melted.

“If you change your mind,” he said, “you know where to find me.”

Knox headed upstairs with the hostess. Below, he heard Grace calling for another vodka.

The second-floor lounge housed seven women-girls, some of them-some prettier than others. Some shopworn while trying hard not to look vacant. He sat between two of them and ordered another beer.

He was nearly through the beer when Grace arrived at the top of the stairs, looking slightly drunk. She said something caustic in Shanghainese to the pretty girl next to him and took her place, moving the girl over.

“What’s taking you so long?” she said. “Pick one.”

“To be honest, the oldest profession has never interested me. Call me a contemporary.”

“Then why come up here? To punish me?”

“You? It has nothing to do with you.”

“Then why?”

“I pinched a good deal of money off the Mongolian. If we’re caught…more likely, when we’re caught, that money will be confiscated and end up in some cop’s home entertainment system. Here, maybe it buys one of these fine specimens,” he said, running his finger into the cleavage of the girl sitting next to him, who grinned and placed her hand on his inner thigh, “a second career.”

Grace put her own hand into Knox’s crotch and moved the girl’s hand.

Things were getting interesting.

“Acting noble doesn’t make one noble,” she said, working the vodka.

“Thanks for that clarification.” He swilled more beer, and drew an abstract pattern on its sweating glass.

“So pick one,” he said. “Someone deserving.”

“Me?”

“Why not? I’m an equal opportunity employer.” The joke was lost on her. He felt sorry for her, and then wondered how many of her jokes he missed, only to realize she didn’t make jokes. At which point he felt sorry for her again.

“Do you honestly believe we are not going to get through this?”

He thought that was the vodka talking, so he let the beer answer. “I’m hedging my bets. You turn over rocks, bad things crawl out. And no, that’s not an American proverb, just an observation.”

He placed the beer down, promising himself no more.

She drained the second vodka. “Mmm,” she said.

“I’m still waiting for you to pick one,” he answered when her look turned cloudy.

“She will just send the money home. She will be on her back once again tomorrow.”

“That’s her choice.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand.”

“You would not! How much did you take?”

“More than that.”

She stared at him for what felt like several minutes. He met her gaze, looked away from it, and met it again.

“This one,” she said pointing across the narrow room. The girl-and she was just a girl-misunderstood and rose, her face beaming.

“Because she’s the youngest?” Knox said.

“It’s not like that,” Grace said. “It’s not her age.”

The young girl stood in front of Knox, lightly swaying her hips and smiling devilishly.

“You realize I’m missing out on the mileage points here,” he said.

“Whatever you do, do not give it to her in front of the others,” Grace said.

“I trust you’re talking about the money.”

The vodka apparently caused immunity to his humor.

The girl clearly delighted in winning the favor of the waiguoren. Knox allowed her to lead him down the hall and into a comfortable though spare room. He was studying the sad bed, considering sleep and nothing more. When he turned around, she was naked, having slipped out of the dress. It lay at her feet. Small, high breasts. A flat, hungry stomach. More like nineteen or twenty. Comfortable with her nudity. Confident in her smile. Knox kneeled in front of her and she misunderstood, widening her stance. He lifted the dress up, slowly covering her. He turned her around, securing the frog and loop at the top.

He passed her the bundle of yuan from behind. Speaking proper Mandarin, he said, “This is to be spent on the future, not the present. Neh? Do not tell the others. There are many jobs. It is a bountiful time in all of China.” He kissed her at the base of the neck and drank in her intoxicating scent.

A knock advanced the opening of the door.

“He’s here,” Grace said.

12:00 NOON

CHONGMING

Grace negotiated with the clean-shaven young man who had driven Allan Marquardt for one weekend in mid-September. She and Knox occupied the center bench of the blue Buick van. The driver must have sensed the assumed value of the information he possessed, yet Grace bought his cooperation for seventy-five U.S. dollars, with another seventy-five promised on top of his hundred-a-day rate.

The driver remembered three men, two foreigners. From his description Grace identified Preston Song and Allan Marquardt, but was stumped by the third. Song had done most of the talking. Marquardt had had his head in his BlackBerry most of the time.

“You will take us there, now,” Grace said.

“We have an agreement, lady,” the driver said.

“Something is not right,” Grace told Knox, speaking in English.

“Because?” Knox said.

“Why is he reminding me of the agreement?”

Knox leaned forward and spoke Mandarin. “Your mother will not recognize her son if you fail to hold up your end of agreement.” He leaned back in the seat.

“But there is nothing to see!” the man replied, craning back to look at Grace. “I swear you will be disappointed. Farmland. Nothing more.”