Dana Stabenow - Blindfold Game

“Here we are,” Arlene said, and leaned forward to tap the driver on the shoulder. They screeched to a halt, Arlene handed over an alarmingly thick wad of banknotes and they got out, elbowing for room on a street of storefronts thronged with people. “This way,” Arlene said, and led Hugh through a glass door into a tiny anteroom with a podium barricading the rest of the establishment from just anyone who might wander in off the street. Arlene smiled at the hostess, who didn’t smile back until the two hundred and fifty Hong Kong dollars Arlene tipped her disappeared down the front of her dress. She turned to lead them into the restaurant proper.

Arlene noticed Hugh’s expression and said in a low voice, “Relax. It was only about thirty American, and that’s cheap for a sit-down restaurant in Hong Kong.”

“It’s not that,” Hugh said, looking over her shoulder.

“What is it, then?” Arlene followed his gaze, and her eyes widened. “Holy shit.”

Noortman was sitting at the table in the window right next to the one the hostess was standing beside, menus in hand, watching them with an impatient look on her face.

For a moment Hugh was transfixed, and then he recovered his wits. “Smile and talk to me,” he whispered to Arlene, and gave her a gentle shove forward.

“What if he recognizes me from Pattaya Beach?” Arlene hissed.

“He won’t, he was too focused on his next big score,” Hugh said, and prayed he was right.

It was a safe bet, as today Arlene was dressed in a deep blue suit, cream-colored silk shirt, heels, and pearls, and her hair had been moussed and blow-dried into a smooth knot at the nape of her neck. She looked nothing like the zaftig tourist in the Bermuda shorts the previous October.

Noortman, on the other hand, looked exactly as he had in the photographs Arlene took of him. His nose was aquiline but his eyes were Asian, and his teeth were square and white, with the exception of the gold-encased incisor that flashed when he smiled. His skin was sallow, his stylishly cut hair dark but not black. Like Arlene, he was dressed to suit his environment, in a charcoal striped suit with a dark red tie that matched the silk handkerchief peeping from his breast pocket. The watch on his wrist had the glint of Rolex gold. His shoes probably cost even more.

He was drinking tea as he scrolled down the screen of a laptop. The server brought a tray just then and made a distressed sound. Noortman looked up and smiled. Hugh was in the middle of being seated but it looked like a perfectly ordinary smile, no fangs showing, although it was a smile that seemed familiar, crooking up at one side in what could almost have been called a sneer. Otherwise, Noortman looked like any other young and ambitious Hong Kong businessman.

He became aware that Arlene was giving him a minatory look, and he realized their server had materialized. On impulse he told the server, “Tiger Beer.” He smiled across at Arlene, and said in a voice just above a whisper, “You didn’t think that because this restaurant was so close to his office that he never came in here? Even pirates have to eat.”

Arlene hooked a thumb toward her sternum and mouthed words that Hugh couldn’t understand. He shook his head. Arlene leaned forward. He met her halfway. “What?” he said.

“He’s gay, right?” Arlene whispered.

“What? I don’t- That’s what it says in his files. So what?”

“After I leave, pick him up.”

“What?” Noortman looked up at Hugh’s unguarded exclamation and then went back to his braised abalone in oyster sauce.

“Pick him up,” Arlene repeated. “You’re a hunk, he’s probably drooling into his plate over you right now.” She reached into her bag.

He said the only thing he could. “I am not a hunk!”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. Robert Redford has nothing to worry about.” She pulled her hand out of her bag.

“Arlene, I-”

“His apartment is close by his office. That’s probably where he’ll take you. I’ll follow.”

“Arlene, we don’t even know if Noortman makes a habit out of picking up guys off the street, I can’t just-”

“We don’t know what kind of security he’s got on his office or who else is keeping watch on it. Getting into his apartment is our best bet.” Her bag vibrated. “I’m so sorry, please excuse me for a moment,” she said to Hugh in a louder voice, in French, accompanied by a dazzling smile. She pulled out a cell phone and flipped it open. She listened for a moment and then let loose with more and very rapid French. “No, it’s quite all right, Veronique, I’m only five minutes away. Offer him some tea, let him look over the closing papers, and tell him I’ll be there immediately.” She flipped the phone closed, shouldered her bag, and rose to her feet. She smiled down at Hugh, an infinitely kind smile, and, still in French, said in a soothing voice, “I’m so sorry our luncheon has been cut short, Mr. Reeve. As I was saying, I have several properties that I believe would interest you. Please call my assistant at this number”-Arlene handed Hugh a small square of stiff paper that later proved to be the business card of Arlene’s accountant-“to schedule showings. A bientot.”

With that, Arlene marched off, leaving Hugh seated at his table facing Noortman seated at his. Hugh’s beer came and he downed half of it at one go. He looked up to see Noortman smiling at him. There was definitely something about the smile, but he still couldn’t place it and he had other things to worry about.

Hugh could give a shit if men slept with each other so long as he wasn’t one of them. He didn’t care if they married and adopted seven kids and watched The Birdcage every night on the Bravo Channel. He himself was a flaming heterosexual. It wasn’t that he thought Arlene’s idea was bad, per se, it was just that he didn’t have the first clue how to go about picking up a man.

Noortman was still smiling at him. What the hell. For starters, he smiled back. He even went so far as to salute Noortman with his beer.

The next thing he knew they were seated at the same table, his or Noortman’s he could never remember, the hostess cooing at Noortman in Mandarin and Noortman kissing the back of her hand with his seductive sneer. Then Noortman was speaking to him in flawless French and he was replying, and they were having a stimulating and informative discussion on Hong Kong real estate, which moved on to globalization and from there to the films of Pierce Brosnan, for whom Noortman appeared to harbor an inordinate fondness.

Noortman mentioned that he dabbled in Hong Kong properties himself off and on. What precisely was Hugh looking for? Hugh replied that he was interested in warehouse space along the waterfront for his import-export business. He was presently looking at various properties with a broker.

Really, said Noortman, how very interesting. He was in the import export business himself and had extensive contacts with Hong Kong shipping firms. Now that he thought about it, he was convinced that just the other day someone had spoken of a very desirable property for sale, located conveniently near Central. He was sure he still had the listing. Would Hugh like to see it?

Of course Hugh would, who by this time was feeling much more relaxed. It turned out that picking up a guy wasn’t all that different from picking up a girl. He managed not to flinch when Noortman smiled deeply into his eyes, and by a superhuman effort didn’t jump when Noortman’s knee rubbed against his beneath the table. By superimposing a woman’s face over Noortman’s features-it didn’t matter that it was Sara’s face he saw, he told himself-he was even able to put what he hoped was a little heat into his own expression.