with a lowfaan."
"Is lowfaan a term of racial endearment?"
"It is an abbreviated form ofguey lowfaan, which means barbarian," Wu said.
"Though many people use it merely to indicate someone who is not Chinese."
I nodded.
"You don't fully subscribe, then, to the melting pot theory," I said.
"Nor do I wish to stand here and make small talk," Wu said.
"I think it would be best if you stayed out of Port City."
"Is it okay if I retain my U.S. citizenship?" I said.
"What you do outside of Port City is your business. But if you come back.. he moved his head in such a way as to include the two Vietnamese kids against the wall… "we will make it our business."
The kids were silent. As far as I could tell, they understood nothing of what was being said. But they didn't seem to care. They seemed relaxed against the wall. Their dark eyes were empty of everything but energy.
"So that's what the teeny hoppers are for," I said.
"I don't know teeny hopper," Wu said.
"Adolescents," I said.
Wu nodded. I could see him file the phrase away. He'd know it next time.
"Don't be misled," Wu said.
"They are boat people. They are older than their age."
"And empty," I said.
Wu smiled.
"Entirely," he said.
"They will do whatever I tell them to."
I looked at the kids for a moment. They were not something new. They were something very old, without family, or culture; prehistoric, deracinated, vicious, with no more sense of another's pain than a snake would have when it swallowed a rat. I'd seen atavistic kids like this before: homegrown black kids so brutalized by life that they had no feelings except anger. It was what made them so hard. They weren't even bad. Good and bad were meaningless to them. Everything had been taken from them. They had only rage. And it was the rage that sustained them, that animated their black eyes, and energized the slender, empty place intended for their souls. The kids saw me looking at them and looked back at me without discomfort, without, in fact, anything at all. I looked back at Wu. He had crossed his legs and was lighting a cigarette.
"We got a problem here, Mr. Wu."
"You have a problem," Wu said.
I shrugged.
"Let me tell you my problem," I said.
"I am a sort of professional tough guy. I'm kind of smart, and I've got a lot of experience. But mainly I get hired to do things other people can't do, or won't do, or don't dare do. You know?"
Wu inhaled, enjoyed it, and let it out slowly, through his nose.
He didn't say anything.
"So," I said, "how would it look if I let two juvenile delinquents and a Chinese guy half my size come in here and frighten me."
"It would not look good," Wu said.
"But you would be alive."
My hand was resting on my desk top just above the half-open drawer.
"All this because I had lunch with your wife."
"You will stay away from Port City," Wu said.
"Or you will be killed."
I dropped my hand to the open drawer and came out with a revolver, which I cocked as I took it out. At the first movement both the Vietnamese kids went under their coats, but I had about a two-second lead on them and was aimed at the tip of Wu's nose by the time they got their guns out. Both had nines.
"If I hear the hammer go back on either of those guns," I said to Wu, "you're dead."
Wu spoke to the boys. Peripherally I could see both kids crouching, holding the gun in both hands.
"Perhaps they are already cocked," Wu said.
He hadn't moved, nor had his expression changed.
"Then I'm dead," I said.
The office was silent. I listened. Even these kids weren't crazy enough to walk around with a round in the chamber and the hammer back. It was a good bet. But it was still a bet. There was no sound. I'd won the bet.
"Even if you do shoot me," Wu said, "they'll kill you."
"I'm pretty good," I said.
"Maybe they won't."
My gun was a Smith and Wesson.357. Six rounds. It had a blued finish and a walnut grip, and it was alleged to stop a charging bear.
Normally, unless I expected to encounter a
"Is lowfaan a term of racial endearment?"
"It is an abbreviated form ofguey lowfaan, which means barbarian," Wu said.
"Though many people use it merely to indicate someone who is not Chinese."
I nodded.
"You don't fully subscribe, then, to the melting pot theory," I said.
"Nor do I wish to stand here and make small talk," Wu said.
"I think it would be best if you stayed out of Port City."
"Is it okay if I retain my U.S. citizenship?" I said.
"What you do outside of Port City is your business. But if you come back.. he moved his head in such a way as to include the two Vietnamese kids against the wall… "we will make it our business."
The kids were silent. As far as I could tell, they understood nothing of what was being said. But they didn't seem to care. They seemed relaxed against the wall. Their dark eyes were empty of everything but energy.
"So that's what the teeny hoppers are for," I said.
"I don't know teeny hopper," Wu said.
"Adolescents," I said.
Wu nodded. I could see him file the phrase away. He'd know it next time.
"Don't be misled," Wu said.
"They are boat people. They are older than their age."
"And empty," I said.
Wu smiled.
"Entirely," he said.
"They will do whatever I tell them to."
I looked at the kids for a moment. They were not something new. They were something very old, without family, or culture; prehistoric, deracinated, vicious, with no more sense of another's pain than a snake would have when it swallowed a rat. I'd seen atavistic kids like this before: homegrown black kids so brutalized by life that they had no feelings except anger. It was what made them so hard. They weren't even bad. Good and bad were meaningless to them. Everything had been taken from them. They had only rage. And it was the rage that sustained them, that animated their black eyes, and energized the slender, empty place intended for their souls. The kids saw me looking at them and looked back at me without discomfort, without, in fact, anything at all. I looked back at Wu. He had crossed his legs and was lighting a cigarette.
"We got a problem here, Mr. Wu."
"You have a problem," Wu said.
I shrugged.
"Let me tell you my problem," I said.
"I am a sort of professional tough guy. I'm kind of smart, and I've got a lot of experience. But mainly I get hired to do things other people can't do, or won't do, or don't dare do. You know?"
Wu inhaled, enjoyed it, and let it out slowly, through his nose.
He didn't say anything.
"So," I said, "how would it look if I let two juvenile delinquents and a Chinese guy half my size come in here and frighten me."
"It would not look good," Wu said.
"But you would be alive."
My hand was resting on my desk top just above the half-open drawer.
"All this because I had lunch with your wife."
"You will stay away from Port City," Wu said.
"Or you will be killed."
I dropped my hand to the open drawer and came out with a revolver, which I cocked as I took it out. At the first movement both the Vietnamese kids went under their coats, but I had about a two-second lead on them and was aimed at the tip of Wu's nose by the time they got their guns out. Both had nines.
"If I hear the hammer go back on either of those guns," I said to Wu, "you're dead."
Wu spoke to the boys. Peripherally I could see both kids crouching, holding the gun in both hands.
"Perhaps they are already cocked," Wu said.
He hadn't moved, nor had his expression changed.
"Then I'm dead," I said.
The office was silent. I listened. Even these kids weren't crazy enough to walk around with a round in the chamber and the hammer back. It was a good bet. But it was still a bet. There was no sound. I'd won the bet.
"Even if you do shoot me," Wu said, "they'll kill you."
"I'm pretty good," I said.
"Maybe they won't."
My gun was a Smith and Wesson.357. Six rounds. It had a blued finish and a walnut grip, and it was alleged to stop a charging bear.
Normally, unless I expected to encounter a
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