“You’re a hard man to find, Harry Vee,” said the woman.
Clearly not hard enough, thought Harry.
He didn’t turn around but sat at the bar staring into the
depths of his Dry Martini. Oil from the single olive had formed a slick on the
surface. He’d been playing with this drink, his last, for twenty minutes or
more and it was warm.
Nothing worse than a warm Martini.
The woman spoke again. “I was told you could help me.”
An English accent, cultured, delicate. Harry stared into the
flashing neon tubelights that provided most of the illumination in the bar. He
stared into the clock which so proudly declared it Miller Time, although if
he’d bothered to glance round at the lack of other clientele in the place, he
might have felt inclined to disagree. “I don’t know why anyone would tell you
that,” he said.
“I’m looking for someone,” she said.
Harry pushed against the bar to swing himself unsteadily
round on his stool. He faced a young woman who didn’t belong, in so many ways.
She didn’t belong in Hong Kong, in this district, in this bar, and certainly
not at half-past one in the morning. Her blonde hair was curled too delicately
at the ends, her wire-frame glasses too carefully chosen for a late night out
in eastern Wan Chai, the red light district on the northern edge of Hong Kong
Island. The conservative suit was too warm for the weather, and her face showed
uncertainty at her surroundings. Uncomfortable. But apparently determined.
“I’m looking for someone. I was told you do that sort of
thing.” She held out a business card. “Rebecca Phillips.”
Harry tried to focus on the card. It wasn’t easy. “Tell me,
Rebecca Phillips, Freelance Journalist: do you know what Humphrey Bogart’s last
words were?”
Confusion on her face, “No, Mr Vee, I can’t say that I do.”
Harry swung back around and called to the Chinese girl
polishing glasses in the corner. “Kimmy,” he said, pushing the Martini back
across the bar, “Never serve me one of these again, you understand?”
