I left Hootens despondent. Imelda, and my US$600,000 safety net, were gone: her mobile account was still shut off (I still called from time to time) and she ignored my emails, of which I’d written several - long, desperate things, alternating protestations of love with promises of vengeance. The thought of her and her new boyfriend (Who you talking to, luv?) laughing at them in some Borokay Internet café filled me with rage. As for United American, Ai Lin said Phil was away until the end of the week, at which point he’d likely be too busy to sign, even if the bastard were still inclined to do so. Moreover, with Kit Matthews arriving the following week and Fanny Ma’s gaining access to Orson’s office, my hour of reckoning was drawing near.

The Hootens bus to Tsuen Wan MTR was packed and I had to stand. What normally was a 10 minute ride took 45 minutes because up ahead a truck had toppled over, freezing traffic. As if this wasn’t enough, a sallow, flat-faced Chinese woman bombarded me with questions about the joint venture: Are you still using Java Applets? Card Wainright is a publisher, so how do you leverage your sales presentations? Is it easier leveraging off Hootens? etc.

Eventually I got to the apartment. Ai Lin had taken Lena to Shenzhen for an overnight shopping trip, which was good news as I needed some peace to plan my next step. To help me think things through, I’d bought a case of Heineken at the Wellcome on Caine Road.

So it was there, sitting on the couch, drinking beer and listening to the rain, that I first seriously considered suicide. Not a half-hearted attempt to get attention, but a full-on effort to do the job quickly and cleanly. With luck there would be a heaven afterwards, and one to my liking, with a villa on the beach amid the palms, and native girls frolicking naked in the surf. Yes. Sweet suicide. A bright young shilling destroyed by the world’s iniquity.

But how? Jump from a building? I would have to use a high floor: no point breaking my neck and lingering on as a quadriplegic; yet as I hurtled down the terror and second thoughts would be damn unpleasant. Leap in front of the MTR? What if it merely sliced my legs off? Drug overdose? What if I fucked up and ended up a blabbering retard? Drink myself to death? Easily the most palatable option, but my great capacity for liquor would draw things out, and my diminished fortunes would oblige me to drink the Chinese shite the tramps guzzled, and if one must drink one’s self to death, one must drink the good stuff: a suicide is, after all, a once in a lifetime event.

The next morning, my head throbbing and my neck stiff, I awoke on the bathroom floor. Red vomit covered the toilet, the tiles behind it, and also the side of the tub. Slowly I rose and went into the kitchen, where I found empty beer bottles covering the counter and only 5 of the original 24 left in the fridge. Drinking these last 5 improved things somewhat, but I decided that perhaps suicide by drink wasn’t the best way forward. To arrange to do it in the best, fastest way, I needed Thomas.

There had been nothing in the news to suggest he and Inksy had been arrested, so perhaps they were still in business, which meant I could stake out a central location and wait for Inksy to pass through on his runs. Best of all, this plan lent a veneer of proactivness to my intense desire to sit somewhere and remain beastly, steaming drunk. First, though, I needed a disguise for it was possible the police were on to me. In an alley off Lyndhurst Terrace, under a blue tarp drawn against the rain, a hunched Chinese barber with thick, opaque spectacles used his ancient, hand-crank clippers to rip the hair from my scalp, leaving just stubble. For an extra twenty he shaved my face till I had only the beginnings of a goatee. I was still me, but a skinhead, Nazi me.

I took a table at the Staunton Street Café just out of the rain from which I could see the escalator. While remaining unobserved, I casually watched thousands teem by: executives in suits, leggy mainland models in high-cut skirts, homeless people in rags, the occasional Chinese Tai Tai with a lap dog, and then, during my fourth pint, Inksy.

I almost missed him, for a pert blond walking west down Staunton had caught my eye, and only turning back did I glimpse, through the cafe’s large window, Inksy’s athletic bulk bolting up the escalator. He too had shaved his head, and despite the rain was disguised as a tennis instructor – tight white shorts, white shirt, and a sports bag from which jutted the handles of three rackets; the large ends, no doubt, nestled among dime bags of pot, satchels of coke, and vitamin containers of E. Soon he reappeared, coming down Staunton in a hurry, the muscles in his hairy legs bulging with every step. I jumped up to block his path, but not recognizing me he scowled and moved just slightly toward the street, intending to brush me with his shoulder for getting in his way.

"Inksy! It’s me!"

He came up short and regarded me suspiciously. His shaved head and thick goatee made him truly fearsome. "Bloody hell, Jake, what happened to your hair?"

"Where the hell have you two been?"

"Quite busy you know."

"I’ve been waiting here for you."

"How did you know to wait here?"

"Dude, everybody uses the escalator."

Inksy frowned, apparently surprised at this – Thomas had always been the smart one. Behind him, a fat cop crossing the street glanced in our direction but continued up to the mid-levels.

"I need to see Thomas," I said.

"I’ll tell him to call you."

"No, I need to see him today. What the fuck happened at the flat, anyway?"

"Flat’s torched, mate."

We started walking west.

"No shit. What about my room? There was a lot of shit they could use to trace me."

"Don’t worry, torched the whole bloody place. Part of Thomas’s contingency plan - destroyed all the evidence, we did." He said this with a hint of pride.

Yeah, and all my clothes and CDs, I thought. Nothing, though, compared to what I’d lost in the Philippines. "But why?" I asked.

"Somebody snitched on us. At first we thought it was you, but we found out different."

"You thought I was a fucking snitch? Dude! I do enough illegal shit to go to jail for centuries."

"Don’t worry, we figured out who it was. He won’t fuck us about again."

Inksy switched his bag to his left arm to keep it closer to the building and out of the rain, which had picked up again, obliging us to walk single file to better use the frugal cover the shop awnings offered. The sidewalk was packed with pedestrians carrying umbrellas, and wet fabric constantly brushed our shoulders. Feet away minibuses and diesel taxis roared to and fro.

"So you’ll take me to Thomas?" I said.

Inksy turned so abruptly we collided. "I dunno. That was a close call back on Connaught Road, mate. Really shouldn’t let people know where we’re staying. If you want something I’ve got it right here." He patted the bag.

"Not drugs. I need something else."

"What?" He leaned closer, I smelled chili sauce on his breath; pastry crumbs nestled in his black goatee.

"Please, just throw me a bone. Okay? Take me to Thomas."

Inksy considered this, nodded slowly, and started off again. We traveled west for some minutes before descending to Hollywood Road, where he stopped before a tall needle of a building that could only have held one cramped apartment per floor; it looked as if a strong wind could topple it. A gold plaque read Goldwell Mansions – An Exclusive Privilege for the Precious Few. Inksy rang the buzzer.

"Is this it?" I asked.

"Nope, just a customer. You wait here."

Inksy was buzzed in and I stayed out front. A few feet away a skinny worker in cotton shorts and rubber sandals started ripping into the sidewalk with a jackhammer. My hangover returned with a vengeance and my brain felt as it if were slapping against the inside of my skull. My lungs were also tightening; the inhaler felt solid and comforting in my pocket, but I’d already used it 3 times that day and decided to wait until the asthma got worse - it inevitably would.

Inksy was upstairs 20 minutes. My headache was unendurable when he emerged, grinning. "Sorry, mate! Very unprofessional, like, but have to sample the wares now and again."

I glared but held my tongue. He led westwards again; blessedly, the jackhammer faded away. Soon we were on Queen’s Road West, nearing our old neighborhood, Sheung Wan. "I’m surprised you guys stayed so close to the apartment," I said.

"It’s the last bloody thing they’d expect. Thomas’s a bloody genius, he is." Inksy stroked his bald head. "The shaved head was his idea – fucking brilliant."

"Yeah, businessman of the year."

Presently we stopped at a 7-11, where Inksy bought beer and mineral water. We continued along and Inksy turned on one of the steep streets leading up to Bonham Road. I followed, but he got farther and farther ahead; my pulsing head and my burning lungs - both aggravated by the hill and the mini-buses racing up and down - slowed me considerably. He waited on the corner of Second. "Looking really fit there," he said.

"I hate this fucking city."

"We’re almost there."

Halfway down Second Inksy turned up a wide staircase leading to Third. At a small building off the stairs he unlocked a steel gate and we entered a narrow hallway, at the end of which were stairs that climbed to a darkened first floor landing, where Inksy knocked three times fast on an unmarked door. It was silent for a moment, then one by one locks began clicking. The door opened and there stood Thomas. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Jake," said Inksy. "I didn’t recognize him either. Looks different, eh?"

Thomas peered at me suspiciously. "Nice haircut, you look like bloody Inksy. What are you doing here?"

"I came with Inksy."

"No shit."

"I need a beer. My fucking head’s killing me."

Thomas reluctantly admitted us. The apartment was even smaller than our previous place. A table dominated the living room and one had to squeeze around it to get to two closed doors opposite. On my immediate left, next to the entrance, was a narrow kitchen. Beside the kitchen an open door led to what appeared, improbably, to be a balcony. Packets of grass, cocaine, and pills covered the table, and underfoot were a few duffel bags and backpacks. In the kitchen, an apparatus of test tubes and beakers stood atop the counter, and on the kitchen floor were a dozen green bottles. At first a I thought they were beers, but looking closer I realized it wasn’t beer - it was paint thinner.

While Thomas re-locked the door and Inksy put beers in the fridge I squeezed around to the doors opposite. I needed to piss furiously so I opened the door on the left. It wasn’t a bathroom, but a bedroom, and what lay on the floor stunned me. "Jesus! What the fuck have you guys done?"

"Close the fucking door!" shouted Thomas, but Inksy was there in an instant, shoving me aside and yanking the door shut. I staggered back against the wall, weak with nausea and asthma.

"Why did you open the door?" demanded Inksy.

"I needed…I needed to take a piss."

"The toilet’s in the back of the kitchen," said Thomas.

"Who is he?" I asked.

Thomas and Inksy exchanged looks. "Fucking Pinky," said Thomas.

We figured out who it was. He won’t fuck us about again.

"Pinky? The internet guy? Is he dead?"

"It doesn’t bloody matter," said Thomas angrily. "It has bugger all to do with you. And why are you here anyway?" And to Inksy, "Didn’t I bloody tell you not to bring anybody back."

"But he wanted to talk to you."

Thomas regarded me suspiciously. "You want money for your things?"

"Well, yes, but that’s not why I’m here. Can we sit down?" I took out my inhaler and used it; my lungs eased somewhat.

Thomas opened the door on the right. On the floor were 2 sweat-stained futons; in the corner a small television sat atop a cardboard box. We sat down; it was so tight we had to sit with our legs crossed, Indian style. Thomas lit a joint and took several puffs. "Well, go on," he said.

"Are you sure you destroyed everything in the apartment?"

"We used ten bottles of paint thinner, mate. Place went off like a bomb."

"My room?"

"Likely a bloody inferno."

"So everything’s destroyed?"

"Yep, that was the idea." Thomas produced a wad of five hundred dollar notes. He counted out ten and handed them to me. "Okay, we’re squared. What else did you come for?"

"I need a gun."

"A gun? What do you need a bloody gun for?"

"I just need it. Something big, like a Beretta or a Glock."

"Is somebody after you? Or are you after somebody?"

"Well, no. Not really."

"Then what is it?"

"Look, can you just help me out?"

Thomas stroked his scar thoughtfully. "I just may be able to help you out. How many rounds?"

"Just a few, I guess. One or two even."

"One or two? You’re going to top yourself, aren’t you?"

Inksy shook his head. "Don’t do it, mate. Me great uncle tried to blow his head off in Korea. Thought he was about to be captured by the Chinese, so he shot himself in the head. Problem was, he got the angle wrong – panicking, I guess - and it didn’t kill him. Then his mates rescued him, but since he’d fucked up his noggin he became a freak. Used to giggle all the time and shit his pants, he did. Only died a few years ago. Bloody disgusting the way he used to shit his pants. Not for me."

"Guns are better now," I said.

"The British service revolver is still the best gun in the world," Thomas said seriously. "If it won’t kill you, nothing will." Thomas passed the nearly-finished joint to Inksy.

I rose to use the bathroom. Inksy jumped up, "Easy, mate."

"I’m only taking a piss. Can I have one of your beers?"

Inksy glanced down at Thomas, who waved dismissively.

The bathroom doubled as a full-room shower. Crushed roaches and cigarette butts covered the tiled floor; shit and vomit had stained the toilet’s porcelain a blackish yellow. After urinating long and hard I discovered the damn toilet wouldn’t flush – there was probably some obscure trick to it - so I just left it. I didn’t wash my hands: the sink was only slightly less foul than the toilet. I took three beers from the fridge and returned to Inksy and Thomas.

As I sat down Thomas said, "I was thinking, if you’re going to kill yourself, do you need that five thousand I just gave you?"

"Ahh, yes. I don’t think I’ll do it immediately. One has to think these things trough."

"For that five thousand, I can get you a gun and a few clips. One of me suppliers tried to sell me a gun two months ago."

Here it was. I sat back and looked at them; they stared back hopefully, especially Inksy, who despite his advice had leaned forward, nodding slowly. I felt as if saying yes would somehow be as final as pulling the trigger. "What kind?" I said. "Glock? Beretta?"

"Better, I’ll get you a Chinese pistol."

"Will it work?"

"Perfectly, think of all the executions in China. The Chinese guns are exact copies of Glocks."

"But…"

"Let me make a call." Thomas produced his mobile and dialed.

"Hey, Thomas here," he said, and was silent for a minute or two. Then to us he whispered, "Hang on, they’re getting my friend."

"Hello Jackie," Thomas said slowly - he was speaking to somebody with weak English. "Do you remember talking a few months ago about that thing?" He winked at me. "Remember…you show me at your place. You scare your friend?…Ah right, right. Bang bang, so funny!"

Inksy laughed and offered the joint, which I declined.

"How much to buy?" Thomas said. "Too much…what is that? Let me see."

Thomas pulled the phone from his ear and said, "Jake, he says three thousand five hundred and he’ll toss in fifty bullets. I’ve seen this thing, it’s bloody cannon. You’ll never get a deal like this again."

"What caliber?"

"What caliber?" Thomas said into the phone. "How big? Nine millimeter? Okay, okay."

Suddenly I was unsure. What was I thinking? I couldn’t kill myself. But then I remembered Axewell berating me before the staff: 50 bullets, it would take only one.

"Hollow point?" I asked to delay, but the thought of Axewell had decided me.

"Don’t worry," said Inksy. "If they’re not just cut a little X in the top. It’ll work even better - I saw them doing that on NYPD Blue."

"Okay, buy the fucker."

"Okay, three thousand five," Thomas said into the phone. "When you bring?"

Thomas glanced at his watch. "Okay, I see you then." He hung up and took a long swig of his beer.

"Well?" I said.

"He’ll come at five or so."

I looked at my watch, it was 3.

"You can wait here, chill out," said Thomas.

We talked a while longer. Inksy was very excited. He reasoned that since it came with 50 bullets, and I only needed one, then we could go out the New Territories and "pop off" a few dozen rounds at stray cats and wild dogs. I said no way.

"Why not?" said Inksy.

"Don’t you worry."

"Whoa," Thomas said. "There’s something you’re not telling us. Seriously, what are you up to? I don’t think you have the guts, Mr. Stratton, to kill yourself. If I thought you were really capable of killing yourself, I wouldn’t have sorted you out."

I shook my head, but I again I was unsure about all this. The only time I’d ever held a gun was in college when one of my frat brothers had pulled one from under his bed. It had been unloaded and I’d felt very nervous with its cold weight (guns always looked light in movies) dead and deadly in my hand. But then I thought of Axewell again and was happy it was coming. Fuck, I couldn’t wait for it to arrive.

"I’ll do some damage," I said. "Just you watch."

"I’m sure, I’m sure," Thomas said, but now he looked a bit nervous, which I thought odd considering what I’d seen in the next room. "Let’s see what’s on TV," he said.

Inksy flipped on the TV and we watched a documentary about Nile Crocodiles – how many bullets to kill one of those brutes? I dozed off during a scene in which several dozen devoured a buffalo carcass. The next thing I knew Thomas was shaking me awake; the room was darker, Inksy was gone, the TV was off. "Mate, I need the cash."

I started to stand up, but Thomas pushed me back. "No, you stay here. Just give me the money."

I gave him HK$3,500 and he went back to the main room. For some minutes there were hushed voices. Thomas sounded angry. Finally I heard the locks clicking open, somebody exited, and then the locks clicked shut and Thomas returned with something heavy in a 7-11 bag. "We have a problem," he said.

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