A glass eye, grey-blue, to his natural eye that was the colour of day old black coffee. A mesmerisingly schizophrenic effect, making you feel that you were talking to two people at the same time. “Information?” Yaobang sitting. The Reeb beer in front of the sailor, as blond-headed as an American movie starlet, making his throat feel band-saw dry. “I’m not going to screw with that tai zi …” “Qi?” “That’s what they called the bastard. He was the cadre in charge. He was the one that gave me the co-ordinates.” “Co-ordinates?” “Deep water for that area.” Glass set down. Foam in slow slide. Yaobang beckoning over a sad-eyed waitress. Another Reeb ordered. “Tell me more, Comrade. To speak is good for the fucking soul.” “But not good for my health. I’m not going to fuck with that princeling. The look of a man who could hasten a death in the family.” The Big Man extravagantly reaching into an inside pocket. Purposely, a glimpse of his shoulder holster and a pistol’s dark arse.
