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dark birthmark, like a dry sauce stain, below his lower lip. Maybe he chewed the match to take attention away from it.
    ‘Let me see.’
    He glanced at the vanity book. No flicker of recognition crossed his face.
    ‘Don’t know her. Would like to. What a piece.’
    ‘How come you speak Mandarin? You’re from Hong Kong, aren’t you?’
    ‘All Chinese should speak the language of the motherland .’ He tapped the book. ‘What’s the story?’
    So now he was the one answering questions, the hoodlum knew his stuff. Jian let his voice rise a little and added a touch of tremulous warble, trying to sound dumb and harmless.
    ‘There’s a boy would very much like to find her. They were engaged back home. All we know is, she’s a waitress in a Chinese restaurant over here. I’ve visited so many now they’ve all started to look the same. Certainly the food always tastes the same – terrible. Why is that, do you think?’
    ‘White people scoff anything. There’s no point giving those pigs the good stuff, they wouldn’t recognise it. Are you staying around for long?’
    ‘A couple more days. There are plenty more places to check. Depends how the money holds up.’
    ‘What’s your name?’
    Jian reached into his inside pocket. He had collected the namecards of his companions on the flight and he took one out now. He presented it politely, with both hands, which gave him the chance to glance at the name.
    ‘A refinery sub-manager,’ said the hoodlum, drily. ‘I would never have guessed.’
    This was no idle conversation. So much scrutiny was going on beneath the casual phrases, it was almost like flirting . He remembered seeing the old man on the phone and suspected the youth had been summoned to probe him.
    ‘And you are?’
    ‘In Mandarin you would say Black Fort.’
    Hei lei – presumably it sounded better in Cantonese. It was a hoodlum nickname. At least the lad showed some imagination, usually they just called themselves Dragon.
    The manager came over. He was still all smiles but the strain was starting to tell, his cheek twitched. He kept talking and gesturing, and it was obvious he was apologetically saying that he was shutting up. Jian pretended not to get the message. It was always good to give the impression of stupidity – people underestimated you.
    The hoodlum said, ‘He’s telling you he’s closed.’
    Now, seeing them together, the nervous old man standing and the youth cold and self-possessed in his chair, it was obvious which of the two was in charge.
    Black Fort dropped half of a Great Wall card on the table. Jian put his hand on it. The youth put a hand over his. The fingers were long and neat, the nails manicured and glossy as bullets. The palm was hot and soft, but along the edge, below the little finger, he could feel a pad of coarser skin.Those came from years of practising open hand strikes – it was the sign of a martial artist.
    They locked gazes. There was an unsettling yellowish tint to the man’s irises. Jian knew Black Fort was lying, knew also that the man knew he was being lied to. A match promenaded across his mouth and he continued not blinking.
    ‘Sometimes it’s best to leave things to sort themselves out.’
    Jian slid his hand out. ‘You’re a Taoist.’
    ‘I’m a realist.’ The lad pointed the match. ‘You know what I think? I think she doesn’t want to be found.’
    Jian finished his drink.
    ‘Thank you for the benefit of your opinion.’
    As he paid, he felt a moment of disquiet at the slimness of his wad. He had taken nine thousand yuan with him, and changed it all up when he arrived, in the expectation that that would pay for all his expenses, including maybe a couple of bribes, then a celebratory meal and presents. He’d gone through most of it already.
    The owner escorted him out. Darkness had fallen but there were a lot of lights on – even the adverts on a bus stop were illuminated. Lighting a cigarette, Jian checked out the street in the reflection