Read Kowloon Tong for Free Online Page B

cheese and chutney sandwiches—Wang had made them, Bunt knew from the careful way the crusts had been cut off. It was early enough at noon so that only a few girls were in the bar, and no other customers. The barman, Wendell, was watching television with his back turned to the bar, and the music in the room was so loud it drowned out the racing commentary. Wendell did not seem to mind. Though he sometimes spoke to the girls or the mama-san, he seldom returned Bunt's greeting. Usually Wendell watched horseraces, but today he was watching a Chinese woman being interviewed. Bunt recognized the shrill voice as that of Emily Lau, a member of the Legislative Council.
    â€”
The British could give us citizenship, but they refuse. Because we are yellow! Yet they give it to Australians and Canadians!
    The mama-san brought him the bottle of beer and sat with him, holding her cellular phone while he drank and ate. Bunt was so well known in the club that nothing was expected of him—the usual drink for the girls, tips for the bartender, a present for the mama-san. They knew he was fleeing from his office, and they knew about the death of Mr. Chuck; at lunchtime he wanted to be left alone. After work it was another story; they surrounded him and competed for his attention.
    â€”
Yes, there is a lease. But if the lease ends on a flat, you return the flat. You don't return the tenants.
    "Wendell, turn the TV down!" the mama-san shouted. And then she said in a commiserating way, "Too bad about Mr. Chuck."
    How strange it was that he had gotten over it, the factory was his, the grieving had ended. And yet, though the sad matter was apparently settled in the minds of others, he was continually reminded of the dead man.
    Bunt said, "I saw him in here once."
    The mama-san nodded. She was plump, Cantonese, with a pink freckly face and her glasses perched on her head. He felt
familiar yet awkward with her; she was the woman who had suggested, with facial expressions alone, that she had slept with his father. Now Bunt did not want to know.
    Her cellular phone rang. She answered it, spoke briefly in a tone of giving an instruction, and then she switched it off.
    "Bad line," she said. "China."
    He remembered Cheung. He said, "I talked with a bloke this morning who just hared up to China and bought a flat."
    "They are cheap," the mama-san said. "It is so easy from here. Just an hour, this train to Shum Chun."
    "That's the place," Bunt said. "So your girls go there?"
    "Even work there," she said. "I send girls to Beijing even. Shanghai, Guangzhou also."
    "Isn't that dangerous?" Bunt said. Because he had never been to China, it seemed to him a place of darkness and ambush.
    "Yes, dangerous, because girl business is illegal in China. But the men are powerful. And the money is good."
    "They're not afraid," Bunt said. "They'll do anything for that."
    He liked speculating on the word "anything." He enjoyed this, eating his cheese and chutney sandwich and his pickle and his paste and his biscuits and his banana in a nice cool girlie bar with a San Miguel in his hand, the pretty girls on stools, their legs crossed, watching while he chitchatted with the mama-san about prostitution.
    "The Japanese are tough, even Chinese too sometimes."
    "Can't be all that tough." He smiled, he tried to look unconvinced, he was eager for her to give him an example.
    "They tie up the girls. They beat them. They treat them
badly. For them it is fun, but for the girls"—the mama-san made a face—"horrible."
    "They're not afraid of
gweilos,
though." He was angling again.
    "Some of the girls watch porno videos and think all
gweilos
have big penises like they see. They become afraid that the
gweilo
will hurt them when he puts it inside."
    "
Gweilos
like me," Bunt said.
    He hated the mama-san for smiling at this. "They know you," she said. "They talk."
    "You send these girls to China?"
    "No. Girls from the
mah fu.
How you say
mah fu
—someone who takes care of