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night,” says the policeman
    “And dark,” says the cadaverous man.
    Faulkner knows that voice. It crackles around his mind like firecrackers sparkling on the pavement. It takes him back to ’47, back to the opium den. And dark , the man had said. It was getting darker by the minute.

    That night in the Opium Den, Lucy’s foot was still on Faulkner’s chest. Laurence, his hair wispy and his stance frail, had emerged from some double-doors at the back of the room. Faulkner had known Laurence for fifteen years, but never known he had children. Laurence was a constant in Chinatown—like the street-vendors, his dens appeared in different locations, selling different wares, but were nevertheless always somewhere there. He was gentle and vague and clumsy. Faulkner had seen him walk into a door frame—bam!—as if he’d thought the entire thing was located one foot to the left. People trusted Laurence, but Faulkner knew better.
    “Let him up, Lucy,” Laurence said.
    “Yeah, let me up, doll,” said Faulkner.
    “Sure.” Lucy turned and ever so gracefully, in her red and gold robe, picked up some half-emptied glasses of wine on a coffee table surrounded by cushions and made her way towards the double-doors.
    “Now, what would you want with Victor Jackson?” said the man.
    “Jesus Laurence, definitely don’t wanna tangle with your family—you got a son?” As Faulkner spoke he edged his way onto his heels and stood.
    “Yeah.”
    “Warn me when he arrives, will ya? There’s only so much lying on his back a man can take.”
    “Oh, he’s a pussycat.”
    “Must run in the family.”
    “What do you want with Victor Jackson?” Laurence wandered around the room, his eyes roving around as if looking for something.
    “Well, I wanna talk to him.”
    “The privacy of our members is guaranteed here.”
    “I bet he’d like me to respect his...privacy also. I mean, this isn’t the most...salubrious establishment for a policeman.”
    From one of the curtained-off grottos a voice called out: “Faulkner, come on in.”
    “Ahh...” said Faulkner and walked towards the voice.
    Behind the curtain lay the cadaverous man, the same policeman who will be on the balcony in 1951, the same man who will say, “And dark.” Victor Jackson. An opium pipe in his mouth, his eyes glazed, his eyelids heavy and drooping. On the low table before him lay smoking equipment: scales, a small box, a glass oil-lamp about the size of a hand, a tiny spatula and needle, beside them a bowl of dream-dust. Close to Jackson was a battered copy of Hobbes’ Leviathan , a great sea creature on the front of it.
    “Well, I know a crooked man and he built a crooked house,” said Faulkner. Jackson was one of the new cops on the streets, put there as tensions between the police and the people of Chinatown intensified. There was something calculated about him. He had the air of an intellectual who kept his thoughts to himself. Still, for the right price he let information slip or made “suggestions” to his superiors.
    “What d’ya want?” said Jackson.
    Faulkner picked up Hobbes’ book and fingered through it: “Always the reader I see.”
    “Someone’s gotta think about things.”
    “What’s it say?”
    “Life’s short, nasty, it’s a war of all against all.”
    “So he’s Australian?”
    “He says we need a strong police, a strong army.”
    “You’re a strange man, Jackson.”
    “So whaddya want?”
    “A favour, mister policeman.”
    “The usual price.”
    “Hey listen, given these circumstances you might give me a discount.”
    “Don’t try it on, Faulkner.”
     “Why are the police cracking down on me, on all of us PIs?”
    “The world’s changing Faulkner. World War Two is over and now we’ve got a new enemy, the Communists.”
    “What’s that got to do with me?”
    “You’re associated with Shorty Cheng.”
    “He’s no communist. He’s Chinese.”
    “Don’t you read the damn papers Faulkner?”
    “Hey, I’m