Slice

KOWLOON

The airport was about five miles northeast of downtown. He drove slowly, his mind like a frozen stream, icy white and untroubled.

At Kai Tak, he locked the car and walked to the departures counter. Being a careful man, he checked his notes again before handing the message across the counter to the man, who read it and asked, “Round trip, first class?” To which he nodded yes. The man behind the counter said okay, tabulated quickly, and told him “That will be 32,169 Hong Kong dollars, sir.” He handed the exact amount in currency across to the ticket agent. The brotherhood had helped him with the air fare. He would repay the money later.

He would not board for another two hours or so, he was told. He nodded again, took the tickets, and walked through the airport to find a seat in the vicinity of the departure gate. He'd cross the dateline on the long flight over but actually arrive on the same day due to the idiosyncratic nature of the international calendar. He'd leave the following Sunday morning at eight-ten a.m., deplaning back on Kowloon at six p.m. the following day.

He reread his notes once again, reading carefully, his eyes hard as tempered steel and black as a midnight grave.