The Man with the Bamboo Spine remained standing behind the closed door until Sheung Fa told him to enter the office. He opened the door and stepped inside. The air was warm and smelled of black tea. Behind the large teak desk, Sheung Fa sat with his hands folded on the blotter.
The Man with the Bamboo Spine approached the desk, stood there silently, waited. He felt the draught of the air conditioner on his back, heard the ruckus of the patrons in the lounge, and smelled the tea and the sage scent of burned incense.
And still, he waited.
It wasn’t until almost five minutes had passed — a total of ten since Red Mask had departed — that Sheung Fa finally spoke in his native tongue of Cantonese, a language the Man with the Bamboo Spine fully understood.
‘Be his shadow,’ Sheung Fa said.
‘Yes.’
‘Assist him.’
‘Assist?’
‘ Assist. But be discreet.’
‘Until?’
‘Until instructed otherwise.’
The Man with the Bamboo Spine nodded, signalling his understanding of the instructions, as confusing and unexpected as they were. He left Sheung Fa’s office, closed the door behind him and lumbered through the smoky darkness of Golden Dragon Lounge into the grey light of the outside world.
Assist. It was exactly what he would do.
Until instructed otherwise.