I wanted to gag and I didn’t even have my food yet. Salvador read the Chinese Zodiac on his paper placemat as though coming to a more enlightened understanding of himself. Of all the noodle joints in all the towns in all the world, I had to walk into theirs. I just wanted to be alone tonight.
Then, I looked up and everything changed.
The beauty stood at the bottom of the stairs, just where I’d been moments ago: the most elegant lady in the world. She spoke with a waitress, but she was looking straight at me. When I made eye contact, she flashed me a subtle smile that could have melted butter, then looked back at the waitress. I blinked, not sure whether my vision was playing tricks on me in the dim light.
Taller than the average Asian, she filled out her red dress in all the right places despite her slender waist, thin arms, and longer-than-life legs. She elegantly concealed her second glance in my direction by gracefully brushing a few stray strands of her silky black hair from her face—the majority of it anchored on the top of her head with a decorative comb, exposing her long neck, delicate chin, high cheek bones, full red lips, and distinctive green eyes. The comb in her hair appeared to be carved out of bone or ivory, and each of her hands included a sparkling ring on one finger—emerald on one, ruby on the other. But neither was on her ring finger, thank God, meaning that she might be open to the suggestion throbbing in my chest. Her red dress was topped off with an orange Mandarin collar and bottomed out with slits that—when she stepped forward—revealed even more of those longer-than-should-be-legal legs. I normally don’t allow myself to go gaga over a girl, but I felt my heart fluttering and everything surrounding—especially my own company—blurred into a peripheral mist. There was something about her that conjured up feelings I’d not encountered in decades, since my own youth. The woman looked as intelligent as she was beautiful, speaking to the waitress with a gentle but definite authority, although she couldn’t have been far out of her twenties.
I hadn’t looked at a girl that young in that way since I was that age. So what was it about this girl that made me feel this way again?
To be honest, the why didn’t concern me. Young or old, I needed to meet her. Dizziness overtook me as I stood.
“Where are you going?” Mackenzie asked.
“Who is that?” I mumbled. I had to hold onto the table to support myself as I stood, blood rushing to my head for a moment.
“Who is who?” Salvador asked.
“Her!” I looked up and found that the waitress was alone.
“She’s kind of pretty,” Salvador said, eyeing the waitress.
“No, not her,” I insisted.
“You’re delirious,” Mackenzie said. “And I’ve got to go. I have an appointment tomorrow. Coming, Harriet?”
“Absolutely,” Harriet said, throwing some money on the table.
“It was a pleasure,” Mackenzie said to Salvador. “And Clive,” she leaned over to talk into my ear, “get a grip. Ever since we cracked that dogfighting ring in Isla Mujeres, you’ve been acting weird.”
I ignored her and began scoping out the room. Where did she go?
“Maybe you should take some time off,” Harriet called after me. “Go to a yoga retreat, recharge your batteries.”
I didn’t say goodbye or pay any attention to Mackenzie or Harriet leaving because I was too focused on finding her. I looked at every table in the room, passed through a hanging-bead threshold into a back dining room, but no sign of the woman in red. I came back out into the main dining room where Salvador was already slurping noodles and pulling duck off the bone. “Food’s here,” he said, but I didn’t respond.
I went to the waitress and asked where the woman in red went, but she didn’t seem to understand me, pointing to my untouched noodles. “Red sauce?” she offered.
I walked upstairs to the front of the restaurant, where the noodle man massaged dough in the window. I went back down to the far end of the main dining room and passed into the kitchen. The staff seemed startled when I walked through, as though I were an unannounced health inspector. No sign of her here. I noticed the back door was ajar, and I went through it. It was already dark outside, the buildings along the sides of the alleyway blocking out the lights of the main streets. Back here there was no beauty, only dumpsters and oil drums, broken down boxes and rusting fire escapes on the backs of brick buildings.
It took me a good five minutes of looking before I admitted defeat. I’d lost her. Resigned, I went back in through the kitchen and found Salvador halfway through his meal.
“Your noodles are getting cold,” he said.
“Not just my noodles.”
Salvador knew better than to ask. Smarter than I’d given him credit for. I half-heartedly began slurping my noodles. Salvador decided to wade back into conversation. “If you ever need any bodyguard work, I got a lot of time on my hands. Idle hands, devil’s workshop.” He laughed.
But I was barely half-listening. How could I let her get away? I shoved my half-uneaten meal away and stood up. “I’m gonna hit the restroom.” But before I could push my chair in, I felt two hammy hands on my shoulders.
I tried to throw the stranger off-balance, but he was one step ahead of me. He grabbed my elbow and swirled me around, flipping me like a potato pancake on the grill. I landed on my back against the food-stained floor. I reared back, tucked my knees into my chest and leapt to my feet—but before I could engage with my attacker, Salvador was in the man’s face, punching him in the nose. Two other men stood watching, cracking their knuckles.
“Got a craving for prison food, Salvador?” I yelled at him. “You can’t violate parole like that! You’ll—” Another pair of hands landed on my shoulders and forced me around.
I stared the Chinese man down and asked, “What, afraid I wasn’t gonna leave a tip?” He looked at me like he didn’t understand a word of English, then pushed me away so violently I crashed backwards into our table and landed on the floor again, my bowl of noodles falling next to me and splashing the arm of my Armani.
Salvador had heeded my advice and stood by, looking antsy and ready to lunge, as three Chinese men stood over me. I got up to face them.
“Ni hao ma,” said the one in the middle, dressed in a silver-gray suit. He must have mistaken my stern look for a not-understanding one, because he then translated, “Hello.”
“Ni hao ma,” I said back to him without accent. I’d picked up a few niceties the last time I was in China, back in the … well, that’s another story for another time.
The man in front of me was flanked by two broad men in navy blue suits, one pinstripe and the other soothsayer. The man in the middle breathed heavily, his nose just inches from mine. But it was the flash of his two gunmetal dental implants that caught my attention. Nothing pretty about The People’s dental work, as unappealing as it is dysfunctional. He kept grinding his teeth, his bite obviously uncomfortable. A P-22 and a Glock, respectively, remained cold in the side men’s shoulder holsters.
“I recommend the noodles,” I said to Gunmetal Mouth.
“Clive Allan, I assume?” He pushed forward, making me take a step back to avoid an advanced case of halitosis. His two bodyguards—as though the thug needed one—stepped forward with him like satellite appendages.
I moved my eyes from his steely teeth to his steely gaze. “You know what they say about assuming.”
He frowned. “Bu yao, I do not. But I know what my boss say. He wants talk at you.”
I caught a glimpse of the noodle guy slipping into the men’s room. He knew enough to make himself scarce if he wanted to live to knead another noodle.
“Get lost, Salvador,” I said. The last thing the schmuck needed was