Typhoon

‘So you wanted to know about Wang?’ Miles said finally.

‘Yes. I want to know about Wang.’

‘Why didn’t you just ask Kenneth?’

‘I did. And now I’m asking you.’

Samba’s is the sort of place where expats gather to drink in the evening before moving on to dinner or a nightclub in Lan Kwai Fong. It is always packed and always noisy and, with the music as a constant smothering background, there is little danger of conversations being overheard. Nevertheless Miles lowered his voice as he said, ‘I’m prepared to tell you anything you want.’ The lime-green Hawaiian shirt glowed against the dull red upholstery of his chair, sculpting gym-toughened shoulders into slabs of power. Very few men in Hong Kong could have worn that shirt and not looked ridiculous. ‘You look a little pissed, Joe,’ he said. ‘Everything OK?’