A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

I was panting slightly by the time I reached my front door. As I fumbled for my key, I told myself I’d better cut down on the cigarettes, but I knew I was just kidding myself.

I unlocked the door and walked into my living-room. I didn’t see him until I had shut the

door. The room was very dim: it was dusk and he was in black.

There was a big neon sign advertising a soap powder across the way and its gaudy blue, green and red tubes made a reflection on the ceiling. If it hadn’t been for the sign, I wouldn’t have seen him at all.

He was sitting in my best armchair that had been moved close to the window. He sat with his legs crossed, his hands on a folded newspaper on his lap and he seemed relaxed and at ease.

He certainly gave me a shock that set my heart thumping.

The light switch was just by me. I snapped it on.

He wasn’t much more than a kid: around eighteen or nineteen, but powerfully built with thick lumpy shoulders. He, had on a black greasy leather jacket, a black woollen cap with a dirty red tassel, black corduroy trousers and a black cotton handkerchief knotted at his thick throat.

You can see the type any night hanging around in gangs outside bars: a typical product of the streets: as vicious and as dangerous as a cornered rat.

His skin was the colour of cold mutton fat. His eyes were the flat, glittering eyes of a muggle smoker and a killer. His right ear was missing and he had a thick white scar of an old knife wound running along his jaw line. He was the most terrifying looking specimen of a delinquent I had ever seen.

He scared the hell out of me.

He gave me a cold, sneering grin.

“Hi, Buster, I thought you were never coming,” he said in a hoarse, rasping voice.

I thought of my gun somewhere at police headquarters. I was getting over the shock now, but I would have been a lot happier if I had had the gun under my coat.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” I said.

“Relax, Buster: squat. I got business with you.” He waved to a chair. I saw he was wearing black cotton gloves and that brought me out in a sweat. I knew this young punk was lethal and he could be lethal to me. He was too confident: much, much too confident. I looked closely at him. The pupils of his eyes were enormous. He was junked to the tassel of his woollen cap.

“I’ll give you two seconds to get out of here before I throw you out,” I said, forcing my voice to sound tough.

He sniggered, rubbing the tip of his waxy-looking nose with a gloved finger. He shifted his legs and the newspaper slid onto the floor. I saw the .45 resting on his thighs. It had a twelve- inch metal tube screwed into the barrel.

“Squat, Buster,” he said. “I know you ain’t got a rod.” He tapped the extension tube. “It’s silent. I made this hicky myself. It’ll last for three shots, but one’ll be plenty.”

I looked at him and he looked at me, men moving slowly, I sat down, facing him. There were six feet of carpet between us. From this distance I could smell him. He smelt of dirt, stale sweat and reefer smoke.

“What do you want?” I demanded.

“You tired of life, Buster?” he asked, making himself more comfortable by shifting his thick body in the chair. “You’d better be. You ain’t got long to live.”

Looking into those flat, drugged eyes that were as impersonal as the eyes of a snake sent a chill up my spine.

“I like life,” I said for the sake of something to say. “I get along fine with it.”

“Too bad.” He moved the gun slightly so that the black tube was suddenly pointing directly at me. “You got a girl?”

“Several—why?”

“Just wondered. Will they be sad when they hear you’ve been knocked off?”

“One or two might. Look, this is a crazy conversation. What have you against me? What have I done to you?”

“Not a thing, Buster.” His thin bloodless lips curled into a sneering smile. “You look a nice guy. You got a nice apartment. I watched you arrive. You got a nice car.”

I drew in a long, deep breath.

“Suppose you put that gun away and let’s get pally,” I said without much hope. “How about a drink?”

“I don’t drink.” “Good for you. There are times when I wish I didn’t. I could do with a drink right now. Would drat be all right with you?”

He shook his head.

“This isn’t a drinking party.”

While this insane conversation was going on, my mind was busy. He was big and strong and tough. If it wasn’t for the gun, I would have been ready to take him. I’m not all that weak myself and I’ve learnt a trick or two to take care of a punk his weight and build. I was within six feet of him. One quick jump would put me on equal terms with him if it wasn’t for the gun.

“What kind of party is it then?” I asked, moving my right foot so that it was slightly behind the front leg of my chair. In that position I had the correct leverage to catapult myself at him if I got the chance.

“Shooting party, Buster,” he said and sniggered.

“Who’s getting shot?”

“You are, Buster.”