Rock realizes that he hasn't been in a true boardroom meeting for years. He had been too busy to recognize the source of his discomfort, but just as the meeting is called to order, something clicks in his head. This meeting room with its long table and careful seating arrangements has returned order to the criminal world. He hasn't seen a gathering this professional in Roanapur.
There is no banter, no attempts at provoking rivals or boasting of power and rank. No one is smoking, either. It's hard to believe the subject of the day is illegal arms. Rock had always thought Balalaika and Mr. Chang exuded control solely because of their personalities, but the longer he observes the global smuggling elite, Rock realizes that calmness and decorum are simply the requirements to act on the world stage.
There are maybe twenty people in the room, but Rock only recognizes the two attendees from Roanapur. After a quick consultation with Balalaika, Mr. Chang has allowed Rock to sit between the Triad and Hotel Moscow's two representatives.
Rock does not know much about Balalaika's companion, but she addresses him as polkovnik, or 'Colonel', which confirms him as her direct superior from the capital itself, and likely her patron within the organization. A boardroom meeting is new to the colonel. He is surrounded by strange characters and looks suspiciously at each group in turn.
There has been plenty of time to size up the competition while waiting for the American hosts to show up. Rock can see many nationalities and modes of business on display: gunrunning pilots in casual wear, politically savvy delegates from East Africa, Indian and Pakistani officials in hostile silence. He even spots a strange man in business attire, flanked by two of his children.
Chang sees Rock's confusion and explains, leaning over so that it is heard by only his ear. "That's HCLI over there. Their logistics services are a front for moving all sorts of military equipment. They're here to negotiate deals with themselves as middlemen. Don't ask me about his kids. I don't have a clue."
"Do you know of any other people I should know?" Rock asks.
Chang gives him a tired look. "You don't have to know everyone here. Just know there are three kinds of people here: buyers, sellers, and porters."
The hosting group makes their belated appearance. The head of the group this year is a tall man with a cowboy hat. All Rock knows is that he's from Texas and from time to time does business for the U.S government.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he says. "But I just got some bad news. Our friends from the Serbian delegation weren't allowed into the country."
Rock can see the Colonel sit up straighter in his seat. The Texan pretends he doesn't notice the room turning against him.
"Hey, don't blame me," he says. "Everyone knows Serbs are good for business, but maybe this is for the best. They're starting to get back in the headlines, and this little social circle of ours can't survive unless Uncle Sam lets us stay in his blind spot."
The grumbling begins to settle. Rock supposes it's the inherent nature of arms-dealers willing to meet in New York. Going against the will of the government would make this kind of gathering entirely impossible.
"We all know this business would be a hell of a lot harder if the folks at Langley felt like putting their foot down. The Berlin Wall's been done for damn near a decade, do y'all want to screw this up now? Or should we get ready to enter this new millennium with some more cash in our pocket?"
The Triad men nod in agreement. If the U.S.A was on a collision course with Serbia over the Kosovo issue, it wasn't good business to get caught in the way. Balalaika and her Colonel are not so convinced, but Rock knows they can always make deals outside of the conference. The whole table ceases their protests.
"Well, good." The Texan is relieved.
He begins the conference by confirming which arms deals are up for renewal. It's a rather long list and Rock is surprised by how many parties can feature on one deal. Guns from various countries can get gathered up in one organization's warehouse, only to be split up again and be carried by smugglers into a dozen different cities. Gangs buy for themselves and for local customers while international runners try to connect groups to suppliers. Rebels, warlords, gangsters, all with their own peculiar needs.
To his disappointment, Rock knows that he will remember most of what he's hearing. His memory works a little too well for his own good, and he really might wake up years from now remembering just how many rifles were being moved through Romania for sale in East Africa. After the long opening, the parade of old business is eventually cleared, and the group moves on to the more important subject: new business.
The Texan pulls his slacks a little higher and adjusts his tie. "Okay, we all know the market is getting mighty active down there in Kosovo, so I've brought one of the new buyers here. Mustafa, come on up."
A mustachioed man in a brown suit comes to the head of the table. His voice is slight and the statement he reads has clearly been written by somebody else. "Good morning. We are looking to re-arm and standardize a force of 20,000 men with small arms and light weapons. Your bids should include a complete supply chain and a focus on equal-sized shipments."
The Colonel whispers something to Balalaika. Hotel Moscow has ties to Serbia, which currently holds Kosovo as its own territory. Rock doesn't think that the Russians will offer any support for supplying weapons to enemies of Serbia.
The Triad has the opposite reaction, exchanging meaningful glances. The Triad has good relations with the Albanians, especially in Roanapur, thanks to Ronnie and the Cosa Nostra. If the Triad can get the logistics in order, the contract will be a homerun for them.
There is still plenty more business to be handled. One after the other, prospective buyers go to the front of the room and describe their needs for weapons. Low-intensity conflict is going on all around the world, and it barely seems to make the news. The end of the fighting in Aceh leaves a surplus of guns lying around in Indonesia, there is a new insurgency in Yemen, and all sorts of guerilla wars are being fought across East and West Africa.
To the people assembled around the table, the fighting is unremarkable. They listen to the different clients and the details of their wars as if stock quotes were being read aloud. Rock, too, finds himself unshaken by all the talk of war. He can only get interested in Roanapur. Is he any less selfish than the arms dealers?
By the time the presentations are done, the schedule calls for lunch. The Russians and Chinese are seated together, with Rock again sitting in at their table as a sort of intermediary. Chang opens up negotiations over a Bibb salad. "We're willing to cut the Russians in on 30% of our take if they let us move guns through them from China and then boat them over from the Black Sea."
The Colonel shakes his head and talks some more to Balalaika. When he comes back, he states his counteroffer in simple English. "No. Chinese will pay us half to move and will use their own drivers."
Chang blinks with surprise at the counter-offer. His peers whisper angrily among themselves before passing their message on. "We were being generous with our first bid. We were hoping the Colonel would return our courtesy, because we can always move our rifles to Albania purely by ship."
The Colonel leans back in his chair, pushing his plate away from himself. "You fuck with me. First you say you want to pay us, then he says he doesn't need us."
Balalaika keeps an eye on Chang as she whispers to the Colonel, loud enough for Rock to catch the word 'politsiya'. Was Balalaika explaining Chang's role as a peacekeeper in Roanapur?
People generally do not describe the nihilistic head of the Roanapur Triad as someone interested in policing. But there is something true about it: Chang prizes his position. There is no hypocrisy when enforcing one's own laws.
"We insist that our organization will be paid some amount no matter what port the Chinese weapons leave from," the Colonel says.
It's quite the strong message to be sending. Rock checks Balalaika's expression. She doesn't seem alarmed. Does she think the Triad will continue the escalation? After he hears the Colonel's demands, Chang tries to minimize the effect among his peers, but his air of calm backfires. The Triad officers sees his response as not manful enough. They pressure him to make a firm statement.
Chang abandons his food for the moment and squares his shoulders to speak. "The Triad is willing to ensure the safety of its business by any method. Are you truly willing to risk a conflict over this? Tell us why you think you deserve a share of our gains when you do none of the work."
"We do business with Serbians," the Colonel says. "If you interfere with our business partners, we are owed compensation for our trouble. That's equal, isn't it?"
Chang smirks. "Maybe your lady there hasn't told you, but Roanapur doesn't rely on equality. It relies on fairness. That means that everyone gets what they've earned- no exceptions. You might pretend like you've earned half our take, but I know what's really going on."
He pauses for emphasis and then leans in, to speak quietly. "I know how bad the winter has been for your masters, 'Colonel'. What a shame about your economy. I'm sure the man holding your leash is having trouble buying his daily caviar. We were doing you a favor when we suggested moving our equipment through your country."
"You take pity on me?" the colonel says. "If any of us could accept pity, we wouldn't be criminals." He is angry at first, but calms as soon as the words have left his mouth. He shrugs, lifting his hands. "But what can I do? We do want the money. But I have no stomach for your 'courtesy'. Arrange a settlement with the Captain. Remember this, Chinese, you will pay for every thing you get from us, whether with money or blood. I don't care which one you pick."
The Colonel stands up, his posture still firm despite his age. He makes eye contact with Balalaika before storming out of the room. The other attendees are not put off by it, which leads Rock to believe such drama may just be part of the yearly spectacle.
As the last member of Hotel Moscow left at the table, Balalaika seems unaffected. She has been ignoring the food in front of her and has not even taken as much as a sip of water.
"I'm sorry that we caught your boss on a bad day," Mr. Chang says. "The elderly can get moody, can't they?"
"Don't give me dog shit and call it zefir." Her smile is light and airy. "You don't have the space to hide all of your knock-off Kalashnikovs on cargo ships. You need more routes. We need better payment to break our word of honor."
"Honor?" Mr. Chang let out a bark of laughter. "Now you're the one insulting me. Don't mix your pride up with honor. I know how you and the Colonel got to where you are today."
At that point, Rock has to raise his hand. "Excuse me," he says. "Have either of you given thought to involving your hired arbitrator in these discussions?"
The two of them turn their attention to him and Rock feels his heart skip a beat. They must have forgotten about him, or at least found their verbal jousting more engaging than allowing him to get the business going.
Mr. Chang checks his watch. "Lunch is almost over. What a shame that we couldn't get anything done."
Balalaika's head is upturned, her icy eyes looking down on Rock. "The greater shame is that we didn't use the man we jointly paid for. Maybe I can schedule a brief session to see if you're still willing to hold your line."
"We'll meet at 6 P.M tomorrow in the private dining area, then." Mister Chang stands, and gets one last shot in.
"Why would there be any doubt that I will hold my line? In China, we make the Americans retreat, not the other way around."
Balalaika stares at him but has no response. Rock doesn't know what to say. Everyone in Roanapur steered away from her war- even Ronnie would keep his jokes off the subject. It was way too aggressive for Mr. Chang's usual style of mocking criticism, and Rock deserts the table before he can get caught up in any of the blowback. When he last sees them, Chang is grinning and Balalaika is frowning.
A few minutes later, Mister Chang corners him in the bathroom. He finds Rock washing his hands and approaches close, leaning in to speak lowly. Chang explains himself without his usual humor.
"No, Rock, I haven't gone mad. I'm getting promoted."
What do provocation and promotion have in common? Rock imagines a surprise destructive streak in Mr. Chang, but it doesn't track at all. He wouldn't leave the city in a worse place than he found it. He took too much pride for that. If he's provoking Balalaika, it must be strategic.
Mister Chang looks into the mirror behind the sink to check that no one else was there with them. "The Russians have never been weaker, and yet they've never been more willing to go to war. What kind of leader wouldn't take this chance to attack?"
Rock thinks of the furious storm of Russian troops in Tokyo. Paratroopers on the offensive were something to be afraid of. But would they be effective when Hotel Moscow had to defend against a massive attack?
"Biu Yuen is going to replace me as commander here," Chang says. "He needs an easy setup to get used to the job and I would be a real sorry bastard if I handed the city to him with Hotel Moscow still attached. Biu Yuen is a good administrator and a competent fighter, but Balalaika can beat him on both fronts."
Chang's voice turns cajoling. "Come on, I want her gone, and you do too. Revenge for that little schoolgirl you carry around with you."
Rock lost the picture of Yukio, the last head of the Washimine. He had been drinking one night when he went to check his wallet and found the photo had fallen out or been taken at some point. He can recall confronting Revy about it, the both of them drunk one night, but the memory is hazy. He shakes his head to clear it.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I need to make sure you're working for me at dinner tomorrow." Mr. Chang puts his hand on Rock's shoulder. "This is what you wanted, right? You've been stirring up the manure all over Roanapur- the soil is ready. We're planting the seeds of war tomorrow."
Rock cautions himself. Chang says 'we', but this move is being authorized by just one person. This won't cause the end of Roanapur he has dreamed of. But it will undoubtedly cause instability. No one can replace Balalaika- the city will hobble for months before a new equilibrium is found. As long as he has the resolve to stay in Roanapur, there will be more opportunities to strike a final blow.
He shakes Chang's hand. The deal is made.
##
Dinner comes in multiple courses, but Balalaika refuses to touch the plates in front of her. The private dining room is dim and full of shadows, most of its lighting reflecting off of the tall facing of Italian marble. Compared to the business lunch of earlier, the three of them at the dining table are uncomfortably intimate.
If the rumors were right, Chang and Balalaika had gunned each other down on a night like this, pretty early in their history together. It seems impossible that they could sit and face each other so calmly after that.
Mister Chang begins his offensive as the opening course is served, oysters on the half-shell in escabeche sauce.
"We have all night to come up with a deal," he says, before slurping an oyster noisily.
Balalaika does not hide her disgust. "You know our conditions. It should not take an entire night for you to agree to them."
Chang nods to Rock. "Let's allow our chaperone the chance to earn his keep, then. What does he suggest?"
It's difficult for Rock to tell where to start. He must appear as an intermediary between the Triad and the Russians while secretly pushing for their conflict. Mister Chang had not discussed strategy with him beforehand, which leaves Rock guessing. Judging by his loud performance of eating oysters, Mister Chang is leaving a rather large hint before the main course is served: Balalaika has to become frustrated enough to walk away from negotiations. If he is too obvious about it, she'll catch onto the plan and make a deal with the Triad itself.
Rock takes his oyster and tips it into his mouth, not making quite as much noise as Chang. "Let's return to the Triad's opening offer: 30 percent if the arms are trucked to the Black Sea by Hotel Moscow. Why are you opposed to it?"
Balalaika taps at her plate with a long-handled fork. "Using our men to move their goods? That price is far from fair, even before we consider the matter of betraying the Serbians."
"Okay. Now that we know how you feel, let's hear the other side. Mister Chang?"
He's still wearing his sunglasses, even in a room as dim as this. It really gives the impression that he could care less about anything going on in front of him.
He delays until the sole waiter has brought the next course in, a white-truffle risotto with fricasseed mushrooms. No one in the room has the mindset to truly be impressed by the dish, Mr. Chang makes a show of taking his first bite. After chewing for several seconds, he answers.
"I could send our product straight out of Guangzhou and you wouldn't see a single cent. Hotel Moscow's involvement is a smidge faster and more convenient for us, that's all."
Playing hard to get worked against the Colonel, but Balalaika has a different temperament. She tries a spoonful of risotto but doesn't like it.
Rock tries to get her to act. "Now that we have both of your opening positions, it makes the most sense to start off with the counter-offer. Is Hotel Moscow willing to move from its initial demand of a 50% split?"
"Yes, obviously," she says. "That is why I am here."
"Then the question is how far Hong Kong is willing to go to secure your assistance. Mister Chang, perhaps you can make the first step."
"We might be willing to use our own trucks to move the weapons..." He stops again to let the main course be brought in: the menu had proudly announced that it is 'roast squab with Tunisian spices on a bed of Israeli couscous'.
"Speak, already," Balalaika says. "So that you can get around to eating your pigeon."
Mr. Chang clears his throat. "If we use our own resources, Hotel Moscow will have their share reduced to 15 percent."
"it seems like you have no respect for us." Balalaika pushes her plate away and lights a cigar, its fumes noxious and strong.
Chang sets down his fork and knife. "Respect is for equals. In the past year your organization has brought the Serbs and the Mexicans in as auxiliaries and still cannot match us."
Was he telling the truth? Did he actually believe the Triad could beat Hotel Moscow and the Nuevo Laredo Cartel in open warfare? Rock has not seen enough of the Triad's fighting to know for sure, but they seemed average, at best.
"Wait, this has gotten a little out of hand," Rock says.
Balalaika brushes him off. "No, japonski, it has gotten entirely out of hand. I am done here." She tosses her cigar into her couscous and stands up, the fabric of her suit looking dark like dried blood under the lighting.
"It's much too early for you to presume that your untrained bunch of gangsters can ever equal my soldiers," she says. "We will talk about 'fair' terms when your arms shipments are seized in the Mediterranean. You will be the one with the 15 percent cut then."
She moves to the door and shoves it open, nearly knocking over the waiter, who barely manages to keep his serving platter balanced.
"W-what about this course?" he asks, trying to regain his composure. "An Insalata di Rucola with endive and radicchio, and a sherry wine vinaigrette."
Mister Chang smirks. "We'll stay for salad, but the dessert will need to be boxed up for takeaway."
Once he is alone with Rock, the sardonic charm leaves Mister Chang. He seems satisfied, but he doesn't have any words of praise. For both of them, this meeting was only a single step on the way to the larger goal.
"This doesn't make us chums," Mister Chang reminds him. "My successor will not have my boundless tolerance. If you get in his way, all of this amusement will count for nothing."
There are no favors owed. Rock was used as a stage prop in Mister Chang's performance, a shroud to keep Balalaika focused on the act of negotiation and not the potential schemes of her opponent.
Mr. Chang sets aside his fork and flicks his lighter open to light up a cigarette, then fixes Rock with a stare. "You won't get any more warnings after this one, Rock. I suggest you come up with some new jokes. When the Russians are gone and I'm back in Hong Kong, no one in town is going to find your old routine funny."
With Balalaika gone, the Lagoon Company would lack its number one supporter. Rock realizes that his overall level of safety will drop as the city becomes unstable. Sooner or later, there will only be one person protecting him.
Rock pushes his chair back to leave. "Excuse me. I have to get going."
"You're free to go," Mr. Chang says. "Just remember, Rock: when the hammer drops, don't say you never saw it coming."
On his way out the door, the waiter hands Rock dessert in a little styrofoam box. He forgets about it entirely on the way up to his room, but Revy zeroes in on it as soon as he walks through the doorway.
"You're back already? What's that you got?"
He passes the container to her, remembering its description in the menu. "A Chocolate mousse timbale with vanilla sauce, garnished with gold leaf."
"You're saying this is gold?" she pokes at the thin decorative layer on top of the mousse. "Jesus fucking Christ, you should have asked Mister Chang for a raise if he's got the money to waste on this."
"I heard of gold in sake back in Japan, but I've never tried it. It's a show of status." He collapses onto the bed and undoes his tie.
"No one can trick me with that. Eating gold means shitting gold." she says.
As much of a realist as ever. Rock slides under the sheets.
She eats a spoonful. "Tastes alright, though. What are you doing over there? Is it already past your bedtime?"
"Tomorrow could be rough. Chang's deal with Hotel Moscow fell through," he says.
"Yeah, we all saw Balalaika's guy throw a tantrum." She laughs. "But there's still a few days. Maybe he just needs to sleep off the vodka. Balalaika will get it done."
She had not been there to see it. "I don't think she's coming back, Revy. Chang is getting promoted, and he wants Roanapur to be a nice little sandbox for the next Triad boss. We collaborated to make sure a deal wasn't made."
Revy swallows hastily. "He's going behind the backs of his bosses? How'd you get him to do that?"
There's a certain amount of shame in him as he answers. "I didn't do anything. Chang's the one that approached me."
"That fake nun you call 'God' is in on it too," Revy says. Her face has grown serious and she's not eating anymore.
"Probably. But now I know I'm not the only one with a personal stake in this."
Her eyes flick away from her drink and over to him. "Yeah, you're right about that." She turns off the lights. "Sleep tight, Rock. Tonight is Christmas Eve. Who knows what's coming tonight. Maybe Santa."
A phone call comes at four in the morning. The sun has yet to rise, and yet the streets are already stirring with activity. Rock answers, still half asleep. "Lagoon Company."
"I don't think so." Chang laughs. Rock hears a crowd in the background, and some kind of P.A system. "I'm calling from the airport."
"The airpo- You're leaving?" He sits up in bed. Revy groans wordlessly at the disturbance.
"My brothers have secured all the business we can handle for next year. We have no reason to stay, especially when Hotel Moscow is also returning to their nest."
"Where does that leave us?" Rock asks. "You and Balalaika were my only clients."
"I seem to have neglected to arrange for your early return," Mr. Chang said, his voice treating him lightly. "Believe me when I say I'm very sorry that you have to stay for the rest of the week."
Delaying is a predictable tactic. Year-end holidays were about to come, and Roanapur would finally be busy with hard-edged tourists, grown tired of the pickings in Bangkok. Chang wants to keep Rock from disturbing the flow of revenue.
"Oh yes," Chang says, pretending "I also regret that I was unable to keep your suite booked for the rest of your stay, so you'll need to find new accommodations for the rest of the week. Merry Christmas."
Rock slams the handset back into the receiver before Chang can end the call, then lays in the silence. He is not surprised. More than anything, he is overwhelmed by the realization that Chang is now taking every step possible to hinder him. Even villains have limits to how petty they should be.
The old paralysis settles down on Rock as he shuts his eyes and tries to go to sleep. The resolve that he found during the Malaysia job is evaporating- it has already been four months. All of his work and preparation was being absorbed by Mr. Chang and channeled into his own plans for a dominant Triad in Roanapur. Eda had set Rock up for it, sold him the very gun that he now carries on himself. Everyone seemed to have a plan for him, some way to use him and his obsessions before discarding him.
It was just like his family had done, leading him along with the indirect manipulations of the house- mother, father, and brother alike. He had resigned himself to life as an office drone, the vague hope that dedicating himself to work would, in a matter of decades, lead to his own advancement. At least before he came to Roanapur.
The city was marked by its freedom, its dangerous, uninhibited society of criminals. It was the complete opposite of Tokyo and its high-rise prisons of glass and concrete. For a while, Rock had embraced the change. He could define himself on the razor's edge, riding the Black Lagoon and using his own will as a weapon against whoever stood in its way. Such a rationale had served him acceptably, even mutating into something darker as he began to gamble.
Living as Rock had hollowed him out. He can feel it: there is only the tiniest bit of himself that has survived. He is lying on the hotel bed, witnessing the glow of the sky and the start of dawn. There was one last piece of him left, the only part that hadn't been bartered away or wagered against the darkness. The one thing that he could fight for selfishly, something that wasn't about ideals and ideology. Rock would destroy his only place of refuge to protect it- the last thing untouched by the weight of the world.
Revy stirs under the light of oncoming dawn. "Were you on the phone with somebody? A prank call or something?"
Her voice brings him back. The future seems accessible once again. Rock forces himself up, swinging his legs out of bed. "Mr. Chang called. Yeah, I would say it was a prank call."
"Whaddaya mean?"
"He just terminated our employment and canceled the rest of our stay here."
Revy's initial reaction is one of anger. but by the time they have packed their shared duffel bag and checked out of the hotel, her mood has come down to a baseline crabbiness. They step out into the unseasonable warmth, their bag swinging on his shoulder strap.
"You got fired and we got kicked out of the hotel? You're a real smooth operator," she says.
He tosses his heavy winter jacket into a trash bin as they pass it on the way to the subway station. It is too warm to wear it, and he wants to travel light if they're going to be walking around. They only have a certain amount of cash, and calling Dutch or Eda for assistance is below their dignity, since they would have to explain the situation.
"They all got done early. I guess I was too good at my job," Rock says. "Sorry, Revy."
She punches him lightly on the shoulder. "Alright. You're the one who's gonna explain to Eda how you got turned out. Spies are supposed to be better than that, right?"
"Is that our station?" Rock changes the subject by pointing out the entrance to the subway. They were planning to ride it down to Canal Street. Revy is returning to Chinatown.
It's Rock's first time down in the subway, and the first thing he notices is how dirty everything is. There's litter on the ground and grime on the walls. It doesn't resemble the Tokyo Metro at all. Even still, Revy has her own opinion.
"They really cleaned their act up." She looks at an arriving train. "It used to be so bad you couldn't look out the goddamn windows 'cause of all the paint."
Her discoveries continue on the inside. "Look, Rock, the map's different." The train squeals loudly and she has to speak in his ear as she traces the route they're on.
Revy gets quietly excited as they come closer to her stop, balancing easily by the door even though Rock has to hold on for balance. The light of recognition is in her eyes.
"Looking forward to it?" he asks.
"Hell no, I've got warrants here. I'm fucking stupid for even trying to come back." Despite her words, her voice is cheerful.
Maybe she feels differently about her own exodus. The last time Rock was in Tokyo, all sorts of memories had been resurrected for him, a confusing mix of his past and his present that had ended bitterly. But she had been chased out of New York by the law- at least that's how it seemed to him.
She tugs his sleeve at the next stop. "This is us. We're going to Canal Street and Lafayette."
Once they get above ground, they still have a block to walk before they get to the intersection. The buildings aren't as tall as in Midtown. Not only are there plenty of people out on the sidewalks, but space is also being taken up by vendors who have spread blankets in front of themselves, displaying handbags, wallets, shirts, and other such items that they advertise vocally. Revy brushes right past them and Rock follows in her wake.
"They've got the sweatshops down on East Broadway, but the street markets and Chinese restaurants are fucking everywhere. That's all the economy most people need around here."
The restaurants and grocers are marked strongly with Chinese characters and street-facing displays. Peking ducks hang in the window of one restaurant, while Asian produce sits in stands in front of the grocery stores- things like durian fruit or bok choy, which Rock would have expected to see in Roanapur's markets. He never had given much thought to the Chinese side of Revy's identity. She never spoke of it herself, leaving him to assume she was an assimilated representative of America. There is so much he does not know about her.
Once they get to Mulberry Street, she starts walking a little slower. Every now and then, she peeks into an alleyway as they pass it, then looks up as if searching for something. Once they hit the intersection of Mott and Canal, she realizes that she can't find her destination anymore.
"Of all the buildings to finally get torn down... Shit."
"What's up?" he asks.
Revy shakes her head to clear it. "I just used to live at a building here. Place should have been condemned ten years before I was born, if you ask me. Bricks kept crumbling and the fire escape was rusted out. A real shit-heap."
She lights a cigarette slowly, doing a lot of thinking. Her eyes have the faraway look of reminiscence. "It was built so shitty I was sweating in summer and freezing my nips off in winter. Wasn't ever any hot water, and some kind of red shit kept coming out the taps. Rent was cheap, though. More money for booze." Her voice is low and cold.
She will react violently to any sign of pity from him, so there's only one way Rock knows how to distract her. "Are you hungry?" he asks. "I want to try that pastry shop."
She looks across the street. "Sure. I know that place."
They enter and sit down to snack on a few meat buns and a few egg tarts, followed up by jasmine tea. The food is supposed to keep Revy occupied, but she spends plenty of time looking over Rock's shoulder at the room- there are many Chinese here, with the groups of women and men spanning generations. As far as he can tell, she doesn't recognize any of them.
"Damn place keeps getting more crowded," she says, pouring another cup of tea. Rock doesn't know what to say.
After lunch. they head down Mott Street and she points out what she sees. More things have changed than remained the same, but there are still recognizable things for her to find. The 'neighborhood associations' are still packed with men playing mahjong, the tenements are still falling apart, and there's still kids running in the alleys.
"I keep expecting to see someone I know," she tells him.
They are standing on one end of Doyers street. She looks around for a final time, letting the last chance come and go. Then they head down the street.
"See how the road is so crooked and narrow?" she says. "Shit would always get dicey here. The bend makes it so you can't see them until it's too late to run. You had to fight. You should have seen some of the kids shit themselves when they saw me turn the corner."
It's a one-way road that kinks two times, sharply once and then softly back the other way. Rock can imagine the tension it would bring, among the tea parlors and salons and massage shops, anticipating a gunfight that might never come. Nothing comes around the corner except the normal Chinatown crowd, and even that stops once they get to the intersection at the end of the street, where cars are rushing by.
They've reached the southern end of the Bowery, the functional border of Revy's old neighborhood. She doesn't look back. instead, she's fiddling with her hair, peering through the windows of the jewelry store on the corner.
"You know this place?" he asks.
"I guess you could say that." There's a slight grin on her face as she turns her back on the shop.
The realization dawns on Rock as her grin grows wider. "You don't mean..."
"They weren't paying their protection money, so of course we had to rob 'em."
They cross Chatham Square and go another block. At the next intersection, he catches sight of two buildings far out in the distance, skyscrapers that are unrivaled in height. He hadn't had such a clear view before.
"The Twin Towers," Revy says. "You can't see them in most of Chinatown, but the angle is just right here."
If Rock had been visiting as an actual tourist, he no doubt would have gone to the World Trade Center first, would have bought one of those 'I Heart N.Y.C.' shirts, would have paid too much money to go see a musical. It would have all been planned out, the reservations purchased weeks in advance as if it were his job. Instead, he has no idea where he will stay tonight. They wander the streets on Christmas Day, in a city that now is strange to both of them.
"Have you ever been up there?" He asks.
"I haven't done any of the tourist shit," she admits. "World Trade Center, Empire State Building, Lady Liberty, none of it. I had other things to do."
"Really?"
"Those all cost money, man." She shakes her head. "You can take the ferry to Staten Island and get a perfectly fine view for fucking free."
"Want to do that, then?" Rock asks. "I mean, if we don't have anything else happening."
Revy finally looks back on Chinatown. "I guess we don't."
They take the bus down to the terminal, and the crowd is fairly sparse. Revy gets them the best spot for a view at the back. She leans with her hip to the railing, straightening out her denim jacket. He leans next to her, setting the duffel at their feet, regretting that he did not keep his winter coat. The wind is starting to cut through his sweater.
They're silent for a long time. It reminds him of some of the first nights on the Black Lagoon, when he was shadowing Revy and trying to pick up the basics of the ship. They didn't have anything to talk about back then, and she was even quicker to get into moods. It would just be them side-by-side against the entire ocean.
"It's all going away," she finally says, watching the Manhattan skyline.
Rock knows she's not talking about the city.
"Where the fuck am I supposed to go?" she says.
It is easy to pretend like Revy can plow through any obstacle in her life. When Rock decided to end Roanapur, he had relied on the image of her resilient against the world, as if her survival up to now meant that she could survive forever. As long as he could imagine her surviving, he could go ahead with his plan.
"Without Hotel Moscow, it's gonna be like the old days. Pirates waiting to jump us outside of port, thugs waiting to get us on land. I'll be ready for that." She nods. "But what about you, Rock? What good is a smooth talker when the shooting never stops? Who are you gonna be once you finally have to use your piece?"
Manhattan seems even smaller now, but the ferry keeps going. Rock has been thinking about those questions almost as much as he thinks about his new life.
He answers with a question. "What good am I now? Nothing seems real. Sometimes I can't even feel my body, it's like I'm just a pair of eyes watching the world. It's all broken up for me, Revy, I can't see the big picture anymore. If I did, I might go insane. I can't be everything at once. I can't be smooth like Chang and cold like Balalaika. I can't just draw a line and keep my distance like Benny and Dutch. I tried that."
It's been a while since he's been able to talk so much. They're lucky the platform is abandoned. His voice loosens up as he continues.
"I thought maybe I could be hard and soft, that I could play with people's lives if it were for good reasons. After living in this city so long, I thought I could work in between good and evil. I thought there was a gray zone there, where the two were mixed."
He pulls a cigarette from his own pack. "The truth is that there's no mixing good and evil. When I did bad things for good reasons, they kept canceling each other out, and I got left with nothing. I've been filling myself up with nothing in Roanapur, just like in Tokyo. It's like I woke up, only to go back to sleep. Everything good I found turned into something that I would feel nothing about. Anything is preferable to that.
She finally faces him, but it means that she misses the sight of Lady Liberty appearing behind her back, on her tiny distant island. "You better be ready when we land in Thailand, then. There's no going back from there, Rock."
He nods. "Thanks, Revy."
"What the hell for?"
"For being here, for sticking it out with me. You didn't need to come this far."
She snorts. "I really didn't need to do this, huh. But here I am. I guess this is my shitty idea of what I want." New York is like a mirage to her, the way she squints at it in the wind.
It's Christmas, but they don't feel it. This should be like a vacation, but they aren't unburdened at all. This is Revy's first time back in her hometown, but there's no warmth in her nostalgia, no joy in reconnecting. Seeing the tallest towers in America means nothing to Rock and the verdigrised statue on Liberty Island has little to communicate. Their bodies may be in New York, but their hearts and minds are trapped elsewhere.
The Ferry arrives in Staten Island, but Revy is quick to get them back in line to go back the other way.
"Aren't we going to see things here?"
The idea makes her laugh. "Here? C'mon, Rock. You wanna waste time on Wop Island? There's nothing here."
If she puts it like that, he doesn't want to stay. They ride the ferry back across the East River as the sun sets. The temperature plummets and the wind chills them enough that they have to find seats in the heated cabin.
"Jeez," Revy says. "It's going to be freezing by the time we get off. We don't have a lot of cash, right?"
Rock nods. They would have to make it until Monday off of two hundred dollars and some change.
"Don't sweat it, baby," she says. "I know a place."
They take the bus right back up East Broadway to the Manhattan Bridge. The bridge was so big that there were buildings underneath it. Revy takes him to a place with Chinese lettering on the front, a squat building with a facade of dirty brick.
"This is supposed to be a place for all of those guys who show up fresh from China to stay, but when it's got vacancies, you can pay by the night."
On the inside, it smells exactly like her description. She hands the old lady at the front twenty dollars and signs her name in the guestbook 'Rebecca Lee'.
The lady adjusts her glasses to look closely at Revy and then Rock. "No mess!"
Revy obliges in Cantonese and the woman's face softens. "Shèngdàn kuàilè," she says.
After climbing the narrow staircase and unlocking the door to their tiny room, Rock asks her what the lady said.
"She said 'Merry Christmas'," Revy says. "She's been there for twenty years, I've seen her more than a few times, but she didn't recognize me."
"Is that why you wrote your actual name in the guestbook?" She does not take risks like that often.
"Maybe." She's going through the duffel bag to find her Lucky Strikes. "I don't know, I came here expecting someone to recognize me. I was a real fuckin' demon girl back in those days, and it's not like Chinatown is that big of a place."
It's been years. No one lives forever, even in legend. Revy might as well be a rumor, if everyone in her old gang was already dead, imprisoned, or promoted. Who is left to tell her story?
"What all did you do back then?" He settles onto one of the two thin mattresses, the springs noisy in the tiny room.
"Do you really want to know?" she asks. "It's not a nice story. No fuckin' Robin Hood."
Rock leans in. "If you're ready to talk, I would like to listen."
She smiles wryly and looks out the window. "You say that, but it's not the kind of shit you can take back. If you hear this, you're getting it all. It's not going to make me look good. You're not going to feel any better. Are you still going to say you want to hear?"
"Yes." He sees her eyes open a little wider and then look out of the window.
"Okay, then. Here I fucking go."