Hong Kong Sniper
You're on the thirty-sixth floor – alone in a bright, hot room. The pink building on Repulse Bay is forty stories high. A large window faces the sea, and the Feng Shui hole built for the Dragon is one story below. The sea is throwing fits. The gray-orange air unnerves you. A fog rolled in after the typhoon. You can't see us, but we see you.
We're staked out on a nearby cliff, waiting for the man we really want – then you wander into view. We don't don't know you for shit, but we fire anyway. The window is wall-size. You are always in view. A bullet shakes the room. Jump back. Good! It's boring up here. Don't leave yet, please: You're game. Bullets crack the glass. That's it!
Get down, think: There's been a mistake. Call out, “Hey!” Trip on the carpet, fall, roll onto your back, the green shag chafing your neck. You're slapstick now. Better stay on the floor. Stand up and your ass will fill our sight!
A man in a trench coat appears in the doorway, not our man-- just a guy in a blue Mao cap, a cigarette clenched in his teeth. “Help? …” you say. Silence. A bullet rips the wall behind. Drop to your knees, chin tucked, arms wrapped round your head. Your face burns. The tears start up. How can we see you when you can't see us? The fog is so thick. It parts briefly, revealing a patch of the green South China sea. From your room, this patch looks like an accident, an oil-slick where sharks and seagulls drown. Wind presses against the window, whistling through the bullet holes.
The man in the Mao cap disappears. You don't blame him for leaving but still shout, "Wait. Please.” More silence. More wind. The man's laughter echoes down the hall.
You realize that you've been inside this pink-tiled high-rise before. The eye-shaped hole in the center lets the Dragon move from Victoria peak to the sea. Dragons are stronger than bullets and oil. They live below this lucky ocean, and this beach is a place you have loved. On clear days, the gold spires shine on the temple below. Kids climb on animals in the courtyard: Red yellow, blue-tiled monkeys, elephants, giraffes stand near the water. Green umbrellas sprout in the sand, advertising San Miguel, Marlboro, Kools. Loungers sleep in the umbrella shade. Surfers float, bellies on their boards, swatting calm water, hoping for typhoons. Once you went inside the temple, and followed the footprints left by children bringing the bodhisattvas cakes and candy. You want to be there now, cooling off in the shadow of the plump gray statues while the joss sticks burn.
But you're way up there, and you've made a big mess of that hot room, with your dirty brown boots, kicking the bare walls, trying to hide. You're confused, running around. It's funny! Another bullet. Thwack.
Gesture as if to say, "It's not me you want. He's gone."
Coward. We fire again. Roll onto your stomach and press your lips into the carpet. Inhale. Breathe softly like a buddha. Move.
The man in the trench coat returns, leans against the doorway and takes a cigarette from a packet of Kools. His cap is now tilted at a dapper angle. He grins, but doesn't offer you a smoke. You want to escape through the Dragon hole—hit the beach. But he's on our side. He won't help. We told him already that you've got it coming.
Lie still. Cover your ears. The beach is empty. Fog can linger for months. Stop listening for the bullets. Sense their approach like cold fingers on the back of your neck.
[ page 2 of 2 ]