The Master of Rain by Tom Bradby Page B

warehouse. He began to wonder if this was some sort of joke until he saw a bouncer standing a few feet away, hidden in the shadows. The door was opened immediately to reveal what looked like a seedier version of the club they’d just been to, with a bar to their left and tables in front of a stage bathed in red light. A Chinese waitress in a skimpy, figure-hugging cream dress led them through to a table at the front. On the stage, two women were kissing each other. One was naked, the other wore a garter belt and stockings.

    The one who was naked had blond hair—both were Caucasian—and she broke off the embrace and began to run her tongue over the other girl’s nipples until they were erect and proud, the girl arching her back in feigned, or possibly, Field supposed, real pleasure, as the blonde sank lower, sitting her partner on a chair and raising her stockinged legs over each arm, parting the dark hair at the base of her belly and moving her tongue slowly toward the pink lips beneath. Field and Lewis were only about two yards from the seated woman as she moaned with pleasure, pushing her hips up and her head back.

    The blonde pushed her buttocks back and her legs out.

    Field was sweating. A glass of beer was placed in front of him by the waitress and he turned and looked first at her, then at Lewis, who was smiling at him. Lewis leaned forward. “For Christ’s sake, man, will you take off your jacket?”

    After a moment’s hesitation, Field did so, swinging it over the back of the chair and immediately feeling better, even though he could smell the stale sweat.

    “And the holster. Guns make the girls nervous.”

    Field took off his leather holster, which he’d forgotten he was wearing, and hung it underneath his jacket. He took a large sip of the beer. A middle-aged man with a gray beard and glasses sitting by himself on the other side of the room was staring at him.

    The women on the stage were a writhing, groaning mass now, the blond-haired one thrusting her buttocks out toward them, legs apart, while the woman in the chair had wrapped her own around her partner’s neck.

    The Chinese waitress came back and, without any prompting, sat on Field’s lap. “Oh,” she said, laughing at him, moving to his knees and stroking his groin with her hand. Field took hold of her wrist to make her stop, but he did not push her away. She was pretty, with an oval face and dark eyes, her body slim and light. Her skirt was pulled up so that Field could see that she was not wearing any underwear. She reminded him of Yang, Granger’s secretary.

    “You want another drink?” she asked in good English.

    “No,” he said, his voice hoarse. He saw that another girl had gone to sit on Lewis’s lap. Beyond that, at the next table, a group of expat men seemed to have their wives with them, or girlfriends, and were just watching the show. The man with the beard was still staring in their direction.

    “You want upstairs room?”

    “No.” He shook his head.

    “You have hotel. Fifty dollar, one night.”

    Field could see that he had been brought to a place that catered to taipans, since fifty dollars was almost as much as he earned in a week.

    Lewis got up and led his girl toward a set of stairs in the corner.

    “Your friend go.”

    “Yes.”

    Field felt a sense of inexplicable drunken fury and wanted to leave, but was prevented from doing so, he knew, by his mother’s obsession with adhering to social protocol.

    “Come on,” the girl said, reaching for his crotch once more, so quickly that Field was unable to get his hand on her wrist until she had taken a hold of him.

    “Stop it,” he said.

    “I show you happy time.”

    “I don’t doubt it . . .”

    “We go upstairs . . .”

    “I have no money,” he said in exasperation.

    She took her hand away, looking at him in amazement. “Your friend. On account.”

    She stood, taking his hand gently now, and, despite every bone in his body screaming at