Free Hunt Among the Killers of Men by Gabriel Hunt Page B

to social castes.”
    “Classes.”
    “Tuan runs street level. All you can see.”
    “It is my privilege,” chimed the big man leading them. “An entrepreneur named Hellweg has a lock on municipal services such as power, water. You may have noticed his petroleum tower—the Fire in the Sky. He’s some sort of European; Danish, or Scandanavian at any rate.
    “Our local army of mercenary police is owned by Lo Pei Zhang, who was once a military general. The soldiers are all ex–Red Army.”
    “And the fourth is Cheung?” said Gabriel.
    “Yes. Qingzhao’s former employer,” said Tuan, and Gabriel realized it was the first time he’d heard the woman’s name. “I believe he made his millions in currency speculation. His first millions.”
    Gabriel fired a glance back at Qingzhao. “So you were an employee of his.”
    “Mr. Cheung arrived in our fair land just as Communism was gasping its last,” Tuan rattled on. “The CCC is the new land of opportunity, but it is all quitesubsurface now. That’s why Occidentals fear it so much, I think.”
    “And you,” said Gabriel to Qingzhao, “used to work for this guy? The one you’ve been trying to—”
    Her hand was on his forearm, extended across the body of the bowman between them. “Yes.” Her eyes added: Not now. Not in front of Tuan. Please.
    This was one raincheck Gabriel was going to follow up on.
    Next to a booth whose sign proclaimed CHANGE YOUR I.D. , Tuan pointed out an ammo hawker with half a face, masked as though by a giant eyepatch. Most of the man’s fingers were missing or truncated.
    “Do not purchase ammunition from that man,” Tuan said. “Unreliable. Misfires.”
    “The man or the ammunition?” asked Gabriel.
    “Both.”
    Tuan led them into another cubbyhole with signage halfway-hidden from the commonweal: SU-LIN GUN MERCHANT . It stank of gunpowder and gun oil, and was a cramped warren of firepower old and new. Su-Lin was a gnomish woman with a calm Easter Island gaze; she weighed maybe 75 pounds. Tuan bent from his enormous height to grace her cheek with a kiss.
    “You must use the keyboard,” said Qingzhao. Two laptops were set up collaborator-style on a small counter, with Su-Lin perched behind one as though ready to commence a game of Battleship. “This translates. First you type the proper greeting.”
    They set down the bowman and Qingzhao typed: YOUR PIG MOTHER EATS NIGHT SOIL , which transposed to Chinese characters on Su-Lin’s screen.
    Su-Lin typed back: I LOVE YOU , TOO .
    Gabriel’s attention meanwhile had been arrestedby a very special gun hanging from a clip on the back wall. His eye coded it as a close cousin to his faithful Colt Peacemaker, which he still wished he had strapped to his hip. That one was out of reach. This wasn’t.
    “You have seen something you like?” said Tuan.
    It was a large Colt revolver—age-burnished, true, but Gabriel recognized it as the treasure it was. “If this is what I think it is…”
    Tuan lifted it off the wall and handed it to him. The gun sprang open cleanly at his touch. There wasn’t a spot of rust on it anywhere.
    “This,” Gabriel said, as if he were introducing an old friend to a new one, “looks like an old Navy Colt, .36 caliber—from when they first started converting cap-and-ball ‘percussion pistols’ to the more newfangled revolver. They called them ‘wheelguns.’ ” He glanced back at Su-Lin. “How much do you think she might take for it?”
    “That depends on whether you like it,” Tuan goaded.
    “I like it very much,” said Gabriel. “Anyone who knows about guns would.”
    “Then it is yours,” Tuan said. “For your trouble. With my compliments.”
    “Why?”
    “You are a guest. Qingzhao said you helped to save her life. That is a favor bestowed upon me as well. Please allow me to repay this debt in a way that pleases you.”
    Gabriel nodded his thanks. He was always ill at ease accepting gifts, because you never knew what obligations might