The taxi got off the main road and pulled up at a cul-de-sac in the upscale neighborhood of Happy Valley. The sidewalk was deserted and drenched in streetlights. A stray dog barked in the distance. I tiptoed up the stairs to the third floor of a post-war tenement building and checked the number on the door. Unit 3B. I knocked twice, and a middle-aged Australian man named James answered the door.
|A home game at the Harrisons|
“Is this where the game is?” I asked with mock confidence. The host nodded and ushered me into the apartment.
In the dining room, four other men slouched at an oval table. They sized me up before offering me a seat next to an Irishman named Howard. The rotund redhead took a sip of beer and began shuffling cards with the dexterity of a Vegas croupier, reeking of testosterone...
Read the rest of this essay in No City for Slow Men, available at major bookstores in Hong Kong and at Blacksmith Books.
|No City for Slow Men|