“. . . . Not good,” Buckminster told her.
“So, you know him?” Ambette asked.
“I know about him. Mandu was hit man for Chairman Meow . . . there was a triple murder in the Forbidden City, some kind of Triad thing. He took the fall for it and got 3o years in Kowloon Prison, but escaped . . . came here and has been working freelance for the gambling syndicate.”
“Oh, Bucks, what can we do?”
“What can we do? Have you got a mouse in your pocket?”
“You’ve got to help me, Bucks. There’s no one else.”
A tear rolled down her cheek and dangled precariously on the end of a whisker.
He was always a sucker for feminine tears, but Mandu was big, ten kilos of bad news. In the end it didn’t matter. Bucks had more guts than a government mule and had never refused a female in distress. But this. . . .
What could he do?