“I’ve known you all my life, Cheung. What can I do to help you?”

Cheung was silent for a long stretch. Finally, he said, “You know that opium paste you bring in sometimes?”

“How did you know about that?”

“I’ve got eyes.”

“My family have worked for the trade since the British first came. It’s hard to stop, even when supplies are drying up. You want to smoke? I thought you disapproved. After what happened to your father.”

“He died from smoking anti-opium. Not opium.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Lee. “You know they are the same thing.”

“Anti-opium’s more potent, actually. Made with scientific distillation methods and additives directed at Asian tastes.”

“As the anti-British Japanese are the same as the British, only more potent,” said Lee. “And yet they think they speak to pan-Asian feelings.”

“I’ll take either.”

“What? British or Japanese? I thought you hated the Japanese.”

“Either opium or anti-opium.”

“There’s a traditional opium paste that’s very mild and relaxing,” Lee said. “I’ve got a little bit right here.” He produced a small cylindrical box made of buffalo horn carved with bamboo leaves. “If you like it, I can bring you more, Brother. No problem.”

“I don’t want mild and relaxing,” Cheung said. He pushed the box back with such force it nearly rolled off the table.

“What are you talking about?”

“I want potent and deadly.”

“One can die of opium addiction, but it takes a long time, and you have to smoke it every day,” said Lee. “You know that. And also, I’m not going to help you kill yourself.”

“I don’t want to kill myself, you dumb ox.”

Lee was silent for a long moment.

Cheung glared at him as though he were a dim-witted child.

Finally, Lee said, “You want to—” He coughed. “I can’t help you with that, my friend. It won’t help matters. Why don’t you go back to your flat for a bit. Go back to your wife. Rest. You’re overwrought. Smoke a bit of this and have a sleep. You’ll feel differently when you wake up.” He opened the box to reveal a sweet-smelling black paste inside. “Medicine,” he said. “Not poison. Ask your wife to prepare it for you the old-fashioned way.”

“Get that father-killing filth away from me,” said Cheung. “I’d rather have my head sliced from my body by those devil samurai.”

“Come with me to Chek Keng, then,” said Lee. “I have to go to the boat now to meet my daughter. I’m afraid for you if you stay here.”

“Go meet your daughter. Get away from here!”

“Come with me.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I’m begging you, Brother. You don’t seem well.”

“I’m fine.”

Lee slid off his stool. He gave his friend one last, long, concerned look.

“I’m not dead yet! Go!”