Kowloon Tong by Paul Theroux

securing a passport for her, or of speeding the lines at Immigration Tower.
    "I'll try to see you right," he said.
    "You can help me, mister," she said.
    She touched him between his legs, and though it was affectionate, no more than teasing him, he reacted in terror, as if she had threatened him with castrating claws.
    "Please," he said, but could not manage anything else.
    "Just saying hello to my friend," she said.
    Of all the many things that killed his desire, humor—and especially shallow jokes like this—flattened it the quickest and left it dead for a long time. He could tell her heart was not in it.
    "So sorry," she said. She now understood how badly she had misjudged him and how she had failed.
    She was lonely, she was desperate, she was clumsy and inept, and it was all his fault. When she finally left his office, her hair net in her hand, he wanted to weep with frustration. And then, with her out of sight, he desired her, he wanted her back, he could not understand why he had rejected her. He hurried downstairs and into the street to search for her. He saw her at the bus stop with her friend from Cutting, Ah Fu. He wondered what Mei-ping had told her. The two young women, so sweet, so lost: Mr. Hung had made him abandon them.
    He said, "Mei-ping, I wonder if I might have a word with you."
    "Not today," she said. "I have to go home."
    He deserved that for what he had put her through.
    Driving home, he detoured through Wanchai, telling himself that he was just looking. When he saw a parking space he stopped, telling himself that he was just curious. He found himself outside a club, La Bamba, advertising half-price drinks and no admission charge, and telling himself it was free, he went upstairs. The place was dark and loud music was playing.
Various women approached him, saying hello. When his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he saw a dozen Filipino girls dancing with each other and beckoning to him. Bunt told himself that this never happened in Kowloon Tong, not so obvious as this, all those dark eyes and twitching buttocks he thought of as Hong Kong promises.
    "What's yours?"
    Backing away from the dance floor, he was jostled towards the bar. He ordered a beer and was charged twice as much as it would have cost in the Pussy Cat.
    "Hey, it's you again," the man next to him said. "Welcome to the Wanch."
    The man wore a black shirt and aviator sunglasses and stood with his elbows on the bar. His back was to the dancers, but perhaps he was looking at their reflections in the mirror behind all the whiskey bottles.
    Bunt said, "Do I know you?"
    "You're Monty's friend," the man said, and groped at Bunt alarmingly at the level of his waist, trying to shake his hand. "Hoyt Maybry."
    "I was just leaving," Bunt said.
    "Have a beer," Hoyt said. He shouted, because the music was so loud.
    "Thanks. I've got one."
    Still shouting—and the shouting made him sound insincere—Hoyt said, "We don't have any of this in Singapore. You know our big man? Lee Kwan Yew? Hitler with a heart, I call him."
    Bunt guzzled his beer. He hated drinking from the bottle, but
Wanchai was the sort of district where it wasn't done to ask for a glass.
    Hoyt said, "Listen to your friend Monty. You should get yourself a new passport. Cape Verde Islands is a great one."
    "Thanks for the advice, but I'm not planning to renounce my U.K. citizenship just yet." As he said this, Bunt realized he sounded prissy. But the nerve of the man!
    "I did it," Hoyt said. "And I'm an American."
    "I suppose it's ever so much harder for an American to chuck his passport."
    "You better believe it."
    Now Bunt was angry, and was edging away. It would not be difficult to do in this darkness. He could not see the American's eyes through his dark glasses, but he could see the man's smile, and feeling self-conscious about starting to flee, Bunt tried to think of something to say, to fill the moment of awkwardness.
    He said, "What are you doing here