knew? How anybody was supposed to find anything in this, I didn’t know. And that was assuming our destination hadn’t just floated off to moor somewhere else.
“Give me the map,” Rashid demanded.
“Get your own.”
“You are obviously lost—”
“I’m not lost. The damned brothel is lost—”
“We are going to a brothel?” That was Bahram, suddenly acquiring an interest.
“Not anytime soon,” Rashid said, under his breath.
“I’ll find it, okay?” I said, and snatched back the map that he’d tried to steal.
“Why are we going to a brothel?” Bahram inquired, as Louis-Cesare held up a hand.
I was about to answer when one of the guys at a nearby dim sum shop opened a door on the side and kicked out a set of wood stairs. They’d been folded up under the door, out of the way. But now they spread-out and down, allowing me to see that they were held together by sturdy metal hinges on the side of each step.
Rotating hinges, I realized, as the thing snaked around the skies for a moment, until the waiter pushed it in our direction. It reached all the way to the rickshaw and then some, falling another half story below us. And allowing the man in his fresh white apron to run down and stop by our side.
He took out a small note pad and looked at us inquiringly.
“Char Siu Bao,” Louis-Cesare said. He held up a thumb and two fingers. “Three, yes?”
The waiter guy nodded and wrote on the pad.
“Beer,” I said. “And we’re gonna need more of those barbeque buns.”
“I just ordered three,” Louis-Cesare protested.
“But I’m going to eat two orders myself.”
“I, too, would like barbeque buns,” Bahram said, leaning forward.
Louis-Cesare looked over his shoulder at Rashid, and cocked an eyebrow enquiringly.
“I would like to get where we are going!” Rashid said, and stole my map.
I decided to let him have it, because I couldn’t figure it out and eat at the same time.
“Char Siu Bao. Four,” Louis-Cesare corrected, holding up a thumb and three fingers.
“Six,” Bahram corrected. I looked at him. He shrugged. “I have an appetite.”
“Not for those,” Rashid said, his eyes searching the map.
“Why not?”
“They have pork.” He looked up at Louis-Cesare. “They do, yes?”
“Usually.” Louis-Cesare looked back at the menu. “Har Gow—shrimp dumplings?” He looked at Bahram.
“They are mukhruh,” Bahram said sadly. “Not forbidden, but—”
“Not encouraged?” Louis-Cesare guessed.
Bahram nodded.
Louis-Cesare went back to perusing the menu. I leaned over the seat to look at the map. It was upside down, which gave me a new perspective, not that it helped.
I got out my phone.
Phone connections had been restored with the reopening of the city’s portals, allowing me to get a signal. I texted a friend: Your map sucks. And waited.
“Curried fishballs?” Louis-Cesare suggested.
Bahram made a face.
“Fung Zao?”
“What is that?”
“Chicken feet. They are deep fried, then marinated, then steamed. They come with a black bean and chili sauce.”
“They eat the feet?” Bahram looked shocked.
“They’re quite good.”
He appeared dubious about that. But then he shrugged. “I will try.”
“Fung Zao, two,” Louis-Cesare told the waiter, who nodded.
“And beer,” I added, glancing in the back. “Unless—”
“Tea,” Rashid said, still frowning at the map.
Bahram frowned. “I will have—”
“Tea,” Rashid said firmly.
Bahram sighed. “Tea.”
The waiter nodded, turned around, and tripped lightly up the stairs.
My phone dinged.
Where you at, short stuff? I read.
Underneath the Little Pig Mongolian Hot Pot.
“Are you sure that is the name?”
That was, of course, Rashid, reading over my shoulder.
“Why don’t you go up and check?” I asked, smiling.
Rashid stood up, grabbed hold of the edge of the restaurant and levered himself up.
“Are you hoping he’ll fall off?” Louis-Cesare mouthed.
I looked back innocently.
But, of course, he was a vamp. He didn’t fall off. He did surprise a diner at a table by the railing, however, who screamed and dropped a beer.
Bahram caught it and drank it quickly, before his friend got back.
Sending some guys, my phone informed me.
What will they look like?
You’ll know them when you see them.
But how will they know me?
Babe.
That was it. That was all I got. I frowned at it.
Then I shrugged and put my phone away.
Rashid rejoined us. “It is called ‘Little Pig Mongolian Hot Pot’ he informed Louis-Cesare, who ignored him both because he didn’t care, and because our food had arrived.
It looked like the dim sum place was doing a bang-up business, and was churning the food out. They must have already had everything made; they’d just needed to dish it up. Which they’d done in traditional white to-go boxes, which Louis-Cesare handed around.
“What is this?” Rashid asked,