Exploits Read Online Free Page A

that the white folks stay when they're in town.”
    “That'd be the Bela Vista Hotel,” he said in perfect American. “But you can do better at the Macau Inn, over on the Travesso de Padre Narciso.”
    “Sounds good to me,” I said, climbing into the seat. “Let ’er rip.”
    “I can also get you into half a dozen high-class gambling clubs,” he said as he began pulling the rickshaw down the street. “And if you've got an interest in the ladies...”
    “Well, mostly I'm here to raise money for my tabernacle,” I said. “But I gotta admit it makes more sense to go where the money is than where it ain't. And of course, part of my calling is to show wicked, painted Jezebels the power and the glory.”
    He turned and grinned at me. “It sounds like you've got yourself a mighty interesting religion, Preacher,” he said. “I wouldn't mind joining up myself.”
    “How'd a well-spoken young feller like you come to be in the rickshaw trade thousands of miles from church and home in the first place?” I asked him.
    “It's a long story,” he said. “But the gist of it is that I hired on to work on an archeological dig in the Gobi Desert. Our boat docked in Hong Kong on a Saturday afternoon, and a bunch of us came over to the Sin City of Macau for one last fling before going out in the wilderness.”
    “Makes sense,” I allowed.
    “They told us to be back at sun-up on Monday, which was when the truck was leaving. I guess I overslept a little.”
    “And they didn't wait for you?”
    “I didn't get out of bed until half past Tuesday, and I figured they were all gone by then, so I looked around for some way to earn my passage back home. I thought I could be a croupier, or maybe a personal manager for some ladies of the evening, but all the good jobs were taken, and so I wound up pulling this goddamned rickshaw.”
    He took a hard left turn, and suddenly I could see the Macau Inn straight ahead of us.
    “Here we are, Preacher,” he said, sprinting the final fifty yards.
    “Take it easy,” I said. “We ain't in no race.”
    “Sorry,” he said, coming to a stop in front of the hotel. “Sometimes I pretend I'm still outrunning tacklers on the football field back in high school. It helps to pass the time.”
    “You played football?”
    “Sure did,” he answered. “And being an ex-halfback gives me an edge on the competition. If we see a single customer stepping off the ferry or out of a hotel, I always get there first.”
    It was just about that instant that the Lord smote me right betwixt the eyes with a great big heavenly revelation.
    “Are you telling me there ain't no coolie in town can match strides with you?” I said.
    “Not a one,” he said. “I even had a couple of Big Ten scholarship offers—until they threw me off the team for a few minor infractions, that is.”
    “What kind of infractions?”
    “Oh ... Zelda, Thelma, Patti ... those kinds.”
    “Brother,” I said. “How'd you like to get enough money for passage back to the good old U. S. of A. and have a little pocket money left over for an occasional infraction?”
    “You've got a curious expression on your face, Preacher,” he said. “I can't quite tell if you're joking or not.”
    “I never joke about money,” I said. “It's against the Third and Eighth Commandments. Come on inside and let's talk a little business.”
    He pulled the rickshaw over to a side of the road and followed me into the Macau Inn. There was a great big fountain in the middle of the lobby, with about a dozen parrots dangling down from the ceiling in bamboo cages. There was a fat white man in a wrinkled suit and a fez talking to a couple of turbaned Indians in a corner, and an Englishman in tweeds was sitting on a leather chair, smoking a pipe and reading a copy of the China Morning Post . We walked past the check-in desk and turned left at the restaurant, which was just about empty, it being the middle of the afternoon.
    “Have a seat,” I said,