by Mike Coony
“Of course not darling, you go on.”
Mac’s been a busy lad, no one better to get the job done – and fast. Not only does he know where Fran is, he has a plan.
I returned to the lounge and found a very much more relaxed Susie, with her legs curled up on the couch beside her.
“Susie, I’m happy to tell you that your husband is alive.”
“Oh Finn…that’s great news. Where is the bastard?”
“Well, what we know at the moment is that he boarded the BA flight to Heathrow three hours ago…accompanied by two unfriendly looking fellahs. The flight isn’t due to land for another fourteen hours, so one o’clock tomorrow afternoon…six a.m. in London.”
“What do you mean unfriendly looking fellahs?”
“I’m not quite sure yet. But don’t you worry. My man is having someone meet the flight to find out what the feck is going on. He’ll ring me back when the flight lands.”
“I suppose I ought not dare ask how you can find out more about my husband than I can…or how you found out that Fran has companions on the flight.”
“Good on ya girl…let’s just wait to hear back from my pal. Whiskey?”
“You read my mind.”
We ordered a midnight snack from room service and watched a few films on the piped TV. It was after five a.m. when I suggested we get some rest.
I showed Susie into my bedroom and gave her a shirt to sleep in before going to the guest bedroom. I’m more than a little unhappy that I finally have this gorgeous creature spending the night in my bed – without me in it. I can hardly make a pass at man’s wife the same night as the man’s possibly been abducted….
The phone rang at one thirty-five p.m. Mac’s ASU reported back that the flight got in early, but the operation isn’t complete. I figured Susie would want to know the news, and I knocked gently on her bedroom door.
“It’s open….Well?”
“Fran was escorted off the BA flight by two agents from Troll Security. They bypassed Customs and Immigration, threw Fran in the back of an ambulance and drove to the psychiatric hospital in Richmond, Surrey.”
“What? Is he hurt?”
“No, not visibly anyway. I was told he looked like he may’ve been drugged though.”
“Bloody hell. What do I do now?”
“Nothing…for the moment. My man will have more information tomorrow morning. Listen, why don’t I order lunch while you get a shower.”
“That’s a good idea. Thanks Finn.”
———
I left the bespoke Sam the Tailor shirt Finn lent me on the bed…and now I understand why all the men in Hong Kong absolutely insist on seeing Sam for their shirts. Finn’s chest must be about the same size as mine, it’s obviously not the same shape, but the shirt fit beautifully all the same.
After lunch I went to my office to see if there’s any official word on my kidnapped husband. And there is not! Bloody hell, what has Fran done? What have I done?
I’m seriously worried about Fran, but if Finn Flynn had joined me in his bed, I don’t think I’d have kicked him out. No, I’m sure I wouldn’t have.
Is anyone ever going to tell me that Fran’s been thrown into a rubber room? I can’t believe I had to ask Finn Flynn to locate my missing husband. All the girls say they feel safe when Finn’s around. They sense that he won’t let anything bad happen to them…that he’s like a rock you can hide behind and nothing’s going to get past him. I know exactly what they mean.
Anyway, Finn said he’ll ring tomorrow morning when he hears more from his special agent friends…or whoever they are.
———
It’s ten twenty-five a.m., Mac’s ASU just reported back. They broke into the psychiatric hospital during the night and read Fran’s file.
I phoned Susie immediately. “Hi Susie. Apparently, Fran’s been committed for stress and depression brought on by, and I’m quoting here, ‘his wife’s drug and sex addiction’.”
“What in the world? You can’t be serious….I haven’t heard anything official.”
“I’m sorry Susie.”
“I can’t believe it! The rotten bastard! Did that husband of mine make up stories about me…or am I just a victim of the smear campaign that’s obviously in full swing against him, against us?…Anyway, Finn, thanks for the news…thanks for everything. At least I know he’s alive.”
20
LAMMA ISLAND and HONG KONG
I’m on one of my outings to the Waterfront Bar, and Flick and I have just been joined on the sea front terrace by the coolest-looking Chinaman I’ve come across. He’s dressed in a traditional Chinese coolie costume – baggy black top and trousers, black cap, and black plimsoll shoes. His pigtail is down to his waist, a cameraman’s eyeglass hangs around his neck on a gold chain, and he’s chain-smoking French Gauloises cigarettes.
I’ve been telling Flick that I want to leave the Ritz-Carlton, but I don’t want to go back to the Mandarin Oriental. As the Chinaman sat down I mentioned that on one of my journeys on the Peak Tram I’d spotted a round white tower on Tregunter Path that I’d like to live in.
Flick lit up a spliff and handed it to the Chinaman. The Chinaman grinned and – unlike the usually reserved Chinese I’ve met – exploded in a great belly laugh.
“So, you’d like to live in Citizen Tower? The penthouse…would that suit you?” the Chinaman asked.
I thought he was taking the piss until I noticed the change of expression on his face. He looks serious.
“Aren’t places like that kept by the family of the developer? That’s what I’ve been told.”
“Yes, they are, and Citizen Tower was built by my father. He’s had the triplex penthouse decorated and furnished like a New York apartment for my brother who lives in the Trump Tower in New York. However, my brother is not coming back to Hong Kong. He’s enjoying himself too much in the States…producing movies and dating film stars. I’m just a humble film director, but big brother, he’s dad’s number one son. He gets to finance bubble gum films that go straight to video. Fortunately for him, they always seem to cover the production costs.”
He stopped and took another drag off the spliff.
“If you want the penthouse in Citizen Tower, it’s all yours. I’ll easily be able to persuade Dad, especially after Ron’s latest fuck-up.”
“I certainly do want it.” Talk about the luck of the Irish! I’ve always had more than my fair share….
“Dad’ll look for rent, you know. After all, we are money-grubbing Chinese.”
“That’s grand…I’d expect nothing less,” I assured him.
———
When I met the Chinaman’s dad I could tell he’s upset that his ‘number one son’ isn’t going to be the first resident of this spectacular home. It’s plain to see that he’s put a lot of thought into it, and he’s spared no expense.
This gracious man is charging me less rent for four floors than I paid for my suite at the Ritz-Carlton. With our negotiations finished, I walked him to the private lift.
“To bring good fortune in your new home,” he said, as he handed me the keys on a red and gold charm and stepped into the lift.
“Thank you.”
I thought the Mandarin Oriental and Ritz-Carlton were luxurious, but they’re in the halfpenny league compared to my new home. I knew it had three floors; I didn’t know there’d be an extra floor for the staff…and the rest of it you have to see to believe.
A balcony runs all the way around the penthouse; there are panoramic views over Mid-levels and Victoria Harbour. The silk wall coverings in the en suite bedrooms and the gold fittings in the bathrooms are Asian touches; the Andy Warhol prints and paintings, Barbara Hepworth sculptures and Le Corbusier furniture are western. The private lift opens on every floor, but there are spiral staircases between the floors, and a sweeping, curved double staircase goes from the foyer to the second floor. Two large reception rooms, a formal dining room, two bathrooms and a huge gourmet kitchen are on
the first floor. The second floor has a large lounge with a baby grand piano and a mini bar, an office / library, three guest suites and a bathroom. A mini cinema with seating for twenty, another guest bathroom, and the master suite – with a gym, sauna and indoor Jacuzzi – are on the third floor. And of course there’s a roof-garden with a fifty foot pool and an outdoor Jacuzzi to top it all off.
———
Susie’s coming to visit me in Citizen Tower. Technically, I’d spent the night with her when she slept in my bed at the Ritz-Carlton and I slept in the guest bedroom. But I haven’t seen much of her since Fran Cooke was signed into a private psychiatric nursing home in England – even though there isn’t a damn thing wrong with his mind.
Seeing the way Susie filled one of my Sam the Tailor shirts that night I was tempted to try a goodnight cuddle. But even I have some sense of decency, and I thought I’d better not try it on the day her husband went missing. Or more accurately, the night her husband was dragged away and flown across the world to be committed to a psychiatric facility to stop him reporting on Clarrion.
I’ve been in Plume’s a few times while Susie was lunching with clients, and we’ve waved to each other across the bar at the FCC. I noticed that she’s changed her outfits; her skirts are shorter and her tops reveal too much cleavage…at least I think so.
Susie just rang from a taxi. I’ll meet her down in the lobby.
She looks terrific; she’s wearing a black dress that drapes over her bust but stops well short of her knees. I’m pleased to see that she’s thought about what to wear…it’s the same outfit she wore the night she slept over at the Ritz-Carlton.
We took the private lift up to the staff floor, below the penthouse proper. The view faces away from Victoria Harbour, but Susie’s still impressed. I got a real laugh when I showed her the spiral staircase leading up to the first floor of the penthouse. I admit I’m showing off – like a kid with a new toy trying to impress the girl next door – but it’s working. She ooed and aahed at the top of the stairs and rushed out to the balcony.
“Wow, this is really stunning, just look at that view! Finn, how the hell did you get a place like this?! The furniture…the paintings…they’re incredible…fantastic! That’s an Andy Warhol! Good God, I’d swear that’s a Barbara Hepworth sculpture!”
My let’s-impress-the-girl act really took off when I turned Susie around and led her to the double staircase. “OK Susie, but can we go to the rest of my apartment now?”
“The rest of your apartment? The rest of your insanely luxurious penthouse you mean!” she said, not even trying to hide the fact that she’s impressed, very impressed.
She tripped up the stairs ahead of me; I took my time following her. That gave her a chance to take in the spectacular view of the harbour…and it gave me a look at her fabulous legs.
I’ve organised a catering company to deliver and serve our meal in the roof-garden. The air is fresher up here than it is down in Central. Even so, it’s pretty muggy, and we didn’t stay outside very long after dinner.
Susie said she’d have brought her swimming costume if she’d known about the pool. When I recommended skinny dipping I got a playful punch for my trouble, but she linked her arm into mine as we went down to the lounge.
We sat beside each other on a settee, looking out over the harbour.
“Fran’s brother Gary is a man of few words, but even he fell short about what you do to earn a crust…apart from some vague comments. Whatever it is, you must be very good at it…very successful…to afford a place like this. And the clothes you wear aren’t cheap Hong Kong rip-offs. So tell me, are you just stinking rich, or stinking filthy rich?”
“Susie my dear, don’t be fooled by appearances. The fellah who fixed it for me to lease this place goes around in a dodgy coolie outfit, lives in a bungalow on Lamma and dines at the Waterfront Bar. He’s going to inherit this whole building if his brother doesn’t reappear from New York…and I’m told that’s not very likely. What’s more, some of my casual clobber comes from the stalls at Stanley Market. But to answer your question, I’m neither rich nor poor. I’m making a few dollars at the moment, and I look forward to making more in the very near future.
“Speaking about money, how are things with you since Fran’s departure? I assume he’s not earning, or sending you any money. Will you look for a divorce, or are you waiting to see how things develop?”
I realise I’m pushing my luck with the question about divorce. Shite, I hardly know the woman. Still, my questions gave Susie the opportunity to offload on me. It all came gushing out, right back to the fights she had with her father when she told him about Fran and their age difference. With tears in her eyes, she confessed that she hasn’t spoken to her father since the day she stormed out of his chambers in London’s Thames Court, near the Old Bailey.
“He was so angry, so disappointed. I miss him dreadfully,” she said.
I wiped her tears and stuck a large glass of Montrachet in her hand. She sipped the wine, gained control of herself, and continued describing her unhappy marriage. I couldn’t believe it when she told me about the time in Australia when Fran demanded she go under the surgeon’s knife to have her breasts reduced. I’m saying breasts…she said ‘tits’.
The poor girl got really embarrassed when she told me about trying to get shagged by a stranger and having to jerk the fellah off. She confessed that was only the second cock she’d ever touched, and that the thought of that great big thing inside her was too scary.
I decided it’s as good a time as any to mention that, apart from what she’s wearing now, I think her recent dress sense isn’t great.
“Susie, because of your figure, most men are genetically pre-programmed to think you’re a slapper when you wear revealing outfits. They shouldn’t, they have no reason to, but they do. Tonight you’re wearing what suits you…it’s sexy, classy…but not obvious.”
That little speech earned me a kiss on the cheek, and I took it as my cue.
“Would you like to stay the night?” Not sure that I’m on solid ground yet, I quickly added, “There are plenty of bedrooms. Pick anyone you like…except that one up there, that’s mine.”
Susie jumped up and flicked off her shoes. She padded barefoot around the penthouse, opening doors and squealing with delight at every new discovery. Eventually she picked the main guest suite.
“Susie love, why don’t you go up to the dressing room off my bedroom and get a shirt to sleep in.”
As I uncorked another bottle of wine Susie reappeared, she’s wearing another of my Sam the Tailor shirts. When I sat next to her on the settee I noticed that it doesn’t hide that she’s no longer wearing a bra.
Sometime in the wee hours of the morning – after two more bottles of Montrachet – Susie took my head and rested it on her shoulder. Then, out of the blue, she suggested that I invite Paul Wills, the stockbroker, and his wife, to the penthouse for a barbecue and a swim in the pool.
“You see Finn, Paul’s been giving me tips on shares to buy…and each time they’ve gone up in value. The profits are helping me out…since that useless husband of mine isn’t.”
“I think I met Paul Wills in Plume’s. I’m sure that’s the fellah Michael Harrington-Browne introduced me to anyway,” I said, while burrowing my head around until my face lay on her left breast. I could feel her nipple hardening under my cheek.
“What about this weekend?” I suggested.
“Why not? But now it’s time for bed,” she said, as she stroked my hair.
21
HONG KONG
Over a plate of barbecued duck and a pint of Bulmers Irish Cider from Clonmel, Susie raised the idea with Paul of helping me with my share investments…like he’s been helping her. A smile crossed his face that’s more than a fair imitation of a cat that’s found the cream.
“How much have you got to invest?” he asked, like any good stockbroker worth his salt.
“I’m thinking ten thousand US, for starter
s anyway,” I said, with a bit of a wink to drive home the message that there’s more if it’s needed.
“We should be able to double your ten thousand in a month. But I can’t deal with you directly, as we only work for a small number of fund managers. You’ll need to register with a stockbroker on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange and lodge your investment with him.” He reached across to his jacket that’s slung over a deck chair and pulled a sterling silver card case from the pocket. “There’s another of my cards, call me when you have a broker. We’ll meet in Plume’s, or somewhere quiet, so you can give me the name of your broker and your trading name. But other than that, no telephone calls…please. There mustn’t be a direct connection between us that can lead to any kind of awkward questions.”
———
After the weekend barbecue for Paul and Anne Wills, I feel that I’m finally getting wired into the real Hong Kong – the Hong Kong that makes you rich. I got the name of a stockbroker from Hamish, the Scots accountant. At my new stockbroker’s suggestion, we met at the American Club. I gave him a cheque for ten thousand US and the name Bodacious Beauties for my trades.
I met Paul in Plume’s and gave him the name of my stockbroker. He laughed when I told him the trading name, and he agreed it’s a fitting tribute to Susie. I let him have a few stiff gins before I asked any questions.
“Paul, how is it you’re so confident about doubling my money?”
“We only trade in second and third line stocks, which are always down in the bottom quarter of the lists and lightly traded. Each afternoon our clients give us a list of twenty stocks to buy the following day. We have more money than we need to push these second-stringers to any price we’re told, so we keep on buying until the price is pushed up to the figure they’ve told us to sell at. I’ll give you the names of twelve of the twenty stocks our clients have given us, and you tell your broker to buy and sell them at the prices I say. All the little investors watch the stocks climb and jump on them, usually just before we begin to sell. They may pick up a few points at the tail-end of the trades, so they’re happy. The Hong Kong Stock Exchange is always awash with rumours of takeovers that never materialise, but it never stops the little speculators from hoping they’re on to one. Some people call it insider trading. I call it making money. But not a word to Michael or Natasha Harrington-Browne, please. What the eye doesn’t see…etcetera, etcetera. Susie’s cool. As you know, I’ve already put her on to a couple of nice ones to help her meet a few bills, now that Fran’s not around.”
