by Mike Coony
I get the feeling that this is where I come into the picture. In fact, I can brag that I’m a bit ahead of Gerry here. “Would the Gambia in Africa suit you?” I asked. The Cheshire cat’s grin on Gerry’s face got bigger, if that’s even possible. “They get a shiteload of tourists changing traveller’s cheques. I’ve been there a few times doing a little bit of business. They definitely don’t trust their own currency, and they use traveller’s cheques for their savings.”
Gerry’s beer has been abandoned. “Finn, are you shittin’ me man? That’s gotta be perfect. You still got any contacts over there?”
Before Gerry finished asking the question I’d decided on the perfect man. He’s a Lebanese fellah whose family has lived in the Gambia for three generations, and he’s a villain. His main source of income is swapping African bush marijuana for jeeps stolen to order in Europe. Then the jeeps are loaded into containers in Rotterdam and shipped to Dakar, Senegal.
Now I’m the one with the grin. “Yeah Gerry, there might be a fellah. It’s been a while…but I’ll try getting hold of him and see what he thinks.”
We talked into the early hours of the morning, and Gerry slept in what we now refer to as ‘Susie’s Suite’ – since she stayed the night with me. Gerry had an early breakfast and headed for the heliport in Sheung Wan. He’s meeting Earl in Macau before going home to Sea Ranch on Lantau Island.
As soon as Gerry was gone I rang Mac from my mobile. I told him to contact Africa and find out if Hussein is in Banjul or Dakar. I also told him to ring Ingrid and ask her for a password because I want to send her some money by Western Union, and she’ll need to give a password when she collects it.
When Mac rang me back he told me that Hussein Ahmed will be at the usual hotel in Dakar, Senegal for the next three days, and Ingrid’s password is ‘bear’.
I know Hussein’s only reason for being in Dakar is to meet his stolen jeeps arriving from Europe. After he has his breakfast he’ll go to the docks to watch them being unloaded, and then he’ll pay the bribes to get them cleared through Customs.
I got Hussein on the phone and I knew immediately that he hasn’t lost his touch. It’s ten a.m. here, so that’s two in the morning in Dakar, but he cottoned on to the deal instantly. He suggested exchanging the traveller’s cheques for teak timber from the up-country foresters in the Gambia.
“I’ll put the idea to them,” I told him, before cutting the connection.
Mammy used to caution me – remember Finn, any eejit can put a horse before a cart. Do you hear me? You be sure to put yours twixt-about and keep them guessing. I made use of this example of confused, but well-meant, life advice to justify my decision to leave Gerry hanging for a bit before I fill him in on the teak idea.
———
I arranged to meet Susie and Paul in Plume’s for lunch. On my way over I stopped at Western Union to send Ingrid some ‘walking-around’ money. Jaysus, I think I’ve been hanging around the Yanks too much, but there you go.
Paul’s not in Plume’s yet, but Susie’s seated at my favourite table. It has the best view of the harbour through the floor to ceiling windows, and by glancing at the mirrored wall behind the bar you can see everyone entering the restaurant before they see you. There’s an ice bucket with a bottle of 1983 Château d’Yquem Lur-Saluces on the table, but I ordered a pot of tea.
“Finn Flynn, you are a perverse individual! What other man would order tea in a wine bar?” Susie laughed.
I ignored her remark. And thinking that we’ve progressed from kisses on the cheek, or brief encounters on the lips, I leant across the table and kissed her shapely lips deliberately, but softly.
“Have you had any word from Fran?” I asked, more out of duty than interest.
“Yes and no. The solicitor chap telephoned last night. He petitioned the courts to have Fran discharged from that ridiculous psychiatric place. He got the psychiatrist in charge to admit before a judge that, apart from fatigue and a touch of depression, there is nothing mentally wrong with Fran. Then he told me that Fran wants a ‘quickie’ divorce, and asked if I’ll co-operate.”
“Jaysus! He didn’t waste any time! What…is he to marry one of the psychiatric nurses, or one of the patients, eh? Will you divorce him?”
“You bet, but not straight away. How did the bastard think I’d manage to pay the rent on that ridiculous house in Pokfulam without his salary from the South China Morning Times? Obviously he doesn’t give me, or our bills, a second thought…so we have some business to finish. Anyway, I had to give up the house, and I’ve been sharing with a professor from Hong Kong Uni for the past month. They’re a stingy lot at the university. The prof is a single woman and she only gets a minuscule apartment with room for one double bed. It’s rather a squash, but that can have its own rewards, as you can probably imagine…risk-free orgasms, to name but one.”
Paul Wills joined us, so I didn’t get a chance to comment on this confirmation that Susie likes to participate in a little lesbian action. I’d also like to know if Fran is in fact marrying one of his psychiatric nurses or, less likely, a patient – but I don’t want to discuss Susie’s personal business in company.
We swapped gossip for ten minutes before I sprang the news. “Folks, I’m after agreeing to accompany a friend to Africa, and I’ll be out of Hong Kong for about a week. I’m hoping, Susie, that you can take over briefing my stockbroker with the daily stock information from Paul.”
She looks bemused, but she’s waiting until the waitress finishes serving our entrées to get an explanation. Paul doesn’t look very enthusiastic about my suggestion, but I didn’t ask him outright what he thinks. I gave him one of my exaggerated shrugged shoulders and raised eyebrows gestures. He got the message and explained.
“Finn, Susie, I’m not wishing to piss on the parade, but what about the penniless prof you share a bed with Susie? And that’s to say nothing of her equally impoverished colleagues and friends at the university. What if they were to overhear the details of our daily buys? Then the s-h-i-t would hit the roof. And frankly, the gig would be over and the goose properly plucked.”
“Paul, enough with the mixed metaphors if you don’t mind. I get the picture,” I said. One slip from Susie while she’s on the phone with Paul or the broker is all it would take. Her prof would be bound to pass on the insider info to her pals. Fair enough, I thought, and dropped the second bombshell. “Susie, you can move into my penthouse while I’m away. Receive and make the calls there…and enjoy a bit of extra space for a while. Unless you’d miss being squashed?” I said. Apart from a week of luxurious living – compared to where she’s living now – I realised that Susie hasn’t asked what’s in it for her. “And, before you ask Susie, we’ll split the profits forty-sixty on the shares you trade on my account. I figure the way things have been going, you should get about four thousand US.”
The look on her face confirms what I’m thinking. It’s a lot more than she’s been getting from her design work for the financial clients with ‘oodles of money’ and the odd trade from Paul combined. When I felt a hand rub my leg and pat my knee under the table I knew we have a deal. And, as I tend to, I read more into what was probably only a gracious gesture from a grateful friend.
One thing puzzles me….How does Paul know about Susie’s professor? Then it dawned on me – they all know each other, and they shared secrets long before I showed my face in Hong Kong. Silly me, not wanting to discuss Susie’s personal business in front of Paul!
———
I reached Gerry late in the afternoon, and I outlined what Hussein suggested about the timber. I also pointed out the obvious, which is that the Filipinos might not want to deal with timber, as they have thousands of islands of the stuff already.
“No problem. I’ll talk to Uncle Sui. He has contacts in Japan and they use hardwoods like teak for concrete shuttering. They’ll probably take it if the price is right and the Renewable Forestry Certificates stand up,” said Gerry.
“That�
�s grand. It looks like we’re in business then,” I said, before I hung up.
I telephoned Dakar and gave Hussein the news. He’ll return to the Gambia tomorrow and drive up-country to talk to the foresters in Basse.
———
Sitting aboard a Star Ferry, I’m on my way for afternoon tea at the Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon. And it’s just struck me – what the feck have I got meself into? I’m helping Taiwanese millionaires move money illegally. I’m up to me bollocks in insider trading on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange. And as of yesterday, I’m setting up a counterfeit traveller’s cheque scam in West Africa. Jaysus, I only came East to hide from the police till they lose interest in me and I can send heroin to scumbag junkies in England and Scotland – especially Rangers Football Club supporters…the bastards!
24
HONG KONG and ENGLAND
Moving from Professor Shirley Jones’s miniscule apartment to Finn Flynn’s massive penthouse is like moving to a different planet. Here, the air smells of wealth and privilege – or jasmine and sweet honeysuckle, to be precise. I certainly don’t miss the clunking fans that never cool the air, knickers and bras hanging to dry on the side of the bath, cockroaches crawling on the kitchen floor, or the aroma of Baygon insect repellent.
Before Finn left for Africa he introduced me to his stockbroker. My instant impression was that the man’s gay – he didn’t look at my tits once, not even a sneaky peek. In his doubled-breasted chalk-striped suit, Royal Hong Kong Golf Club member’s tie, and Grenson lace-up shoes he looked the part of a broker…but something’s missing. I just can’t put my finger on it. He lacks some characteristic I’m used to seeing in the hungry bastard brokers I come across in Plume’s, or occasionally at the FCC.
Anyway, I phone Finn’s man at eight fifteen on trading mornings, to give him the information from Paul. Apart from repeating back the stock names and buy and sell times, he says almost nothing.
I’ve done a bit of snooping around Finn’s penthouse, but I’ve found no family photographs, no letters or postcards. It’s as if Finn Flynn didn’t exist before he arrived in Hong Kong, but, of course, I know he did. Fran’s brother Gary swore by him. Gary was convinced that I’d find Finn a good chap to have on my side. How can I not agree? If it weren’t for Finn Flynn, God only knows how long I would’ve gone on thinking that Fran had been disappeared. And now Finn’s let me move into his spectacular penthouse…even if it is only for a week or so.
I always feel completely safe when I’m around Finn, like I know nothing bad can happen. I’ve noticed when he approaches a bar to order a drink he doesn’t push through the crowd; people get out of his way without being asked. Chinese punks on the street concentrate on their feet when he passes them. And I see the way women look at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice them.
I’d love to bed him, but I’m afraid it might spoil our friendship…if that’s what our relationship is. I do think he wanted more from me after our first meal at the Mozart Stub’n. I was a little disappointed that he didn’t try to get me back to his hotel that night. I was even more disappointed that he didn’t get my hint when I said it was ‘time for bed’ the first and last time I stayed overnight here in the penthouse. But naturally, I’d never admit it…not to him.
Despite whatever that lying bastard of a soon-to-be-ex-husband of mine told his doctors at the funny farm, there are no other men in my life. I meet chaps through work, and I know fellows at Plume’s and the FCC, and that’s it.
We’re not even divorced yet and Fran’s found himself someone else to marry, in record time I might add. I haven’t a clue what she’s like, all I know is that she’s a psychiatric nurse at the home they put him in. Can you believe it?! On reflection, maybe it’s not really that surprising. I didn’t think Fran would try for another Cheltenham Ladies’ College girl. He told me once that he found me a little too self-confident…which just goes to show how little the jerk knows about me after all these years.
———
I wasn’t the tiniest bit self-assured at school. It was only my relationship with my art teacher, Mademoiselle Marie-Thérèse Gullet, that gave me the confidence to face up to the other girls.
Marie-Thérèse spent two years at finishing school in Lucerne, and she studied at the Sorbonne in Paris. She had a raven-black bob and wore enormous gold gypsy earrings and bright red lipstick…while no bra held her shapely breasts. Every red-blooded sixth former was madly in lust with her.
At the end of the second week of spring term, Mademoiselle announced to the form that we would begin life drawing the following week. When she asked for volunteers to pose for three-minute sketches the classroom filled with giggles, titters and smirks. And of course there were lurid remarks from the usual gaggle of morons…hoping to convince us other girls how sophisticated they were.
I would’ve volunteered to pose, but if I had, I knew the abuse I’d get in the dorm that night would’ve been merciless. It was horrible enough contending with the comments in the showers – dairy maid, balloon babe – never mind if I’d actually bared my breasts in art class! Flat-chested teenage girls can be incredibly cruel.
When we arrived in the art room the next week there were pads of cartridge paper and boxes of charcoal waiting for us. And tall easels had been arranged in a semi-circle around a chaise longue draped with a black velvet throw.
Mademoiselle Gullet entered the room and clapped her hands. She told us to take a stick of charcoal, a pad of paper and to stand at an easel. Then she said we must be ready to capture three poses in ten minutes.
She stepped out of her dress and stood there naked. There were gasps of shock from the girls when she laid on the chaise longue with her back arched and her leg draped so that we could all see the pink lips of her vagina contrasting with her thick, black pubic hair. She held that pose for three minutes, and then she sprang up and ran quickly from easel to easel, making comments as she went.
When she reached my easel she poised and leant over my shoulder to correct my sketch. I could feel the heat of her naked breasts through the thin blouse of my summer uniform. It felt so exciting I almost fainted.
The talk in the sixth form dorm that night was about what we’d all seen in the art room…and what some imagined they’d seen. Did you ever see so much pussy hair? I’ll never shave mine again. Did you see the look she gave me when I asked her to lift her arm and show me more of her nipples?
All the other girls volunteered to pose during the next art lesson. We’d seen each other in the showers, so there were no girly giggles, but I still didn’t volunteer. Anyway, I enjoyed capturing the short poses with rapid strokes of my charcoal.
When class ended Marie-Thérèse told me to remain in the room. After the other girls had packed up their sketches and left she stared directly at me, reached out and cupped my left tit in her hand.
“Susie, Susie, you must sit for me,” she said briskly. Then she lifted up both my tits. “These…these are magnificent! Perfect for breast-feeding, ne sont-ils pas pour? Yes, ma chérie, you must pose for me at my privé studio in town.”
She also said something about Dutch masters and Flemish women breast-feeding, but I wasn’t taking in what she was saying. The thought of being naked with the woman of my nightly dreams was all I could think of.
“Oui, oui…yes, yes. Tout temps…any time,” I blurted out in my schoolgirl French.
Over that summer Marie-Thérèse led me into the world of lesbian love. She awoke such sexual passion in me, I felt alive for the first time in my life. Of course, I believed that I was in love and resigned to spending my life devoted to another female – a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian disciple of Lesbos and follower of Sister Benedetta Carlini.
My first visit to a music festival changed all that. Sex with Marie-Thérèse had been fabulous, but sex with Fran had been divine, extraordinary, out-of-this-world-super! When I returned to Cheltenham for the autumn term I was a woman – a sexually experienced woman who infinitely preferred a man making love
to me.
Fran came to Cheltenham most weekends that term. Marie-Thérèse eventually accepted that our affair was at an end, but not before tricking me into a threesome with her and the assistant gym mistress. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t enjoyed myself…wedged between two beautiful passionate women. But I didn’t return for a repeat performance, and Marie-Thérèse found a new special student.
———
Apart from the Harley rider at the Australiana, Professor Shirley Jones is the only woman to turn me on since I left school. To thank her for offering me her home, her friendship, and her bed, I decided to treat Shirley to a weekend of luxury in Finn Flynn’s penthouse. We swam in the rooftop pool, drank Champagne, spent hours in the Jacuzzi…and didn’t wear a stitch of clothing for two days.
25
THE GAMBIA
I left Hong Kong before breakfast, flew via Senegal to the Gambia, and arrived in Banjul before tea time. Gerry flew from Macau to England; his packaged holiday direct flight from Manchester landed in Banjul International Airport an hour before I did.
Hussein booked each of us a bungalow in the grounds of a newly opened American hotel about eight kilometres outside Banjul, on the seashore. Within the lush, green grounds of the hotel complex there’s a sweet smell from the array of exotic flowers growing alongside the paved pathways that wend around the place.
The enormous swimming pool is surrounded by straw-covered umbrellas that shelter guests from the scorching sun that appears to linger in the sky directly overhead. Smiling gardeners in light blue overalls silently tend the gardens with hoes and rakes, and sweep the paths with witches’ brooms. The swish, swish sound of the brooms creates a background to the chirps of the tropical birds and the high-pitched clicking of the male cicadas.
