The Red Pole of Macau

by Ian Hamilton

  Hop handed her an envelope. “Tylenol 3 — take one whenever you need it. There is no virtue to being in pain when it isn’t necessary.”

  “I have a car waiting outside,” Uncle said to Ava, and then turned to Hop. “I was pleased to find that you are still here after all these years.”

  “I provide a service that always seems to be in demand in Macau.”

  ( 30 )

  A Mercedes-Benz S-Class was idling at the hospital entrance. Ava eased into the back seat next to Uncle. The front passenger seat had been pushed all the way forward so she could stretch out her leg completely.

  As the car pulled away from the clinic, Ava turned to Uncle and said, “How did the rest of the day go for everyone else?”

  “All hell broke loose for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “The cops went back to the house, and when they saw your cars were gone, they went in. They did not expect to see three dead bodies. It went all the way up the line, and the police chief called General Feng. The chief said they had not agreed to that kind of action and was ready to put out an alert to stop the SUVs — they had written down the plate numbers when they were at the house. Feng called May to warn her. She was in the car with you and Sonny, and Sonny decided to get you to the clinic and then park the vehicles somewhere safe until things got resolved. That was a good decision. It would have been too dangerous to go anywhere near the ferry terminal.”

  “How did it get resolved?”

  Uncle shrugged. “The same way it always does in Macau. Favours were exchanged, and sometime in the next few days money will change hands. We will have to pay Feng and the Macanese police. May is going to put up half, and I committed to the rest.”

  “My brother, my problem, my money,” Ava said. “I don’t want you or May to pay a penny.”

  “You were not available, so we handled it. We will sort it out later.”

  “So everyone got back to Hong Kong?”

  “Almost in time for lunch.”

  “Thank God.”

  “I think the fat little blond man was more inclined to say ‘Thank Ava.’”

  She shifted her weight and pain shot down her leg. “Simon got to Sha Tin?”

  “Yes, the girl Amanda called May after he arrived there. He told her you were shot and she was out of her mind with worry. May calmed her.”

  “I couldn’t have done any of this without May.”

  “She went to Hop’s clinic with Sonny late this afternoon. They wanted to stay but Hop would not let them. No room, he said. He did not want them to know exactly who he was or what he does. They will be waiting for us in Hong Kong.”

  The terminal was coming into view when she thought about what Uncle had said to her at the clinic about Wu and Lok. “You ordered Sonny to go to Macau with me, didn’t you.”

  “I suggested it to him. He thought it was a good idea.”

  “You told him to make sure Wu and Lok died, didn’t you.”

  He held her hand, his index finger tapping gently. “I have known men like them all my life. It would have been foolish not to get rid of them. I am getting old, Ava, but I am not a fool. And neither are you. Without Sonny, without me, you would have made the same decision.”

  Lok’s face, with its twisted mouth, gnarled teeth, and desperate eyes, filled her mind. What had he said? We made a deal.

  Ava turned away from Uncle and looked at the jetfoil terminal, lit up like the City of Dreams. She was an hour from Hong Kong, less than a full day’s journey from Toronto.

  Time to go home, she thought.

  COMING SOON

  from House of Anansi Press in February 2013

  Read on for a preview of the next thrilling Ava Lee novel,

  The Scottish Banker of Surabaya

  PROLOGUE

  Revenge was not an emotion she was accustomed to managing.

  In the course of business there were times when things came unstuck and she found herself on the wrong end of an outcome. But in her mind it was still business, and the people who were causing her grief were simply exercising their own right to do business as they saw fit.

  This was different. He had made it personal, more personal than she could have imagined possible.

  She lay in the dark, cold despite being wrapped in a thick duvet, and she thought about the day that was about to dawn.

  She was going to get him. She was going to hurt him. The thought of it didn’t bring peace. It ran unchecked in her mind, bouncing from pain to pain.

  She prayed she would be calmer and in control when the moment came. It might be brutal revenge she sought, but she still wanted it to be quiet, and private.

  ( 1 )

  It was the Friday before the Labour Day weekend, the last weekend of Canadian summer, and Ava Lee woke with the realization that her two months of relative seclusion were about to end.

  She lay quietly for a moment, listening for the sounds of birds that greeted her every morning through her open bedroom window. She heard the leaves rustling and lake water lapping against the dock, and she knew the wind was up.

  She moved her legs and felt a burning sensation in her right thigh. Two and a half months before, she had been shot there during a house invasion in Macau. She had flown back to Canada two days later on crutches that had evolved into a cane and then a limp. Most mornings she felt nothing in the leg, only to have the pain reappear randomly, burning and throbbing; it seemed to twitch, to be almost alive.

  Ava was a debt collector. It was a job often fraught with peril, and over the ten years she had worked with her Hong Kong partner, Uncle, she had been stabbed, kicked, punched, hit with a tire iron, and whipped with a belt. None of them had left a permanent mark; none of them revisited her like the muscle memory of that bullet.

  She pulled down the sheets and glanced at her leg. The doctor in Macau had done a good job getting the bullet out of her thigh and treating the initial wound, but he was no cosmetic surgeon. Her girlfriend, Maria, had gasped when she first saw the raw red scar, which eventually turned into a less ugly long pink worm.

  She slid from the bed, slipped on her Adidas training pants, and left the bedroom. She walked softly down the hallway so as not to disturb her mother and went into the kitchen. The hot water Thermos she had brought from her Toronto condo sat ready on the counter. She opened a sachet of Starbucks VIA instant coffee and made her first cup of the morning.

  The sun was well over the horizon, but she could still see the last remnants of morning dew glistening on the wooden deck. She opened the kitchen door and felt a slight chill in the air. She put on her Adidas running jacket, slipped her iphone into a pocket, grabbed a dish towel, tucked her laptop under one arm, and, balancing her coffee, walked across the wet grass to the dock.

  Ava started every morning on the dock with her coffee and her electronic device. She wiped the dew from the wooden Muskoka chair and eased herself into it. One broad arm held her coffee, the other comfortably accommodated the phone. She turned it on.

  It was just past nine o’clock, and the emails from the part of her world that was beginning its day were first in line. Maria had emailed at eight. I have a seat on the Casino Rama bus leaving the city at 4 this afternoon. I should be at Rama by 5:30. Do you want me to take a cab to the cottage?

  Ava started to reply and then realized Maria would be at her desk at the Colombian Trade Commission office by now. She called her direct line.

  “Hi, honey,” Maria said.

  “I’ll pick you up in front of the casino hotel,” Ava said.

  “Your mother is staying at the hotel again?”

  “Yes.”

  “She doesn’t like me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “She never wants to be in my company, and when she is, the only two things she ever says to me are that I have nice manners and that I look goo
d in bright colours.”

  “Those are compliments.”

  “I make her uncomfortable.”

  “No, we make her uncomfortable. Although we’ve never discussed it, I know she can’t stay in the cottage when you’re here because she wouldn’t be able to stop herself thinking about what’s going on in our bedroom. She’s very Chinese and very Catholic, and as understanding as she tries to be, there are limits to what she can handle. Is your very Colombian, very Catholic mother any different?”

  “No,” Maria said softly.

  “So I’ll see you tonight. The weather forecast for the weekend is fantastic.”

  Ava returned to the emails. Her sister, Marian, had sent one of her typical newsy emails. The girls go back to school on Tuesday. New uniforms for them this year. I bought them over a month ago, and when I did I couldn’t help but remember how Mummy always left doing that until the very last minute, and how we ended up in long lines that took hours to process and were lucky at the end to find uniforms in the right size.

  Ava sighed. Her mother and her sister had personalities that didn’t mesh well, and the relationship grew even more contentious when Marian married an uptight gweilo civil servant who was incapable of understanding a woman like Jennie Lee.

  And I can’t believe that she actually stayed at the cottage with you for two months, Marian wrote. She came to our cottage in the Gatineaus once and barely lasted the week. She said she didn’t like blackflies, squirrels, raccoons, horseflies, mosquitoes, dirt roads, and cold lakes.

  Give the girls a hug for me, Ava replied. I’m sure they’ll have another great year at school. As for Mummy, well, she initially came to the cottage because she knew I needed her help, and she stayed because I stocked the fridge with Chinese food, brought in Chinese cable TV, told her to invite her friends from Richmond Hill to play mah-jong, and most evenings I drive her over to Casino Rama to play baccarat.

  The cottage was on Lake Couchiching, near the town of Orillia, about an hour’s drive from Toronto’s northern suburbs and only fifteen minutes from the casino. She had discovered it online, surprised to find something that could give her the privacy she wanted and still be close to good restaurants and the services she was used to.

  She worked down her email list, deleting most of them until she got to the part of her world that was ending its day. There were emails from Amanda Yee, her half-­brother’s fiancée, in Hong Kong, and from May Ling Wong in Wuhan. Amanda was worrying about wedding dates and venues, two subjects Ava had no interest in. May Ling’s message was long and colourful.

  Ava had met May Ling as a client. Their early relationship devolved into mistrust and anger, but fences had been mended and May had been supportive and indeed integral to Ava’s success in Macau. The two women were now friends, and perhaps becoming more than just friends. May’s emails were chatty, full of news about her business and other things going on in her life. She asked questions, sought advice, but mainly wrote to Ava as if she were writing in a diary. The first few times that May became intensely personal, Ava had been taken aback. She didn’t need to know, she thought, about May’s fears, the details of her marriage and sex life. Then she became accustomed to it and even found herself — tentatively — sharing more of herself with May. They had not been and never would be physically intimate, but there was an emotional connection. May Ling, a Taoist, said it was qi — the life force — flowing between them.

  About once a week May would phone. She was smart, tough, and funny and could buck up Ava’s spirits in no time. It was during one of those calls that May had asked Ava if she would be interested in joining her business. She and her husband, Changxing, were the wealthiest couple in Hubei province and among the wealthiest in China. It was time for them to make some North American investments, she said, and they needed someone to spearhead the initiative.

  “I wouldn’t be a very good employee,” Ava said.

  “A partner, then,” May said.

  “I have a partner, and I have a business.”

  “Ava, you know that Uncle can’t keep doing this for much longer, and I can’t imagine you would want to do it without him.”

  For ten years Ava and Uncle had been partners in the collection business. They had met when both were separately pursuing the same thief and had bonded almost at once. He was now in his late seventies or maybe his eighties — Ava didn’t know — and he had become more than a partner. He was a mentor, almost a grandfather, and the most important man in her life. And that was the source of her dilemma. She was tired of the stresses of the job, fed up with the kind of people she had to pursue, and she was beginning to wonder how much longer her luck could hold out when it came to dodging bullets and knives.

  As she mended, she had waited for the urge to get back to work to return. It hadn’t. She then began to ask herself if it was possible that it never would.

  During her recuperation Uncle had stayed in constant touch by phone. He didn’t discuss business or ask when she was coming back; his only concern was her health and her family and friends. He did talk about May Ling, whom he knew well. He had urged Ava to make up with her when their relationship went sour, and his judgement of May Ling’s character had proven to be correct.

  “The woman has guanxi, influence, and could be a very powerful ally for you in the years ahead. You need to stay close to her,” he said during one call.

  Ava didn’t know if Uncle knew about May’s offer, and she wasn’t about to tell him. “I have a business partner,” she said.

  “Yes, one who is not going to be here forever.”

  “I have a business partner,” she repeated.

  “I am not suggesting otherwise,” he said.

  Ava thought that over time she could grow as close to May Ling as she was to Uncle, sharing the kind of closeness where trust is absolute and forgiveness is never necessary. The chance to do real business, to build a company, was an attractive proposition. Ava was an accountant with degrees from York University in Toronto and Babson College, just outside Boston, and liked the idea of using her education for something other than locating and retrieving stolen money.

  But no matter how she spun things, it all came down to one fact: she couldn’t leave Uncle. He loved her, she knew, and she realized that she was the daughter — or, more likely, granddaughter — he had never had. She loved him in return. Neither of them had ever mentioned the word love. Their relationship was built on things that were never said, and never needed to be said.

  Ava finished her coffee and weighed the options of having another or starting her workout regime. At the beginning of her second week in the north, Ava had begun to exercise again. She started with a walk/jog cycle in the mornings and rapidly extended the distances and increased her pace. In the afternoon she would go down to the lakeside and do bak mei drills in slow motion, as she had been taught. Only a handful of people in Canada practised this martial art. It was taught one-on-one, traditionally passed down from father to son, or in her case from teacher to student. It wasn’t pretty to watch but it was effective, designed to inflict the maximum possible damage. Ava had become adept at it.

  “Ava, do you mind if I join you?”

  The voice startled her. She looked up and saw her mother standing to one side with a cup in each hand.

  “I made you another coffee,” Jennie Lee said.

  “Thanks. I’m surprised to see you up this early.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Is something bothering you?”

  Jennie passed a coffee to her daughter and then sat in the other Muskoka chair, ignoring its dampness, her eyes fixed on the lake. “I need a favour,” she said.

  Jennie was close to sixty years old, but even without makeup and with her face lit by the morning sun, she looked like a woman in her forties. “What is it?” Ava said.

  “I’d like you to drive me to the casino at three o’
clock.”

  “That’s early, Mummy. Maria doesn’t get in until five thirty.”

  “I know, but I need you to talk to someone there.”

  “Who?”

  “Theresa Ng.”

  “Who is Theresa Ng?”

  Jennie Lee took a pack of DuMaurier extra-mild king-size cigarettes from her housecoat pocket, lit one, and blew smoke towards the lake. “She is a baccarat dealer at Rama.”

  “Why would I talk to a baccarat dealer?”

  “She has a problem.”

  “I’m not a counsellor.”

  Jennie took two more long puffs and then threw the cigarette to the ground. “She has a money problem.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I asked her why she looked so troubled.”

  Ava knew that her mother made friends as easily as other people changed clothes. There wasn’t a store she went into or a restaurant she ate at where she didn’t ask the server or the sales associate what their name was and how they were doing.

  “How does this involve me?” Ava said.

  Jennie leaned her head against the back of the chair and then slowly turned towards her daughter. “Just because I never talk to you about what you do for a living doesn’t mean I don’t know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I’ve always had suspicions that you didn’t make all that money you have by being a good accountant. I also found it strange that you work with Uncle, but I ignored all the rumours about his triad connections by telling myself he’s an old man who’s moved on to other things. But any doubts I had were put to rest after you went to Hong Kong and Macau and saved Michael’s partner’s life, and their business.”

  “Michael wasn’t in Macau.”

  “Ava, please don’t treat me as if I’m an idiot or can’t handle the truth.”

  Ava sipped her coffee and stared out at the water, which was dotted with people quietly fishing from canoes and small boats. The jet skiers usually invaded the lake after lunch and then departed before dinner, leaving the lake to the fishermen again until dusk. “Macau was hard on me emotionally as well as physically,” she said. “I don’t like talking about it.”