Dragon Breath

by Valerie Goldsilk

  “Knew I’d find you here,” the newcomer said in a British accent.

  “It’s not difficult. I’m a man of habit.”

  “Good for you, McHardy. How about those transistor radios? What do you think of the price?”

  “Not too good, Michael. But I’m still trying to shift them and then I’ll come back and ask you to be a bit more creative on the FOB.”

  “It’s the best we can do now.”

  “Your factory isn’t working efficiently enough.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” the British man pointed out, indicating to the waitress that he wanted a Heineken.

  “I warned you not to try and do electronics in Vietnam. They’re not ready for it yet. They haven’t got the work ethic that you get in China. The government still gets too involved in the labour conditions.”

  “We’ve paid off the local government people, the People’s Committee. We’ll get there. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried, Michael. It’s your factory.”

  “Not mine, not mine. I’m just the Export Manager. None of my money in there.” Michael grimaced.

  “Who’s the major shareholder?”

  “Thansothorn, Chinese Thai fellow and someone from Hong Kong.”

  “Wasn’t he big in cement before?” McHardy said, taking a sip from his drink.

  “Sure before the bottom dropped out of the building market.”

  “Looks like things are starting up again.”

  “Don’t you believe it. The economic crisis isn’t over yet.”

  McHardy chuckled. “Why? Are you still having a hard time personally?”

  “Well, I’m more than usually hard-up this month, fella.”

  “Can’t help you there. You know my ethics. Nothing for free. Every service must be paid for.”

  “You could help me if you could take ten thousand trannies off me.”

  “Didn’t know there were that many katoeys in Bangkok,” McHardy joked, referring to the local transsexuals who were famous for their cabaret shows and their deceptively female looks.

  Michael made a grunting noise and downed half of his beer. It was easy to see why his gut had reached its present dimensions.

  “Are you coming to the meeting on Monday?”

  McHardy had been watching the singer, who’d returned. He said, “Maybe. I might have to go up to Hong Kong. The General Manager from London is coming.”

  “Doesn’t he like Bangkok?”

  “Bangkok’s running smoothly. No need to visit us.”

  “Big office in Hong Kong?”

  “About eighty staff. I’m sure if I ran it, I could trim it down to fifty and still run it better. But the Chinese have their own way of working.”

  “Tell me about it,” Michael said, shaking his head. The singer started up with her version of “Every time you go away I die a little.”

  The old ones, thought McHardy, are always the best.

  He wished the British man would leave him alone. Normally Michael hung around in the dank, timbered Irish pubs around the Patpong area but obviously he’d wanted to put some pressure on McHardy about his radios. But McHardy wasn’t a man who responded to any kind of pressure. He did things his way: clinically, methodically, and always to his own personal advantage.

  * * * *

  It was a new place and they’d told her it was happening here. Louise Wallace sat in the corner of the Q Bar and watched the beautiful people arrive. They had them everywhere in the world. The ones who drove up in their Mercs and sashayed around in their Guccis and Fiorucci’s, hugging and kissing each other and patting each other on their backs with their nifty silver mobile phones.

  Except that this was Bangkok’s Hi-So. This was a million miles from the sleazy fleshpots of the go-go bars. Here were the young and the trendy: educated overseas or at the expensive local convent schools catering to only the best families. Here were slim, stylish Western men with Mediterranean or Gallic features. Here were tall, trim Indians who’d discarded the turbans worn by their immigrant fathers. Here were chubby short Chinese boys with glasses, dangling the keys to their Beamers and Porsches. Here were girls who had figures that happily flaunted their pierced navels and who’d grown up sheltered from the hard edges of life, not so much by love but by the affluence of their parents.

  Louise Wallace wasn’t out of place but she felt slightly uncomfortable. She was moderately attractive and had dressed up in a tight black pair of pants with a white ruffled shirt, but these bright, young things were from another world. She was in good shape for a woman in her early thirties and played much squash at the Ladies Recreation Club back in Hong Kong. Her black hair was cropped short to just below her ears and she felt that any man who wasn’t into the lithe, Asian experience would at least enjoy looking her way. But she still felt ill at ease in this fluffy world of inherited money.

  “Hey, you’re looking lonely,” a voice said next to her. She glanced around quickly wondering if he was worth talking to. She was ready to fob him off icily but he had a nice youthful face and open blue eyes that grinned at her. A bit young for her but there was a cheery cocky confidence about him.

  “Isn’t that a bit of a corny chat-up line,” she told him but not with the severity that made the words sound offensive.

  He appeared taken aback. “Yes, I guess it is. Can I try again?”

  “Try again.” She studied him. The hair was mousy and the accent was hard to place, perhaps South African.

  “Hey, gorgeous, do you come here often?”

  “Only to pick up young men,” she said lightly.

  “That’s good because…there’s some young men who enjoy being picked up here.”

  “Point them out for me would you.”

  He frowned and touched his nose with his index finger.

  “I thought it’s the men that do the picking.”

  “It’s a modern world. Everyone’s equal.”

  “No,” she said, “some people are more equal than others.” She waved at the affluence surrounding them.

  “Here on holiday?” he asked.

  “I went to Koh Samui for a few days. I live in Hong Kong. And you?”

  “Oh, I live here.” He pointed downwards at the floor. She couldn’t quite place the accent. It had something Germanic in it but just a hint and the syntax was otherwise perfect. “I’m Marco.” He reached out to shake her hand.

  “What, you live here under the bar?”

  “No, Bangkok. I’m a Bangkok refugee.”

  “Where are you from? I can’t work it out? German?” She studied him and noticed with some interest the piercing blue eyes that fixed her. He could be interesting. There hadn’t been any interesting men on Samui. Louise was in between relationships. They were hard to come by in Hong Kong where most of the men wanted flings and they generally wanted them with the lithe local girls, not with Western girls of a certain age, however fit they kept themselves.

  Louise wasn’t averse to flings, but she also wanted a decent bloke in her life. But you had to be grateful sometimes for small, handsome, sexy mercies in life. Marco looked like he might be one.

  “I’m South African,” he explained.

  “Ah. And you’re working in Bangkok?”

  His eyes slid away from hers and he shook his head, then glanced around the room quickly in a reflexive action. “I was working in Pakistan for three years. Running a garment buying office. Then the contract finished, they gave me some money and now I’m recovering from the pressure. Probably will set up my own company. Something like that.” His eyes were wide open and sincere again.

  Louise moved her drink away from her elbow. She leant forward a bit. “You’re in the garment business? So am I. I’m a Fashion Coordinator for a trading company.”

  “I’m not really a textile guy. I studied export and import business back home in Johannesburg and then spent time in China. I know about every problem you can get in a textile factory.”

  “Tell me about it,” Louise
said and they exchanged stories for a while, becoming friendlier as the alcohol made communicating easier.

  * * * *

  Half a mile away, John McHardy stood in the Grand Hyatt Hotel and waited for his client.

  He stroked his bushy moustache pensively as he went over the figures again. McHardy had always been good with figures. Percentage calculations popped easily into his head and his grasp of multiplication tables meant that he rarely resorted to a calculator. It unnerved some people and he liked that, but generally he was careful not to show off his skill. It was always best to allow one’s competitors or associates to underestimate you.

  The hotel was opulent, breezy, almost Greek with its lofty roof and sturdy columns. The American tugged on his cuff to expose the fabric the correct length from the sleeve. He enjoyed these sort of details. He was a particular man. His wife had frequently complained in the earlier part of their relationship but now she was used to her husband’s idiosyncrasies and they lived comfortably alongside each other. There had never been much passion, because McHardy’s personality was too controlled. It was what had attracted his wife to him in the first place. She liked the fact that he knew what he wanted and went ahead and got it, most of the time.

  Checking his Rolex, a plain Day-Date that was functional rather than ostentatious, he noted that his client was ten minutes late. He suppressed the aggravation he felt inside. Nobody is on time in Bangkok, the traffic rarely permitted accuracy in such matters.

  Finally a small, skinny Asian man came scurrying up the steps, followed by two oversized men in dark suits and dark glasses, who looked like Sumo wrestlers dressed for a wedding.

  It was the current gangster chic, McHardy knew. He shook hands with the small man who apologised with not much conviction. They got into a lift and rode up to where the suites were.

  “You like the room?” the short Asian man said. “I always stay in the Grand Hyatt. Good service, people know me.”

  “Very nice, Henry,” McHardy said and went to sit on one of the leather sofas. The bodyguards had vanished out of earshot.

  An attractive Chinese girl appeared in the door way to the other room. She had long black hair tucked into a bun, complemented by a simple red dress that hugged her figure and showed her to be rounded in all the right places.

  High heels made her look tall and elegant. In her hand she twirled a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. She exchanged some sentences with the Asian man, Henry who then waved her away impatiently.

  “My Secretary, she fuss like she my daughter.”

  “But she’s not your daughter?”

  “No, no, she the sister of my brother’s wife.”

  “It’s good to have family around,” McHardy said, “You can be sure of them.”

  “Yes, yes, Now, we are business people so we must talk about business.” By now Henry Chan was sitting in an armchair but he twitched nervously. He didn’t look the type who could relax. Not even on the golf course or under the expert hands of a Thai masseuse.

  “We want to make some shipments, special shipments but this time more special than normal,” the Chinese man said.

  McHardy just nodded, steepling his hands under his moustache and keeping his grey eyes devoid of expression.

  “We want to send some usual cargo and let this to be found by the customs agent and the police. When they are busy telling everyone about how smart they are, we ship our other cargo which must arrive. Very important.” Henry Chan, who had a receding hairline, nodded his head vigorously to emphasise the importance of his instructions. He carried on with the instructions going into the details. McHardy was initially shocked at the daring plan but he kept his feelings hidden.

  “I see the Hong Kong stock market is bouncing up again?” McHardy changed the topic after he’d confirmed his understanding and they’d finalised the price. It would not be a cheap assignment but this didn’t seem to bother the Asian man.

  “Market goes up and goes down. Just like horse racing. Sometime you win, sometime you lose, depend on who give you the tip.”

  “Your group’s shares are not doing much now.”

  “Now, yes, yes, but soon, will change,” Henry Chan spoke rapidly. “We go public with a new company, Internet you know, very popular. We'll call it Henrydotcom. Everyone will buy shares.”

  “What business will it do?”

  Henry Chan shrugged, “Everything, you know. Internet. I don’t know. We will have a provider, chat room, online shopping, some things like that.”

  “Nothing specific then?” McHardy said.

  “Yes, yes, specific, Internet things. Good business. Everyone will buy the shares. You buy some. Henrydotcom. I’ll tell you when we are ready to launch.”

  “That’ll be great, Henry. So I’ll wait for your emails concerning the other things. Tell your staff to use the new Archimedes encryption software. PGP just isn’t secure enough. There are monitoring systems out there that get more and more dangerous.”

  They shook hands and McHardy stood up to leave. As he passed the two sumo bodyguards he gave them a little smile. Image was very important in business. Perception meant more than reality, as his old teacher used to say.

  Chapter 3

  He’d been great, much better, more caring and passionate than she’d imagined. Louise Wallace lay in the big bed and watched the ceiling fan rotate. It was an old building, where Marco lived, and there was no air-con.

  She glanced down at her body and was pleased he’d enjoyed her. It had been a while since she’d been with a man and making love made her feel wanted and energised. She didn’t have any illusions about this one night stand getting serious. There were too many girls in Bangkok for a man like Marco to even think about sticking with one. Too many local girls and too many Western tourists like her just passing through.

  They’d used up the whole packet of condoms and he’d taken them off to the bathroom. These days everyone was careful and if one wasn’t careful one was insane. Louise was old enough to remember the time when kids were paranoid about getting pregnant and nothing much else was on their minds when she and her first boyfriend had rolled around on the sofa with his parents safely in bed upstairs. Seemed like ages ago, and here she was, comfortably past the thirty mile post and still single and wondering if there’d ever be the patter of little feet in her life.

  She reached over to the bedside table and out of curiosity pulled open the drawer. It was full of knick knacks and also a small unlabelled bottle of white pills that she believed were ecstasy. Quickly she pushed it shut. That wasn’t any of her business.

  A few minutes later Marco returned, his hair damp from the shower and wearing not much more beside a small towel and an easy smile.

  “Hungry? I’ve got some stuff in the fridge.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got to get back to the hotel.”

  “You’re not staying the night?” His voice was neutral, neither unhappy that she was leaving nor particularly bothered.

  “I find it hard to get a good night’s sleep with someone I don’t know that well next to me.”

  “Not fed up of me already?”

  “No, of course not. You were great—you are great,” she hastily corrected herself.

  “I know, you don’t feel comfortable without air-con.”

  Louise laughed and rolled off the bed to find her panties in the mess on the floor that was her clothes. It was about four thirty.

  “Will I be alright finding a taxi?”

  “Sure, you’re pretty safe around here. I’ll come down with you. Will we see each other again?”

  “That’s up to you. You’ve got my card. Anytime you fancy a holiday in Hong Kong… Call a few days in advance though.”

  “Haven’t been to Hong Kong for a while,” he said and took a fresh shirt from an old cupboard. The room was cosy but bare and there was an old rocking chair in one corner as well as a set of speakers standing two feet tall. On the walls were pictures of Thai country life; Buffalos ploughing and far
mers standing in rice fields. There was also an older laptop on a small desk.

  “So when will you start working again?” she asked conversationally.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed to tie his shoelaces while she began buttoning up her blouse. “Oh, I’m thinking of setting up my own business. Trading maybe, or Internet stuff. I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’ve got a few ideas, but no hurry, you know. I’m having fun.”

  “I hope you had as much fun as I did tonight,” Louise said and came over to tousle his hair. He put his arms around her waist and buried his face briefly in her stomach.

  “Strangers in the night?” he said.

  * * * *

  They’d messed him around for two hours and by the time Scrimple got to bed it was after midnight. He could have smacked the cheeky ICAC investigator—several times—but he’d restrained himself and pretended to take things seriously even though it was a complete, utter, ridiculous joke.

  Then he called up Kenworthy and told him the story and all his mate could do was laugh.

  He checked the door of the spare bedroom and found it locked. Swearing at the whole Chinese race he crawled in between his sheets knowing that the next morning he’d just get wound up all over again by the pettiness of Chief Inspector Harriet Cheung.

  A few hours later his phone began to ring. He had no idea what time it was or where he was. Finally he isolated the sound as being the bedside telephone and scrabbled for it in the darkness.

  “Is that Inspector Scrimple? You’ve got to help me,” said a Filipina voice he couldn’t place.

  “What?” he groaned.

  “Is your wife there?” she said.

  “No, I don’t have a wife. Who is this?”

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  “It’s the middle of the night. I can’t remember anybody. Who is it?”

  The voice sounded hurt as if he’d already slammed the phone down. But all their voices sounded the same. A sort of Spanish lilt over an American-English base.

  “It’s Marie-Tess, from the ‘Firehouse.’ Last time you told me I can call you anytime if I have a problem and need help.”

  Scrimple nodded in the darkness. Yes, and last time he’d been pissed as a fart barely able to help himself. He always talked the most awful crap when he was drunk.