“Who’s that?”
“The one you always come down with. The one with the posh accent.”
“Oh, Rupert you mean.”
“Yeah, anyway he’s with that Chokka bird, Armani.”
“She’s lovely, she is,” Jim said, a bit jealous because the black girl from Barbados via Manchester had a long, lean, hard body that swayed in tune to the music like a palm tree in the West Indian wind. He always enjoyed watching her and he’d paid quite a pile of ten pound notes in the past to have her dance naked in front of him.
A bubbly fake blonde with a South London accent came bouncing over to his table. He’d never seen her before but she quickly introduced herself as Stephanie and asked him if he minded her sitting with him.
Five minutes later Sawyers and the tall black girl joined Jim at his table.
There was a curious look on the young guy’s face.
“Didn’t you have a hot date tonight?” he asked.
“Yes, but it cooled off and so I’m here having a bit of a nightcap,” Jim replied. He didn’t think people in the office knew about Doris and him but it was possible they’d been seen having lunch and that the rumours were already buzzing like irritating flies around a picnic meant only for two.
“Would you like me to dance naked for you?” Stephanie said.
“No, maybe later.”
“Oh, come on. It’s only a tenner.”
“Have a glass of champagne. So what do you girls do in the day time then?”
Armani was sitting opposite him and he smiled to encourage her. She could have been Naomi Campbell’s clone and he felt turned on again after his earlier let down.
The black girl said, “I’m a student, dancing here pays the bills.”
“Oh, yeah? And what do you study?”
“I’m doing child psychology at the Uni.”
“What about you, Stephanie?”
“I’m thinking of becoming a journalist.”
“Hard work that.”
“Not as blooming hard work as dancing for buggers like you,” she replied good-naturedly.
“So why do you do it?”
She smiled mischievously. “I love showing off my naked body to men and getting them all horny and knowing they can’t do anything about it.”
“Not until they get home and jump on their wives,” Sawyers commented, yawning and putting a possessive arm around Armani. She didn’t seem to mind.
“What are you doing here then, Rupert?” Jim asked.
“I was just on my way home.” Sawyers lived a couple of streets down from Jim.
Stephanie broke in, “He always pops in these days. He’s in love with Armani.”
“Is that true, then?” Jim said, suddenly curious.
“Yes, that’s right—I’m in love with Armani. But she doesn’t give a toss about me. Do you, love?”
The black girl turned and put his hand on her left breast, saying, "Feel how my heart beats for you, dear. Let’s have another dance in the backroom.”
“Feel how my body throbs for you,” Sawyers replied and tried to put her hand on his crotch but she resisted.
“Ah, young love,” Jim said, suddenly irritated and tired. “I've had enough, nice to meet you Stephanie. It’s been fun but I’ve got a big day tomorrow. Have to sing in the church choir.”
Jim downed his drink, got up and left a tip on the table. He winked at Sawyers and gave Armani a warm smile that she returned, making him ache a bit. She was a real diva. She knew how to make the men hop, skip and jump. A degree in child psychology came in useful in a lap dancing bar.
Chapter 4
Scrimple had managed to get Marie-Tess back to Kenworthy’s place. He had three bedrooms and although he wasn’t pleased to get the call from his mate at that time of the night, he was curious.
He’d answered the door in his bathrobe and the little Filipina’s eyes had shot up appraisingly.
She went to the bathroom to fix her make-up and Kenworthy said, “Any chance for a threesome? She looks like she’s up for it.”
“Fuck off. She’s mine,” Scrimple said. After four pints his words were slurred.
His friend shrugged, ran a finger along his stubble and then pointed to the guest bedroom. “Sheets are clean, send her over to me when you’ve finished.”
Scrimple scowled.
“You’re not working tomorrow?” Kenworthy asked.
“Taking a sickie. Those ICAC wankers really got on my tits.”
“Time for us to cash in and go and live on an island in the Philippines like Frank Donnelly’s done.”
“Or Thailand, like that McAlistair guy.”
“Marry a rich Thai bird. That’s the ticket,” Kenworthy said. He nodded at the girl who was coming back into the living room.
“Anyway, good night and keep the noise down.”
It turned out better than Scrimple had expected. Marie-Tess was charged with sexual energy and the sheets were soaking wet. He was just on that knife edge where alcohol made him feel energised and uninhibited and so he could get harder and last longer. She screamed loudly as he pounded away, clenching her firm buttocks and watching the sway of her breasts with each of his thrusts from behind.
She came a number of times, in rapid succession and then Scrimple decided he was ready to let go himself. She hadn’t allowed him to use a condom—downright refused—telling him that she only used a condom if it was business and there was no feeling for her even with a Featherlite. So Scrimple pulled out at the last minute, gave himself three strong tugs and came onto the arch of her back while she made appreciative noises as the warm white liquid dropped onto her swarthy skin.
Scrimple flopped onto his front and she rolled over under his arm, oblivious of the mess it would leave on the sheets. She nuzzled closer to him, throwing a leg over his.
“Mmm, that was so good,” he said drowsily, meaning it. Chinese girls were too uptight. Freda had never uttered anything more than a sigh during sex. What one wanted was someone with passion, a girl who enjoyed being bonked and didn’t worry about letting the whole world know it.
“Where did you get that tattoo on your shoulder?”
“Oh, that’s my butterfly,” the girl giggled. “My first boyfriend in Hong Kong. He always called me a butterfly and I thought it was cute to have it put there. You can only see it if I’m wearing an off-the-shoulder dress.”
“Yes, it’s cute…” Scrimple said because it was what she was expecting to hear. He drifted off to sleep in an instant, not even turning off the bedside light which had illuminated their frantic coupling.
* * * *
Louise Walker had spent the day shopping and was hoping to meet up with Marco again in the evening. Holiday romances were meant to provide that nice medium between a one-night stand and a relationship with its inherent complications of commitment and insecurities.
She wanted to see Marco again because it had been fun and because he had a certain air of mystery about him. Even after spending an evening talking to him she didn’t know what he was up to. He said he was just taking a few months break but he didn’t appear to be an aimless bum or a burnt-out businessman. There was a certain organisation to his flat and he didn’t look as if he was living off a shoe string. He’d told her he had a few things to do today and that they should meet in a bar called O’Reilly’s where one could play pool and enjoy Irish beer.
Meanwhile she’d arranged to have a casual business lunch with John McHardy, the Manager of their Bangkok office. It had been his suggestion although they had no real business dealings since not many of their clients bought fashion garments from Thailand. But meeting to say hello was a polite thing to do.
He’d suggested the Regent Hotel where the buffet was reputedly good. Louise was impressed when the tall American came up to her. She’d heard he was an imposing figure but she was captivated by his polite, confident manner. This trip was turning into quite something. Why weren’t there interesting men like this in Hong Kong? She’d been
told that once upon a time there had been. Hong Kong wasn’t the social hub it had been in the previous century.
“I assume you must be Louise?” McHardy had said.
“You’re right, Mr. McHardy I presume?”
“Call me John, everyone else does except the tax man.” He wore a dark pinstripe suit which was unusual for Bangkok with its heat. In Hong Kong it was considered correct attire, due to the remaining British colonial influences but nobody had ever colonised the Thais, as they were always at great pains to point out.
They found a seat and talked about the company and what work each of them did. Louise explained her function, which was mainly to understand the fashion needs of their clients and translate this nebulous feeling into a language that the merchandisers and factories could understand in order to produce “salesmen samples.” It sounded simple but it was an important job since she had to create a bridge between the artistic designers and the people who cut and sewed in the factories. It was made harder by the cultural and geographic distances that existed, as well as the language barrier between Western buyers and Asian makers. Few factory managers would ever have visited the sort of store where their garments ended up for sale. They rarely had a concept of what was fashionable and alternatively the designers and buyers frequently had no idea of what were the constraints imposed by the nature of fabrics or the structure and location of a factory.
John McHardy listened with much attention. The girl appeared as if she was trying to justify her position although what she said made sense and she appeared highly motivated by the challenges of her job.
“Have you visited any factories here in Thailand?” he asked.
“Before, when I was with M & S but we didn’t buy much. The quality is good, however prices are on the high side.”
“You’re right, that’s why we don’t do so much. Our clients want the price points and you can only get them in places like Bangladesh and Pakistan.”
“But they’re doing a heavy volume of garments here, aren’t they?” Louise said, reaching for her glass of red wine.
John nodded, reaching for his. “People like Nike and Adidas are doing more complicated stuff here with embroidery and other frills. They’re willing to pay more for that. It really depends what you’re looking for.”
“So what are the main products that your office ships, John?” she asked.
“We do a lot of handicraft, wood items, furniture. We also cover Vietnam from this office where there are shoes, textiles, wood...” he shrugged to show that there was a longer list. “And we do Cambodia, which is all textiles. You should have a look at that, again a bit on the expensive side for the customers McPherson Ferguson is dealing with at the moment. All Chinese-owned factories of course. In Cambodia and Vietnam its Hong Kong and Taiwanese owners and of course here all the factories are Thai Chinese owned.”
Louise nodded. Markets kept on changing. One had to keep on top of things and know which way the wind was blowing. This year the buyers would all focus on one country and by the next year the fashion had moved on or the quotas had run out, meaning the same goods could be gotten for a better price somewhere else.
“I hear the quotas are always open in Thailand?”
“Not always but it rarely gets as tight as it does in China,” John said. “There’s always plenty of Cat. 21 and 5.”
Louise thought about this for a second. Sometimes she got confused with quotas but the idea behind them was that each country could only export certain volumes meaning that the business was shared around between different producer nations. There were vehement opponents to this system who advocated completely free trade, but on the whole the smaller developing countries probably benefited from the quota system.
She changed the subject. “And you’re very settled here in Bangkok?”
“Yes, it’s my home. My family like it. I have two girls who are teenagers now and my wife is involved with all the local wifely organisations.” He smiled to show that he didn’t mean this comment negatively. Louise smiled back. “And your holiday was pleasant in Koh Samui?”
“It was relaxing. You know how Hong Kong gets. Hectic, hectic, hectic. One needs a few days off every once in a while.”
“Sure you do,” McHardy agreed. “And how is my friend Bob Chen?”
Louise pursed her lips. She wasn’t a great politician and she believed in answering questions as truthfully as possible. But she wasn’t sure of McHardy’s loyalties nor if it would be appreciated if she were to voice criticism of her de facto boss.
“He’s...he’s...an interesting character. I don’t have much dealings with him of course. I work mainly with the merchandisers and he seems to spend most of his time on high finance and…” she hesitated then went on anyway, “fine dining.” Bob Chen was always taking clients out to restaurants and nightclubs and—so the rumour went—fixing the men up with girls for the night.
“I’ve known Bob Chen for a while,” McHardy said. “He’s a competent businessman and he knows how to get the clients to commit.” It was a nebulous comment and Louise understood that she shouldn’t talk too much more about this subject. There was something untouchable about McHardy, she decided. He was polite and made pleasant conversation but she could detect no real warmth. She couldn’t get through to him, get a feeling of who he was or what made him happy or angry. There was a smooth, cold protective layer to his personality and by the end of the dinner she’d decided that although there was nothing negative on which she could put her finger, she didn’t really enjoy the American’s company.
“I’ll be up in Hong Kong next week,” he said as he scribbled across the credit card receipt. “Looks like Dougie Campbell is coming out from London and we’ll be having some meetings.”
“Oh, is that a routine thing?”
“Kind of,” McHardy said smiling blandly at her.
Later when Louise sat in the silence of her hotel room, she thought that she wasn’t really any good at this kind of thing. She hadn’t learnt much at all and she didn’t want to probe too aggressively in case it appeared obvious that she was looking for information. Why would Margaret even ask her to help with this kind of thing? She didn’t have much talent for it.
* * * *
He opened his eyes and wondered for a few seconds where he was. His head didn’t hurt so he assumed he’d been sober when he went to bed. Rolling sideways he came across the warm body of a girl. Then he remembered.
The curtains were only thin and the light of the day filtered in. Scrimple looked for his watch and found that it was ten to nine. For a second he panicked, thinking he’d be late for work but then he reminded himself that it didn’t matter. He was going to be sick today and so what.
Most people in the world didn’t work on Saturdays but the Hong Kong police retained the old colonial custom of five and half day weeks and generally Scrimple would have rolled in to work between nine and half past then fiddled around and read the paper until shortly after noon time. It had always been a waste of time but it was the nature of the job.
He slipped out of his bed and, in the heap of clothes that lay on the floor managed to find his mobile and his underpants. He stepped into the pants, scratched the hair on his belly and left the bedroom without waking the naked, brown girl.
In the bathroom he found a number of Cathay Pacific toothbrushes still in their wrappers. One of Kenworthy’s stewardesses must have left them there. He brushed his teeth, studied his bloodshot eyes and the stubble on his double-chin then walked back into the living-room from where he called the office.
“Hello, madam,” he said, lying on his back on the sofa. It made his voice croaky to lie like that and made him sound unwell.
“Yes, who is speaking?” Harriet Cheung demanded, like a stern schoolmistress.
“Inspector Scrimple here, madam. I’m feeling ill this morning.” He held his breath in anticipation, knowing what to expect.
“You are too drunk to come to work, Mr. Scrimple?”
&nbs
p; “I think I ate some bad food and have had terrible stomach-ache all night,” he lied, hating himself for the subterfuge. If his boss was a gwail-lo, like in the old days, he’d have simply said he was sick and that would have been the end of it. No verbal abuse and the rest.
“You don’t have a good record of attendance. You have been sick four times this year. This is not the behaviour the Force expects from a senior officer. It is not a good example,” the woman lectured him.
“I know that, madam. But when one is sick…”
“I don’t believe you are sick,” she barked, “you got drunk, forgetting that you have a duty to report to work. It may be a Saturday but it is your duty to work on Saturday.”
“My duty,” Scrimple repeated down the phone. It went on like this for a while and then she let him hang up.
He had to admire her. The next time he’d think twice about calling in sick. It simply wasn’t worth the aggravation. He would have to put up with abuse from her for the rest of the week. Perhaps she might make an entry into his Record of Service. She was the kind of person who would. She was a bitch. It was the worst to have a Chinese woman boss, they were pedantic and emotional and these days there was also an undertone of racism. That joy in getting back at the Westerners which had not been so noticeable in the time before the handover. Scrimple felt ill just thinking about his job and Harriet Cheung. How much longer could he put up with it?
He went back into the bedroom and slipped between the sheets, pressing his pale flabby body against the soft skin of the sleeping Filipina. Quickly he got an erection and began stroking her, willing her to wake up so he could get on top of her. She didn’t respond, except to push his hand away. After a while he gave up and fell asleep again.
It was the insistent bleat of his Nokia, which he’d forgotten to turn off, that woke him two hours later. He reached down and picked it off the floor.
“We want you to give another statement, Mr. Scrimple,” he was told by the ICAC investigator who had annoyed him so much the night before.
“Well, not today,” Scrimple replied defiantly.
Dragon Breath Page 6
