Hungry Ghost

by Stephen Leather

  The one on his right was called Del; her long hair was twisted into a single braid which had been wound around her head like a crown, and she wore a bright green swimsuit. She had two cigarette burns on her left thigh, healing nicely. Edmunds had asked her what had happened but she’d just smiled and shaken her head. There were three cuts on one of her wrists, an inch long and half an inch apart. Not deep enough to be suicide attempts, and obviously done at different times. One was a white scar, the middle was still red and the skin raised, and the third was covered with a thin scab.

  The other girl had short, pageboy-style hair and a rash of acne badly disguised with make-up. She wore a scarlet bikini that barely restrained her lemon-shaped breasts between which nestled a small chunk of jade on a thin gold chain. Her name was Need. Edmunds knew enough Thai to know that Need was a common name for girls or boys – it meant small. For the tenth time that night she looked at Edmunds, stroked his thigh and said: ‘You make love now?’ She had the sort of teeth that would drive a dentist into bankruptcy. Not a single filling. Edmunds’ mouth contained five thousand dollars’ worth of bridgework. The first time she’d asked he’d shaken his head and said ‘not tonight’, the fifth time he’d said ‘no money’ but now he’d reached the stage where he said ‘maybe later’.

  ‘I want now,’ she pouted. She pointed to Del. ‘Two girls, good price.’ Del nodded enthusiastically and her hand joined Need’s, gently rubbing up and down his prick. Edmunds took a deep breath and drained his glass. He waved at a waitress behind the bar and gestured at his glass and those in front of the two girls. They were drinking lemonade at twice the price of his Jack Daniels. That’s how the girls earned their money, commission on the non-alcoholic drinks plus whatever they could screw out of the customers as tips or payment for sex.

  ‘I want make love,’ insisted Need, bouncing up and down on her stool. She did have a cute arse, Edmunds decided. Beautiful firm breasts. And the acne wasn’t that bad.

  ‘I love you,’ said Need.

  ‘No shit?’ he said.

  ‘No shit,’ chorused the girls and they giggled. He was almost three times their age, he realized, but that didn’t make him feel any less aroused.

  ‘Now? I very tired,’ said Del, resting her forehead on his shoulder and playing with his zip.

  ‘Soon,’ said Edmunds, his mouth dry and his mind made up. He reached for his drink and closed his eyes as he swallowed. He wanted the two girls but he hadn’t drunk enough yet to dampen the feelings of revulsion in the pit of his stomach. It happened every time he came into one of the Pat Pong bars. He’d sit by himself, intending only to watch and drink, feeling nothing but scorn and contempt for the middle-aged men who sat in the gloom and fondled girls young enough to be their daughters. He’d look at the girls and chat to them, buy a few drinks and watch the shows, knowing that he wouldn’t be tempted, feeling anger at the obscenity of a German businessman with an expense account gut and three chins bouncing a sixteen-year-old Thai girl up and down on his knees and slipping his wrinkled hand down the back of her swimsuit. He’d talk to the girls as best he could, ask them where they were from, how long they’d been in Bangkok, and he’d buy them drinks. It happened every time. The alcohol relaxed him, their hands began to wander, and before long the thought of being in bed with a girl young enough to be his grand-daughter didn’t seem too abhorrent.

  ‘How much?’ he asked Need and she beamed, knowing that he was hooked. ‘How much for you both?’

  She told him. About the same as a decent bottle of whisky would cost back in the States. Economic rape, he thought. Del’s hand grasped his prick through the material of his trousers.

  ‘Now?’ she said, looking into his eyes.

  ‘Not here,’ said Edmunds. He’d taken one of the girls into a back room a couple of days ago. ‘Short time,’ she’d called it, down a corridor and into a small square room big enough only for a double bed and a sink. The bed was covered with a sheet stained with God knows what. No pillows, no blankets. A room designed for one thing and illuminated by a single red lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The girl had looked young, very young; she said her name was Orr but he’d called her Number 11 all evening. That was the number on the badge pinned to her black and white swimsuit and it was about how old she’d looked. She’d taken the money off him and squatted over the sink and cleaned herself, and then insisted that he did the same. She helped him and as he grew hard she’d opened a foil packet and expertly slipped on a condom and pulled him down on the bed, on top of her and into her. Her legs came up either side of his arse and her heels had hooked behind his thighs as she thrust herself against him, hard and fast and tight. Her face was turned to one side, blank and expressionless and he remembered how cheated he’d felt. He started moving, harder and faster, trying to get some reaction from her, some sign that she was enjoying it, but she just gritted her teeth. ‘Look at me,’ he’d said but she’d just continued to grind into him, wanting it to be over. Wanting to get back to the bar, to the next customer. He’d begun pounding into her then, wanting to hurt, to make her feel pain if nothing else, wanting her to acknowledge that he was there, inside her. She’d winced and closed her eyes but said nothing, just kept moving her hips until he came. Edmunds had felt disgusted with himself then, ashamed at the violent feelings he’d had towards the girl, the way sex had got mixed up with pain in his head. He’d washed himself in silence and given her another note as he left the room.

  ‘No short time,’ he said to Need. ‘You come back to hotel with me.’ The girls smiled. Back in his room he had a king-size bed and clean sheets and more booze. And he’d have time, time at least to feel he was being treated like a human being. Getting the girls in wouldn’t be a problem, the hotels in Bangkok knew which side their bed was buttered. Sure, the girls had to be checked in at reception and have their identity cards recorded, but that wasn’t to hassle the guests, it was to make sure that they weren’t ripped off. And there’d be no snide, knowing smiles from the staff, just polite acceptance of the way the system worked.

  ‘We go now?’ asked Del. ‘Me horny.’

  Jesus Christ, thought Edmunds, where the fuck do they learn their English? But he knew the answer to that – in bed. On their backs. Their hands were fondling him, probing, rubbing, insisting. Two more hands began massaging his neck, slowly and sensually. He dropped his head forward and sighed.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘That’s good. So good.’

  He closed his eyes and concentrated on the cool, strong hands on his neck. The girl was good, very good. She knew what she was doing, all right, he could feel the tension being pulled from his muscles. God, what could she do to him in bed? He’d be putty in her hands, she’d be able to do anything to him. With him.

  The hands slid around his neck, stroking the sides until they found the carotid artery and then they tightened, cutting off the blood supply to his head. His eyes bulged and he gasped for breath and he tried to unclasp the fingers around his throat before he passed out. Then they were gone and he fell forward on to the bar, knocking over his glass which spun on to the floor and shattered. As he gasped for breath a decidedly masculine voice behind him said: ‘You want massage, you randy bastard?’

  Edmunds didn’t have to look round, he could think of only one arsehole who’d behave like that.

  ‘You’re a cunt, Feinberg. A grade-A motherfucking cunt.’

  ‘I love it when you talk dirty, Edmunds. It gives me a hard-on.’

  Del slid off her stool to make way for the second man and he patted her backside as she moved behind him and then stood between them, her hand finding its way back into Edmunds’ lap.

  ‘I suppose you want a fucking drink?’

  ‘Jack, I thought you’d never ask,’ said Feinberg, in a drawling imitation of W. C. Fields. ‘And what about one for your wife here?’

  Feinberg had a puerile sense of humour, but the business with the neck hadn’t been funny, thought Edmunds. Feinberg could kill with his concert pia
nist’s hands. And had done. Edmunds massaged his neck muscles.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Rum and Coke, thanks.’

  Edmunds ordered a round of drinks, and as he waited he remembered the last time he’d seen Rick Feinberg. It was at CIA headquarters in Virginia, eighteen months ago, at a debriefing following a very messy job in South America, and it had been Feinberg’s fault that it had been so messy. A bomb that was to have taken out a general with a nasty line in torture also blew three passing schoolchildren into a million bloody fragments. Strictly speaking the two Americans weren’t to blame; the bomb had been set off with a simple electric timer and they were back in their hotel when it went off, but Feinberg had decided how much explosive to use.

  ‘I love a big bang,’ he’d said as he slipped the carrier bag containing the bomb under the rear passenger seat of the general’s Mercedes. Not that Edmunds had told the investigators that when they got back to Langley. Edmunds was a team player – always had been, ever since he played college ball. Always would be.

  The drinks arrived and Feinberg leant forward, sipping from the glass as it stood on the bar, like a lion drinking from a water-hole. Del began to rub Feinberg’s thigh and she whispered in his ear.

  What the hell was Feinberg doing in Bangkok? It was too much of a coincidence to be drinking in the same bar; Feinberg must have been looking for him, even though he still had more than a week’s leave to go. He studied him as he drank. He was tall and stringy enough to be a marathon runner but not enough for basketball, with sharp features, a slightly pointed chin and an angular nose between hooded eyes that forever looked as if they hadn’t had enough sleep. Since he’d last seen him Feinberg had grown a Mexican-style moustache that drooped down either side of his thin, bloodless lips. It was wilting in the heat. Feinberg was wearing a white short-sleeved Lacoste shirt with green stripes, and jeans held up with a green and red Gucci belt. Edmunds looked past the younger man to a mirrored wall and saw himself. Christ, he looked old. His paunch was spilling over his trousers and though he still had a full head of hair it was all grey. It had been that way for a good ten years, but whereas before he could tell himself it was prematurely grey, now it was just grey. His face, like his body, was fleshier than Feinberg’s, the features all smoothed out by subcutaneous fat, though he had the same world-weary eyes. Edmunds’ was a temporary condition, though, the result of too much booze and too many late nights. A few days back in the States and he’d soon be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  He sucked in his gut, which seemed to take a good five years off the age of his reflection but it was too much of an effort to hold it in and he exhaled with a mournful sigh. He realized that Feinberg was watching him in the mirror with a knowing grin on his face.

  ‘You’re putting on a bit, Jack,’ he said. ‘Stopped the old morning exercises, have we? Not keeping fit any more?’

  ‘You wanna step outside and find out just how fit I am?’ snapped Edmunds. ‘I can still take you out, and I don’t need a kilo of high explosive to do it.’

  Feinberg raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Whoa, touchy, touchy,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want, Rick?’

  ‘Enough money to be comfortable, a loving wife, peace on earth. Just the normal sort of shit we all want,’ said Feinberg. ‘And a couple of hours with this pretty young thing.’

  Edmunds felt a flare of irrational jealousy burst somewhere inside him. Del seemed to have forgotten he existed, though Need’s fingers were as insistent as ever.

  ‘What are you doing here, Rick?’ Edmunds pressed.

  ‘Just passing through,’ sighed Feinberg, his eyes on Del.

  ‘From where?’ Need’s nails bit into his thigh.

  ‘Langley.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘Hong Kong.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. Need sighed deeply and Edmunds felt the warm breath from her nostrils on his neck.

  ‘I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.’

  Feinberg sniggered. ‘Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. You’re coming with me.’

  ‘I’m on leave, Rick. Rest and recreation.’

  ‘More recreation than rest, I’d think.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that. What’s the game plan?’ Need slid off her stool, resigned to the fact that she’d lost Edmunds’ attention. And his money. But it was still relatively early and there were plenty of customers in the bar. Del saw her go but decided to continue trying her luck with Feinberg.

  ‘A small problem that our masters want taken care of.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’

  Feinberg turned to look at him at last. ‘Geoff Howells – a Brit. You know him?’

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. What did he do?’

  ‘Hey man, ours not to reason why, et cetera et cetera. Since when have we been interested in the whys and wherefores?’

  ‘Since I’m getting pulled off my well-earned leave,’ Edmunds smiled.

  ‘He killed one of our men in Hong Kong.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A chink. I’d never heard of him, a guy called Ng. A freelance.’

  ‘So why would a Brit kill one of our men?’

  ‘There you go, asking why again.’ He began toying with Del’s young breasts, fingering the nipples to make them hard. ‘We make love?’ she asked him. Feinberg grinned wolfishly and pinched her until she winced. ‘Never in a million years,’ he said. He continued to pinch until tears welled up in the girl’s eyes but she wouldn’t cry out, didn’t try to remove his hand.

  ‘Leave her be,’ said Edmunds.

  ‘You’re getting soft in your old age,’ said Feinberg, but he stopped hurting the girl. She rushed off to the toilet and Edmunds knew she would cry there, away from them. His heart went out to her. Maybe Feinberg was right, maybe he was getting soft.

  ‘Seems a bit strange, that’s all.’

  ‘Apparently he’s gone loopy. History of psychological problems. You sure you’ve never heard of him? I thought you knew everybody in this business, the length of time you’ve been around.’

  ‘I’m getting a bit fed up with all the cracks about my age,’ said Edmunds.

  ‘Hey, no offence meant.’

  ‘I bet. So, what do we know about this Howells?’

  ‘Full biog, pics, the works. No details of location but Hong Kong is locked up tighter than a frog’s arse. He’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Sounds cool.’

  ‘Cool? Hey, nobody says cool anymore. Cool went out with flared trousers.’

  Feinberg saw the anger in Edmunds’ eyes and immediately held up his hands. ‘For fuck’s sake, man, don’t be so goddamned sensitive.’

  Edmunds laughed, finished his drink and got unsteadily to his feet. ‘I’m going back to the hotel. What time’s our flight?’

  ‘Just before noon. I’ll call you. I’m in the Sheraton as well.’

  ‘OK. You staying here?’

  ‘Sure. I’m going to have me that little girl there.’ He gestured at one of the dancers, a tall girl in knee-high boots with long hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘I’m going to make her do terrible things to me with that hair. I’m going to make her wrap it …’ Edmunds didn’t hear the rest, it was lost in the pounding music as he headed for the door. On the way he passed the toilets and saw Del leaning against the wall. Her eyes were red but she beamed when she saw Edmunds. ‘We make love?’ she asked hopefully. ‘I love you.’

  Edmunds felt a wave of sadness wash over him, sadness mixed with guilt in about equal parts. He pulled out his wallet and thrust a couple of brown notes at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and walked out into the hot night air, thick with the smell of spices and motorcycle fumes.

  The twelve triad leaders sitting around the circular table controlled the lion’s share of drugs, vice and illegal gambling in Hong Kong, as well as a good chunk of the colony’s legal business, but to Thomas Ng they looked like a group of pe
nsioners being told about a forthcoming outing. They sat quietly, occasionally nodding or grunting, as Ng Wai-sun stood in front of the framed portrait of the fierce Kwan Kung god and put before them the events of the previous forty-eight hours. He spoke quietly, his voice steady as he looked each of the men in the eyes in turn.

  They had all arrived in separate cars with their own bodyguards, but all had walked alone to the entrance of the house to be greeted by Ng Wai-sun. Some had worn expensive suits, some came in designer casual clothes and one, a man who appeared to be even older than Ng’s own father, had turned up in a traditional black silk Chinese suit with ivory toggles, and each had carried a small bag containing his robes of office. One by one they had gone upstairs to change and then taken their place at the table. Ng stood to the left side of the double doors, his arms folded across his chest, and Cheng stood at the right.