by Lee Weeks
She watched Mann finish unpacking his bag and hang up his clothes in the white louver-doored wardrobe.
‘What do you think I should wear?’ she asked.
He answered without thinking about it. ‘Cut-offs. Flat shoes, nice top—chic casual—the purple silk top, that’s nice.’
‘How come when I ask you that, you have an exact image in mind? Most guys would just say “Put anything on”.’
‘Because it’s important, we want to look right. We don’t want to stand out too much, but we want to look moneyed. We want them to believe that we are a newly married couple used to exotic holidays.’
Becky was still sitting on the bed, surrounded by the spewed-out contents of her fake Louis Vuitton holdall that Ponytail had thrown in with the handbag deal.
‘Whatever you wear you’ll still look as sexy as hell. Someone with your looks can’t help it.’ Mann disappeared into the bathroom with his toiletries.
She looked at him curiously when he came back into the room. ‘You actually mean that, don’t you?’
‘Of course—bound to get told I’m a lucky man more than once tonight.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.’
Mann turned around to see if she was joking and realised she wasn’t. He was about to add that it was a privilege to be seen out with her, but he could see that he had probably said enough—she was busy over enthusiastically tidying her things away.
‘What’s the plan this evening, Mann?’ she asked, not looking at him.
‘We will have to split up for the first part of it; strangely enough, you wouldn’t be that welcome in the girlie bars, I am going to look for Fat Harry. He owns a few of the most expensive bars here.’
‘Why do you think he’s involved in the new society?’
‘Because David White mentioned him and both Ng and Shrimp say his name has cropped up with any new ventures of the seedy kind with Stevie Ho. Besides being a bar owner he is also the appointed head of the local “Trade Organisation”, which exists solely to protect the other western perverts who set up businesses here. I remember years ago, he was in the news in Hong Kong, and David White pointed him out. He had some connection to a syndicate that owned taxi firms. He escaped charges then, when he paid off the parents of three juveniles he’d been overly friendly to. He’s a big enough fish to have been at least courted by the new gang.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Find an Internet café and get in touch with the team. See if they’re getting any further with finding Amy Tang; see if Micky has turned up. Ask around here—see if anyone knows anything or has seen anything that can help us. But be careful, journalists die at an alarming rate here. Questions will not be welcomed. However, as a woman, you can move around easily; the Filipino men are very respectful. It’s only the westerners that you have to watch out for, but then you know all about that…On that vein—first, let’s see if we can find your poolside friend—Mr Reese Pearce and co.
54
Reese focused on them from far away. He could tell when people were new to the Philippines. They smelt different. Their clothes didn’t have the smell of dust and damp. He recognised the woman from the pool, hard to forget. It had been bugging him for the last few hours. He had hoped their paths might cross again. He hardly saw western women any more. Becky’s blonde hair made him nostalgic for home. She looked like a surfer girl. His eyes focused on her and he nudged Terry, who was, as ever, on his laptop.
‘There’s that woman I told you about—the one by the pool. I’m going to introduce myself. Maybe I can interest them in a guided tour or some such crap. Maybe they want to stay in one of the houses?’
Terry looked up from his work. ‘They’re just a young couple. Do you think we need any hassle right now? We have enough going on with the Teacher and…’
‘Why isn’t he out here now? He spends his whole time locked away in that villa. What does he do, just sit there and drink beer and stare at the walls?’
‘He says he’ll come and find us in a minute.’
‘He can take all the time he wants—miserable bastard.’
Becky looked up and saw Reese staring at her.
‘Think that’s him,’ she whispered, whilst pretending to whisper something nice in Mann’s ear. ‘At one o’clock, he’s at a bar table with another man. He’s seen me.’
‘He hasn’t seen me,’ Mann said under his breath, and grinned. ‘He can’t take his eyes off you.’
‘Let’s mill around, take our time to work the street. Let him get a good look at you. Let’s look in doorways, pretend to shop.’
He steered Becky towards the T-shirt souvenir shop. She thumbed through the racks of innuendoes and slogans, mainly referring to a diver’s prowess in the sack, and looked over to see Reese grinning at her.
‘It’s definitely him,’ she said to Mann, who was looking through a rack of leather-thonged shark’s-tooth necklaces.
Mann looked over at Reese and Terry. They were sitting at a bar on the right side of the beach bar, outside a small hotel. He could see that Reese was still watching Becky’s every move.
‘Let’s head for the bar opposite them—and be nice, let him down gently—he obviously likes you.’ Mann held up a T-shirt in front of his face as he grinned at Becky. They made their way across and perched on stools at the end of the small bar just ten foot away.
Terry looked up and followed Reese’s gaze across the lane to Mann and Becky.
‘Stop leching after every piece of ass, especially some white woman’s who’s with her big boyfriend. The last thing we want is trouble.’ Terry tapped away on his keyboard.
‘No trouble.’ Reese picked up his drink and sauntered over. Terry stayed where he was.
‘Evening, folks. Just off the boat?’
Becky giggled.
‘How can you tell? We were just about to order. Can I get you a drink?’ asked Mann.
Reese kept his eyes on Becky as Mann was speaking. Becky smiled coyly back.
‘Sure can.’
‘What about your mate over there? Would he like to join us?’
‘Terry!’ Reese called over to him. Terry looked up and Reese beckoned him over. He shut his laptop and sauntered across.
‘Hope my friend’s not bothering you.’ Terry rolled his eyes Reese’s way. ‘What brings you two here?’
‘We are on honeymoon, actually. This is my wife, Lucy, and I’m John.’
Reese let out a whoop, did a panting-dog imitation and then wet his lips as he winked at Mann. ‘Lucky bloke. Honeymoon, huh? I could do with one of those. Tell me, young lady—is he everything he promised he would be?’
Becky giggled. ‘I am a very satisfied customer, thanks for asking.’
Reese burst out laughing.
‘Good answer,’ Terry said, grinning as he sat down on the stool next to Mann.
‘And what about you gents? What brings you here?’ asked Mann.
‘A bit of property acquisition,’ answered Reese before Terry could respond. ‘Show them the pictures, Terry. Terry has lots of places to look at. He’s downloaded photos of houses, I’m sure John here would love to see them, wouldn’t you?’
‘Love to.’
Terry wasn’t best pleased with Reese’s ruse to chat up Becky unhindered, but he guessed it wouldn’t do any harm. He turned his laptop towards Mann and showed him some of the beach-front properties available. There were several on the screen.
‘How do you scroll down?’ asked Mann as the waiter arrived with their drinks.
Before they had time to drink them, Terry got a text. He read it, knocked back his whisky and got off the stool.
‘Drink up, Reese, we’re gone.’ He took his laptop back from Mann, closed it and tucked it under his arm. ‘Let’s leave these nice folks to enjoy the evening. Reese…let’s go.’
‘Huh?’ Reese was extremely disgruntled at having his flirting interrupted, just when he was a
bout to try his hand on Becky’s leg, although he would only have done it the once. Becky was fast losing the smile cemented to her face.
Reese took her hand and kissed it. ‘Till we meet again…’ He drank up and followed Terry, who was already several feet away. When they were out of earshot he hissed:
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’
‘I just got a text. It’s the Teach. We have to go. He wants out now. He’s not looking for excuses, move your ass.’
‘Why? Thought he was on the way here?’
‘Not now he isn’t.’
‘What the fuck is the matter with him? He was supposed to be on the way to come and find us for a beer.’
‘He was, apparently; he turned back for some reason. Fuck knows! He’s shitting himself about something. He says we have to leave now’
55
Becky gave Mann a kiss on the cheek. ‘Better make it look convincing.’ She reached up on her tiptoes and pretended to whisper in his ear. ‘Text me when you’re done.’
‘Will do, babe. Take care of yourself.’ He winked at her and was about to step away when she caught his arm and pulled him down to her level to whisper in his ear. She started to say ‘Don’t call me…’, but she didn’t get through it all because Mann kissed her in the middle of it. He hadn’t meant to. It had been an instinctive reaction; the second her cheek touched his, his mouth had turned and sought hers. It wasn’t a long kiss but it was the first time they had kissed one another on the lips.
Shit, thought Mann. That’s all I need. She’s married, she’s a work colleague, and if she is the mole, she could be about to get me killed. He looked back at her as he walked away. She was smiling in that special sweet, shy way she had. Yep…I’m in trouble…
He left her and made his way back along the beach. The small strip of sand was now crowded with barcas pulled up on the shoreline for the night. There was the sound of dance music banging out from the crammed strip of bars, and the coloured lights from their signs flickered on the water. Mann ignored several catcalls and continued walking until he saw what he was looking for, a bar called Pump It.
Once he got in range, the girls in their red hot-pants and silver boob tubes linked arms with him and led him inside the bar to find a table. It wasn’t a bad place, thought Mann. It would look filthy in the light of day but it did well on this litter-strewn end of paradise. Mann looked around. The clientele were younger than Angeles. This place wasn’t so much for the middle-aged lonely businessman but for the rowdy lads here to dive, sunbathe and have sex. The casual sex tourist—the man who just finds himself paying for it at the end of the night, without realising that it was always going to end like that.
Mann was looking for the owner. He didn’t think he would be difficult to spot and he was right. Fat Harry was holding court at one of the circular tables, papers in front of him, drinking a beer. He had a constant stream of girls coming to pay their respects to their ‘daddy’.
Dance music played whilst a girl in a cage, dressed in a bikini and fur boots, wound her athletic thighs around a pole. Mann found himself a space at the bar that ran around the elevated dance floor and watched the girl. She noticed him; he knew she would. He was dressed a lot smarter than everyone else in the place, who looked like they had come straight off the beach. He smiled at her and she made her way over to him. From the corner of his eye he saw Fat Harry watching as she performed the next three minutes for Mann’s entertainment. When she had finished her number he tucked a large tip inside the rim of her boot. He ordered another drink and sat back on his stool. On his third drink a mamasan came over to him with a tray and a vodka on ice on it. She pointed to Fat Harry and said:
‘Fat Harry say would like you to join him.’
Mann nodded his thanks, picked up his drink and wandered over to Fat Harry’s table.
Mann looked Harry over. His shoulders were broad, his arms large, once muscled, and his neck was thick. He deserved his name now. He had several chins hanging beneath his babyish face and even more massive stomachs bursting the buttons of his plain calico shirt. His face was red, babyish. His silver hair was thinning and swept back by oil or by sweat, Mann couldn’t decide. Harry filled most of the circular seat meant for four people. His head came high above the others around him. He must be at least six three, thought Mann. He reminded him of Jabba the Hutt.
Fat Harry spoke to the girls who were sitting with him, all clad in matching white miniskirts and black strapless tops. They squeaked their goodbyes to ‘daddy’, giggled their girly hellos to Mann, and left to make room for him to sit.
Fat Harry did not stand as Mann approached, and Mann did not expect him to. This was not England or Hong Kong. Etiquette was not top of the list here; con geniality was. And Fat Harry was Mr Congenial. He smiled non-stop. He waved to the party on a neighbouring table. They had a hostess lying on the table and were taking turns drinking vodka shots from her naval. He laughed so enthusiastically that his stomach reverberated.
‘Regulars…’ he said, raising his beer to them. ‘Come back here every year. Nice to see a new face, though. I am the proprietor of this den of feckin’ iniquity. What’s your name, fella?’ Fat Harry’s voice still had a hint of Ulster brawl to it.
‘John, John Black. I must congratulate you—you have a good business here, Harry.’
Fat Harry studied Mann. He obviously liked the cut of Mann’s clothes. He looked at Mann’s wrist to see what make of watch he had. It was one of several that Mann owned—a Pateek Philippe. He was obviously passing Fat Harry’s test. A fellow policeman was always going to keep an eye on small details.
‘You here on business, John?’
Mann shook his head. ‘My wife will kill me if I answer yes to that…I’m here on honeymoon. Why, is this club for sale?’
Fat Harry laughed. ‘I like you already—a straight-talker—a man after my own heart. And no, this club is not for sale, although I could probably point you in the direction of one that is.’
Mann picked up his glass. ‘Cheers to your good health.’
Fat Harry picked up his beer bottle and clicked it against Mann’s glass. ‘And yours.’
‘So, what business are you in, John?’
‘All sorts.’ Mann grinned. ‘This and that. I have a few investments. I own a few language schools in London and Manchester. A couple of massage parlours and a few other things that I’d rather not admit to.’
Fat Harry laughed. ‘Language schools, huh? Who are your main clients?’
‘From Asia, mostly: China, Japan.’
‘What about the girls in your massage parlours?’
‘Well, not surprisingly, we have a fair few Filipinas but mainly Eastern Bloc girls. I recruit them through the school.’
‘Good business, huh?’
‘There will always be girls looking to make money and always men looking to spend it.’
The table next door had moved on to watching the girl perform a sex act with a specially designed ice-cream cone. There were loud appreciative hoots and claps. Fat Harry waited for the antics to be finished before he tried making himself heard again.
‘You don’t have any problem with the girls, they don’t mind working?’
‘A few of them do take a bit of persuading. Some of them owe money for their passage over, they’re working it off—you know the kind of thing, I am sure. The young ones need to be controlled, shown who’s boss.’
Fat Harry’s greedy eyes fixed on Mann’s face. Mann could see that he had taken the bait.
‘How long are you staying here in Puerto Galera, John?’
‘Just a couple of nights. We have friends in Manila; we’ll go there after here. We fly home to London in a week.’
‘Would you be interested in meeting one of my business partners? Bob English? We may have something you’d be interested in, and he’ll be very keen to know more about your UK businesses.’
‘Sure. Why not? I’m always open to offers.’
‘Give me tonight t
o organise it. I’ll call you in the morning; let you know what I’ve managed to set up.’
Mann hoped that Shrimp had done a good job on his and Becky’s new identities. Fat Harry would be scrutinising it tonight. And they would want Mann dead by the morning if Shrimp hadn’t.
56
‘Hurt, ma’am?’
The evening had come in fast. The sunset had arrived in smoky plumes of billowing purple cloud against a backdrop of turquoise. That was just a few minutes ago, now it was as dark as midnight and the first stars were appearing. Becky sat in the middle of a row of five chairs inside the Paradise foot spa. Her feet were in a wooden bowl of warm water, being soaked and washed whilst another woman massaged her shoulders. She was drinking sweet ginger tea. Outside there were a dozen open-air stations for massaging backs and feet.
She was thinking about what had happened with Mann. They had become such good friends in so few days that it felt like forever. They laughed at the same things and they cared about the same things—basically he was a soul mate. Becky shook her head at that revelation—her soul mate! That’s what she had thought Alex was at one time. But, more than that—Mann made her feel like a sexy woman again. Then there was the kiss.
‘A little,’ she replied, thinking to herself that these women had developed incredibly strong fingers as they brought her back to reality and she felt the innermost muscles of her shoulders twang.
Becky had come into the spa, which seemed to be the largest women’s workplace on the beach, thinking that if anyone would know what was new, they would. The women were all wearing black shorts and pink T-shirts with ‘Paradise’ written on them. The masseuse who was washing Becky’s feet was pregnant. She squatted in front of Becky, resting her bottom on a short-legged stool, her round stomach protruding so far that Becky wondered that she could still see her customer’s feet in the bowl. She looked like one of Gauguin’s Tahitian women. She wore a red flower tucked behind her ear and her hair fell over her shoulders in a thick black glossy sheet. Her face was broad and flat, as was her nose. She had a calm, earthy beauty. When her hair fell in front of her busy hands, she flicked it away in a move that was slow, deliberate and elegant. She wore a name badge with ‘Rosario’ on it. Despite her beauty, she looked very sad, thought Becky.
