All Blood is Red

by Michael Young

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  All Blood is Red

  Michael Young

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  Copyright 2014, Michael Young.

  All characters and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.

  Cover design copyright 2014, Michael Young.

  All song lyrics copyright of their respective owners.

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  1

  Too hot for the Englishman.

  Too hot, despite the breeze rolling down the hill and through the trees. Too hot, and summer still a month away. Sweat ran beneath his hair and down his shirt. He struggled up the road and the sun beat down. There was no pavement so when the occasional car zipped by he had to press in against the rock face or, if he was passing one of the large homes of Hong Kong’s more affluent middle-classes, the wall around the property.

  The road twisted uphill – circling wooded areas and rocky outgrowths – to make progress slow. He’d had no money left over for a taxi. The pain in his chest was worse, so that he had to stop and rest a couple of times before he reached the house. He never had liked summers in Hong Kong. He was a big man, tall with wide shoulders. He didn’t do well in the heat.

  He came to a stone wall topped by green-painted iron railings. The house hadn’t changed. It was a two storey detached place in a mixed colonial style, with a pure white façade. The cherry red MG roadster sat outside on the short, wide gravel driveway. Well-tended shrubs were artfully scattered. Everything rested peacefully, soaking up the sun.

  A deep breath and he hoisted himself up onto the wall, then over the railings and dropped. His Chelsea boots hit the gravel with a crunch. Old pain shot through his shoulder, making him grunt. He paused again to get his breath back.

  There was no sign of movement from the house, nor any sounds. He approached the windows and looked through, using a hand to shade his face from the sun. Nothing. But looking through the sitting room and the dining area he saw that the French windows at the back were open. He started around the side of the house.

  At the back was a large lawn, bright green from plentiful watering. The Chinese widow was there. She wore a white bikini and dark glasses, lying back on the sunlounger with a drink by her side and a sheaf of papers in her hand. He couldn’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses, but he knew she was looking at him because she put down the script she had been reading. She pulled the red and white striped straw to her cherry red lips one last time before putting the drink aside.

  “Hello Don,” she said.

  He didn’t answer.

  “I wondered how long it would take you,” she said.

  The sun got in his eyes so that he found it hard to think, but the pain in his chest reminded him why he was here. He hadn’t come for the money. He hadn’t come for her. He’d come for himself.

  He reached into his pocket.

  “You left something behind,” he said.

  He pulled out the small pearl-handled antique revolver. It shone silver in the sun, the light glinting off the fine-etched curls that traced its barrel. It was old but in good condition, and still held four bullets in its five chambers.

  He pointed it at her stomach.

  The sunglasses came off and dropped onto the grass. Big dark eyes that knew the effect she had on him.

  She shifted a little on the sunlounger, to make sure he had a good view. “I knew you’d come, Don. I could feel it. What took you so long?”

  He was weak, nauseous. Climbing the hill had been too much in his condition. Pain fired through his chest and the gun wavered in his hand. It was a delicate antique weapon designed for a lady or an aristocratic gentleman, not some oversized oaf. It was ridiculous in his bulky fist, like an expensive toy.

  But it wasn’t a toy. It was real and it worked.

  Fired real bullets and everything. He knew that.

  The sweat collected in his palm and the afternoon sun bullied. Only the widow was cool, in her bikini, with an iced drink, with a red and white straw. She watched him carefully and wondered if he had the guts to actually pull the trigger.

  He was thinking the same thing himself.

  #

  Nine Months Previously

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  2

  A tiny silver bell rang as Don pushed his way into the store. The shelves and fridges were lined with wines, beers and all the others. He didn’t bother to look around. At the counter he towered over the young Chinese woman in big red plastic glasses who was waiting to serve him.

  “Chivas Regal, please.”

  She scoured the shelves behind the counter, running a finger over gins and vodkas. She looked back at him and he saw her eyes flicker to the side of his head. His hand went up to the long, fresh scar running straight up from his left ear. Six stitches. They were supposed to come out tomorrow. He’d better remember to go back to the hospital.

  Pronunciation could be a problem, sometimes. He pointed for her. She reached up, placed the bottle on the counter. Friends back in London wondered how he could live in a place when he didn’t speak the language. It wasn’t hard. Plenty of people in Hong Kong spoke English. And if they didn’t, well sometimes actions speak louder than words. He bought a packet of Marlboro while he was there. She understood that well enough, placed a box of Lights on the counter next to his whisky. Chinese fags were shit, so it was worth the premium.

  His phone rang as he handed over the cash.

  “What now?”

  But it wasn’t Jeannie. “Mr Jacobs? Don Jacobs?” An older man’s voice. One he didn’t recognise.

  “Yes, this is Don.”

  “Mr Jacobs, I was given your number by Mickey Hong. He said you may be able to help me regarding a certain matter. ”

  The guy sounded older and the accent pretty middle class, home counties. Not like Mickey Hong’s friends. But just the sort of thing Mickey would do for him. “Maybe so, Mr…”

  “Sun. My name is Sun Wen-Long. I have something that requires urgent attention.”

  The shop woman loaded the whisky and fags into a plastic bag. Don took his change from the woman with one hand and nodded thanks at her as the bell tinkled over his head.

  “Well, Mr Sun, why don’t you tell me a little something about it. I mean, I have some time on my hands, but…”

  “Oh don’t worry, Mr Jacobs. Nothing illegal; very simple. Mr Hong said that you were someone I could rely on. A very capable person.”

  Yeah, Mickey probably did say that. Capable of what? The sun was just sinking over Kowloon City as Don started back down the street. Hot, but not as hot as it had been. The oppressive Hong Kong summer had slipped in the last week or so. In the scrap of sky he could make out above the buildings, a few grey clouds were turning orange. Neon signs popped up one by one for another busy Friday night. The last of the rush hour traffic spilled their fumes over him as he headed to his apartment.

  “Why don’t you come to my office,” said the old man in his ear. “And we can discuss the details.”

  3

  A tiny Chinese grandmother in a hairnet, overloaded with veg from the market, fearlessly stuck her arm into the closing lift doors. She barged in and pressed fifteen, the floor beneath his. Don repeated Sun Wen-Long’s address to himself under his breath. His phone rang again. Shit. He couldn’t remember things like this at the best of times.

  It was Jonny. Don said, “Hello, mate.”

  “Don, you wanker.” Like most yanks, Jonny loved to practice his English slang in a Paul McCartney accent. “Where are you?”

  “Just getting home.” He fumbled keys from his pocket as he walked out the lift. “What’s up?”

  “Going up the Keller in a bit. Fancy a brew?”

&
nbsp; “Yeah alright. I got something to do first, see you in a couple of hours.”

  He pushed the apartment door open, ignored the stink from the dishes in the kitchen. Went straight through to the living room which also stank. The TV was on, blaring out some crappy sci-fi film. He set the whiskey down on the coffee table, grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen from next to the TV, wrote down what he remembered of the address. Better hope he’d got it right. He’d look a right tit calling the guy up again for directions.

  He left the note by the TV and went to get a tumbler for the whiskey. Searching through the dirty piles in the kitchen only got him a mug with a cartoon bear on the side. Have a nice day. That’ll do, he thought. Better get this place tidied tomorrow, as well. Fucking pigsty. He poured himself a half mug of whisky and lit a cigarette from a new pack. So Mickey had passed a job on to him, and he could catch up with Jonny later. Well, there goes the quiet night in.

  He stripped out of his clothes, turned the TV off, sucked hard at the whiskey, then the fag, and took both with him into the bathroom. He’d better clean himself up if he were going to meet this guy. In the mirror he rubbed at his stubbly cheeks. The new scar above his ear joined the one down his prominent chin, the one he didn’t like to talk about. Everything else going soft.

  He flicked the cigarette end into the toilet and turned on the shower.

  4

  The road dipped and the walls closed up on each side, strip lights bounced off his dashboard. Emerged from the tunnel on Hong Kong Island, stopping at reds every thirty yards or so beneath the giant glass and steel skyscrapers of Central. The famous view across Hong Kong Bay.

  Behind these and climbing, between Queen’s and Hollywood, leaning out his window to check the street numbers. Don pulled up outside a large antiques shop. He locked up the car, checked the number on the door. This was the place, ‘Sun and Co Fine Antiques’ in English above the larger Chinese characters.

  In the plate glass window were ancient Chinese wooden chests and stone statues. Display cases held smaller brass or jade items, and a pair of ancient pistols with deep burnished wooden handles and dark iron barrels. The usual shit. Streetlights lit up a giant gold Buddha that dominated one wall in the main space of the store. The opposite wall had dragons and griffins: gold, jade, big stone ones, tiny brass ones. Metalwork, artwork, trinket boxes, vases, all sorts. The lights were off. Don pushed his way inside and at the sound of the buzzer a door opened behind the cash register. A man came in from the back, light streaming through the open doorway behind him into the darkness of the shop.

  Sun Wen-Long was a wiry old man, maybe sixty. He was short and mostly grey haired with tortoiseshell spectacles, dressed in a blue-striped shirt and a tie held in place by a neat silver clip. A beige cardigan over the lot. He looked like an antique dealer. He looked like he’d gathered a lot of dust.

  “This way please.” Through the door were a couple of darkened rooms and stairs heading up. Don followed behind Mr Sun as they climbed. A long corridor, open doorways on either side. The rooms were filled with larger statues, wooden crates, workbenches. Pottery and furniture of all sizes, wrapped in cardboard and tied with string. Mr Sun opened the door at the far end and ushered Don into a small office. A cluttered desk flanked by chairs and a row of steel filing cabinets were the only furniture.

  “Mr Jacobs. Thank you so much for coming. Mickey Hong spoke very highly of you.” In the light Don saw that the old man wasn’t nearly as old as he seemed. Maybe fifty, but with the thin, bent frame of someone ten or fifteen years older. This is what a life in antiques does to you.

  “Can I ask how you know Mickey?”

  “Of course. His father and I had mutual business acquaintances. I know that Mickey has diversified his interests, of course. I guessed that he would be able to recommend someone suitable.”

  Mickey’s old man had been a respectable figure in the business community, had a lot of contacts. Many of them would’ve been pretty useful when Mickey took his inheritance and opened his little nightclub empire. That bit added up, now for the details. Don didn’t know shit about antiques. He had a feeling that it wouldn’t matter.

  “Why don’t you tell me what this job is all about, Mr Sun.”

  “Quite, let us get straight to the point. Put simply, I would like you to follow someone. My business partner.”

  These were clearly not words that Mr Sun was used to saying. He passed a photo to Don, a staff picture. It showed four smiling people in front of the golden Buddha downstairs. One of them was Mr Sun and there were two middle-aged, conservatively dressed women. The guy on the end was a handsome bastard. “His name is Alexander Fong Kwoon-Hei. I’ve written his address on the back.”

  Don flipped the picture over. Happy Valley. He recognised the street name from the papers. Big important houses for big important people.

  “You own a camera, I presume?”

  Don looked up from the photograph. “Yeah, no problem. Do you mind if I ask what this is about, Mr Sun?”

  Sun smiled, raised his hands as if to say what else? “Money, Mr Jacobs. An awful lot of money has been leaking from this business. I suspect Alexander. To tell you the truth, it couldn’t have been anyone else.”

  “Then excuse me, but shouldn’t you talk to the police, or a… What do you call ’em? Forensic accountant?”

  “You misunderstand me, Mr Jacobs. Alexander is already a wealthy man. Although he’s clearly been living beyond his means, I suspect something else is behind it. What I am interested in is why he needs the money.”

  Why does anybody need money? Nobody was ever rich enough that they didn’t want more. “You said he’s been living beyond his means?”

  “I did, yes. You can see the area he lives in. A big house, fast cars, a beautiful wife. These things cost money.”

  “They cost a lot of money, Mr Sun.”

  “But I’m talking about large funds that are missing from the business. Oh, it doesn’t hurt me so much, financially. But before I take any more substantial steps I’d quite like to know where it’s going. And why.”

  The money was probably hidden away for the day this guy decided to disappear. Or maybe he figured Mr Sun for a fool, thought he’d never get caught. Maybe Mr Sun was a fool. That wasn’t Don’s problem. “So you want me to tail this guy and let you know what he’s up to? Where he’s been blowing the cash?”

  “In a nutshell, Mr Jacobs.”

  So long as it paid. “When should I start?”

  “You needn’t worry about tonight, since I am meeting Mr Fong and his wife for dinner. Tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”

  “Quite convenient, Mr Sun, and, uh…”

  “Of course.” Mr Sun pulled an envelope from his desk drawer. “I am prepared to offer four thousand dollars per diem. Plus reasonable expenses, of course.”

  About three hundred quid a day. Not bad for an easy job and Don wasn’t in a position to turn it down. He wondered what the old man might offer if he said no, but he didn’t want to be an arse about it.

  “That’s fine, Mr Sun.” He took the envelope.

  “You’ll find three days payment in advance. Please let me know whenever you have something to report.”

  “What kind of thing are you interested in? I mean, what do you expect me to find?”

  Mr Sun took off his glasses, polished them with a small cloth from the desk. As he replaced them he looked Don in the eye. “I’m sure you’ll know when you see it, Mr Jacobs.”

  Leaving the darkened store, Don took another look at the photo. Alexander Fong was forty-something, dark hair greying at the temples. In another ten years he’d be a silver fox, but right now he was just a rich handsome guy, sharply dressed in a three piece. He reminded Don of a Chinese Richard Gere. Did that even make sense?

  Whatever. Climbing back into his Corolla he shoved the photo into the glove compartment. Time enough for that tomorrow. Twelve thousand dollars in his pocket and he hadn’t done anything for it. Not yet, anyway.

>   5

  Don opened his eyes. On the couch, still fully clothed. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d used his bedroom except for storage. Daylight streamed through the curtainless window. Wondered what time it was. That was when he noticed the sound of the shower. Jeannie was here. Maybe he’d left his front door unlocked again. Most of last night was a blur.

  Jeannie’s black jacket was draped over the arm of the couch, by his feet. That was right, they’d met up in the club after she finished work. He noticed that the scotch on the coffee table was a third down. That must have been her. The shower stopped and the bathroom door opened. Jeannie stood there naked, rubbing herself with the towel from the door. He’d meant to wash that towel, it was starting to smell.

  “You were fucking wasted last night,” she said. “I mean really fucking gone.”

  He put his head back down, watched sideways as she dried herself off. Jeannie would have been a stunner ten years ago, but the drink was starting to take its toll. Everything sagged a little. She’d had her hair cut again, even shorter into a chin-length bob. Don hoped he’d said something about it last night. It looked alright, actually, framing her pretty, round face. She disappeared into his bedroom and returned wearing the cotton Japanese bathrobe she bought on their trip to Tokyo. That was back in the day, when they still had some fun together. Only two years ago.

  He tried to sit up on the couch. His head pounded.

  “Bastard. Then you pass out as soon as we get here. After you’d sicked up all over the bathroom. Really fucking romantic, Donnie.”

  Donnie. He hated it when she called him that. It was Donnell, actually, from his Scottish grandfather. But he went by Don, nothing else. He stood up and walked into the kitchen. It still stank, but now so did he. He took the milk carton from the refrigerator, had a long swig, carried it back to the living room with him. Taking the packet from the coffee table, he lit a cigarette. His chest was heavy. Cigars again last night, with Jonny.