26
Don woke up on his sofa. Some brats were screaming into his skull. His hand flapped around for the remote and turned off the Saturday morning kids’ movie. A sharp pain hit him behind the eyes. His mouth tasted foul, his tongue bloated and his teeth furry. Needed some water. His phone started ringing as he came back from the kitchen. Unknown number. Was it Jeannie calling from work? Or Jonny looking for a hair-of-the-dog breakfast again?
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice, soft and deep, “Is that Donnell? Donnell Jacobs?” If this was a sales call they were gonna get short shrift.
“Yeah, it is. Who wants to know?”
“Mr Jacobs, my name is Julia. Julia Lam.”
The widow.
There was silence for a heartbeat, then two.
“Mr Jacobs?”
Her voice was like velvet. It caressed him through the phone, a trace of California, a trace of Cantonese.
“I was wondering if we could meet.”
27
The lobby of a big 5-star hotel downtown. It was a classy place. If Jeannie’s hotel had pretensions, this was what it pretended to be. A uniformed doorman swept Don into the huge reception. The flowers were real, so was the marble. The lounge area was a selection of plush sofas and armchairs set around coffee tables of cherry-stained, highly polished wood. It was slightly raised and with a wooden railing, but open to public view. Nothing to hide in this place.
He noticed the widow at once. She was the one dressed all in black.
Julia Lam was perched on the edge of an armchair, sipping black coffee from a delicate white china cup. The dress was figure hugging, but relatively modest. Her husband was barely dead, after all. Her black hair was twisted up in a loose bun with wispy strands, and a small flower shape clipped on some folds of black netting that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It left her neck bare, except for a slender silver chain with a small locket shaped like a heart. Her lips were painted blood red.
She met his glance from across the lobby, and lowered her eyes demurely. Don dragged his gaze from her lips to take in the shape of her body, following the dress down to her stockinged, rounded calves and vicious black patent heels whose silver tips dug into the thick carpet. He hadn’t had to ask why she wanted to meet. He didn’t exactly understand it, either.
The hotel was busy – Saturday morning – and a handful of businessmen were hanging around the lounge area. Don checked them all out as subtly as he could, as he took a seat on the sofa next to the widow’s chair. They all looked normal enough. Still, better think before he opened his mouth around here. He was in his best suit, a charcoal double breast he’d brought with him from London when he still thought he might turn out to be a businessman. Even so, he felt shabby and out of place. The whole building reeked of money. And she was in her element.
“Ms Lam.”
“Call me Julia, please.”
“Call me Don.” Then silence. She sipped at her cup, adding to the mess of red lip prints on the rim. A waiter came over, and Don asked for a coffee. Julia refused a refill. He took his Marlboro Lights out of his breast pocket and offered her one. She took it without a word, accepting a light from him, and blew the smoke vertically up into the wide-open spaces above them. Don lit one for himself, and the waiter brought him a coffee and an ashtray. “I was sorry to read about your husband.”
She smiled as if she didn’t believe him, “Sorry for him? Or sorry for me? Or sorry for your part in it?” Don said nothing. He blew on his coffee and looked around the room. A heavy guy in a blue-striped shirt and braces, American or German, was tapping away at a laptop on the table next to them. A group of thin Englishmen in business suits were laughing and joking, drinking tea nearby. A couple of women in the same party talked to a concierge. Don realised he was sweating. “How did you get my number?”
She looked at him, a little astonished, lips slightly open. He could believe she’d been an actress. Or a model. He would have believed that, too. She seemed to realise that he didn’t know her side of the story.
“When a car is sat outside my house all weekend, I tend to notice. It was a simple job to trace the registration, find a name, find a number.” The breathy voice flowed over him. He nodded. Of course, it was simple.
“And you figured out it was me who took the pictures.”
“It rather stands to reason, don’t you think? And now you’ve confirmed it for me.”
“So, you blame me for your husband, uh…” he stopped there, looking around to see who was listening. ‘Watch your mouth, Don,’ he thought to himself. But he couldn’t have finished the sentence anyway. Not to her.
The widow smiled. “No, Mr Jacobs. I certainly don’t blame you.” She took a large black handbag from next to her chair – Don hadn’t even noticed it, he’d only been looking at her legs, down there – and pulled out a newspaper. The handbag’s gold clasp, in the shape of two C’s, snapped shut again. Chanel, of course. She threw the paper on the table. It was today’s South China Morning Post.
“Page three,” she said.
So the story was moving up? He turned to page three and this time saw a shot of Mr Sun, tired and thin and pixelated. Above it was a new headline.
Murder Suspect On The Run.
28
Don glanced through the short story – suspected of shooting business partner; made to look like suicide; prints found at scene. He almost said what he was thinking out loud, stopped himself just in time. Couldn’t use that sort of language in a place like this.
Julia spoke for him. “Mr Sun has used you. He appears to have planned things very carefully. The photos you took were the last piece he needed to make it look like suicide.”
“So Mr Sun knew all along, about your husband?”
She paused a moment, realised what he meant. “Everybody knew, Mr Jacobs. It was not a very well-kept secret. However, Mr Sun believed that the police would find the anonymously delivered photos shameful enough to justify my husband taking his own life.”
“You knew, too.”
She smiled. “Of course.”
She watched him carefully for his reaction. He couldn’t help but glance down at her body, concealed beneath the clingy material of the dress. She noticed. Don tried to fix his eyes on her face. Switched back to his coffee.
The widow continued. “Like I said, many people knew. Except our families, of course. I’m sure you can appreciate the kind of pressure that comes from old families like ours, Mr Jacobs. The pressure to marry the right kind of person.”
“And you and he…”
“The marriage suited both of us. My family never approved of my acting. His age and profession gave us an air of respectability. My family’s position satisfied his own parents, and I gave his life that dash of glamour which he felt it lacked.”
“And everybody’s happy,” Don finished off.
“Quite, Mr Jacobs. Everybody was happy.”
He watched her extinguish the cigarette in the ashtray. A smudge of blood colour ringed one end of it. “But why did Mr Sun want to…” he hesitated with the word, “to kill your husband?”
“Well, now. That’s quite another question. I’m not sure that I can answer that. And I don’t think I’d like to attempt it here.” Her eyes never left him, while Don glanced furtively around the room.
“Then, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you telling me all of this?”
She leaned in towards him, crossing her legs with the soft scrape of real silk, resting an elbow on her knee as her huge brown eyes swallowed him whole. “I would say, Mr Jacobs, that you owe me a favour. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Don turned away and let out his breath. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding it. He took a last toke on his cigarette and carefully stubbed it out next to hers. She leaned back a little.
“What kind of favour?”
“Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure. But I don’t know many people like you.”
She placed her hands together in
her lap, turned her head down. “Now that my husband is gone, I need a man, a strong man. There’s a little job coming up…” A half-smile. “It pays well. Very well indeed. It’s simple, really. But my husband was taking care of everything, and now I’m afraid to do it all on my own.”
She raised her eyes to him, like a helpless doe in the forest.
It nearly worked, as well. He felt himself falling into the eyes. It would be so easy. It was the natural thing to do.
But he knew when he was being played. “I’m sorry, Mrs Lam, but I don’t think I can help you.” He stood to leave.
“Wait.” She stood and placed a hand on his arm. “It’s worth a lot of money, an awful lot. Don’t decide now. Think it over. I need your help, Don.” She held back the tears with an effort. “Come to my house tomorrow, and I’ll tell you more. I’ll tell you everything.”
She looked up into his face. Now she was small and scared. Her slight fingers gripped desperately to his arm.
“Please, Don.” The final words were nothing but a whisper, a mere breath.
He hesitated. With an effort he tore himself away from those eyes, those full red lips, slightly parted, turned up towards him. “I’m sorry, Mrs Lam. You’re a fine actress, but I don’t think I’m your man. I’m sure you’ll find some other sucker.”
He strode across the lobby, and through the doors to the street. It took all his willpower not to look back.
29
He didn’t know what the game was, but it smelled rotten through and through. He couldn’t get her face out of his mind. What was the job supposed to be? Couldn’t imagine, but he didn’t want to get mixed up when there was murder involved. Perhaps her and Sun were in together from the start, and needed a patsy for the police? All he knew was there was a dead guy in a hotel room holding his pictures, and the police hadn’t made an arrest as yet. He wasn’t going to get pinned for that one. No way.
He drove for half an hour, edging slowly through the Saturday traffic, trying not to think of the widow. Failing. Finally he parked the car up outside an anonymous row of shops on the edge of Sham Shui Po district, north-west Kowloon City. Reaching into the glove compartment he took out a fat envelope. Anyway, if things came right tonight he wouldn’t need her money, if there even was any.
He’d scraped together twenty thousand Hong Kong Dollars in the last couple of weeks. Some from wages and the last of his bank balance, most of it from taking his credit cards to the limit. He was way behind on his rent and bills, but that wouldn’t matter by this time tomorrow. Wu Ming-Hao was fighting that night, and Don had been doing some research.
His opponent was an American, Cortez, who had a respectable but average record, twenty-five from thirty-five. Don checked out some of his opponents, and they weren’t that hot. What’s more, almost all his wins were on points, but nine of his losses were KO. He was an out-fighter who had a weakness to big punches. The kid was a clever boxer, no doubt, but he had a glass jaw and would probably go down early if anything connected. KOs were Ming-Hao’s speciality, fourteen in eighteen wins. He was technically good, but most importantly he had a big right hand and none of his last seven fights had gone the distance. In training he was really looking the business. His trainer was talking big things and he was going in on good form.
Wu Ming-Hao was going to win, and Don’s bookmakers – a private and not exactly legal operation run out of a small insurance office – knew that too. No money to be made on a straight win. But a bet on Ming-Hao in under six rounds gave 11/2, and that was enough to pay off Charlie Wang, with some change to pay the rent and for a night out on the town. Don kissed the envelope before shoving it into his pocket. Time to visit his bookie. This was going to solve all his problems.
30
The Wu-Cortez match-up was top of the bill at a big old warehouse in East Kowloon that had been converted into a fight stadium. Boxing, MMA, whoever needed a ring and a crowd and had the money. They would be on about ten-thirty. Don was working but, as a big fight involving a local boy, it was going to be on English radio. A lot of the ex-pats here were into boxing and a fight like this had draw. He didn’t have a radio in the flat so he would listen to it in the car, around the corner from the club, and it should be over before he had to start work at eleven. He felt the excitement in his stomach.
He found a parking space on a quiet street in front of a row of shops, all of them closed and shuttered for the night. No more than five minutes from HEAVEN. He left the light off in the car and sat in the glow from the streetlamps, smoking out the window. At ten twenty-five he turned the radio on. Two commentators were talking about the fight, mainly about the expectations for Wu Ming-Hao. If he won tonight he’d be up against some Mexican early next year. If he beat that guy he’d be putting himself on the list of contenders for a shot at a belt. Low on the list, sure, but on the list, with people talking about him. That was when we’d really see what he was made of, if he had the stomach for the big nights. Don had seen a few fighters in his life. More than a few. This lad was going places, plenty of dog and he had it up top, as well. A quiet lad who listened to good trainers, learning the art of a fight as well as the technique. Had the power to back it up.
At ten-thirty the boxers came out, usual pageantry and fanfare. Don could hear the crowd roaring on the local guy, baying for blood. A hell of an atmosphere, being Saturday night and all. ‘Wu – Wu – Wu – Wu’ and finally the bell sounded and the boxers were at each other. Don listened, trying to imagine the action.
He quickly realised the commentators didn’t know shit about boxing. Sports fans, maybe, but not boxing fans. The fighters started slow, circling each other, throwing a few jabs, neither committing too much. Wu landed a combination, got caught on the head in return. Both trying to control the fight, control the centre of the ring and then it was round two, and this time Cortez was going forward, landing some jabs but wary of Wu’s right hand. The referee separated them a couple of times as they tangled in a corner and Wu came back firing at Cortez, landed some body blows, moving about the ring.
Clever boxing, Don thought in his car. Don’t let the bastard settle. They traded jabs in the centre, the crowd going quiet until Wu trapped Cortez against the ropes, a roar as he landed blows to the body and the side of the head, Cortez keeping his gloves up and trying to box out. The bell, and more chat from the commentators. Wu controlling the pace, not letting Cortez get any momentum. That’s what they said.
The third round started quiet. Don knew what they were thinking, neither wanting to tire out too soon. This was where they would be starting to blow hard, especially the heavier Wu. That must be Cortez’s plan, tire him out. That would have been Don’s plan. Wu landed a left-right and the crowd came alive again, but he was caught on the ear for his trouble. Wu in control though, Cortez going defensive, moving around a lot, clinching if it got too close.
Wu missed with a few, and then they were locked together. Wu landed some heavy blows to his opponent’s side, stumbling against the ropes until the ref stepped in. And that was round three over. Two more rounds for the bet to come off. Blood from the American’s nose. One of Wu’s straights must have hit home.
A KO for Wu in four or five and Don was laughing. He felt confident, knowing what Wu was thinking, setting up the big finish. The young guy was letting Cortez move around a lot, controlling the pace and the ground, hitting to the body when he could. Not that the idiot commentators told him that, but that was what he saw in his head, listening to their descriptions.
He lit another cigarette as the boxers came out for the fourth. Again, Cortez moving, trying combinations. Wu let him get in close, jabbing every time the American came within range, and following with the right. Now the crowd was really heating up. A lot of Cortez’s punches were missing, and that would be sapping his energy. Wu had already landed a few, using his feet well. When Cortez came in too close they both landed jabs at the same time, but it was Cortez who stumbled and caught an uppercut. Don felt the tension and exc
itement rising with the crowd noise. It was coming, he could feel it.
They traded heavy rights, Cortez shaken, and when he missed with his own right a few seconds later, Wu hit a left hook, trapped him in the corner, and the legs went from under Cortez as Wu rained in the punches. Was this it? But Cortez was back on his feet, and when the ref stepped back Wu went after him, throwing a flurry of combinations, Cortez was down again from a hook to the body. Again he stood up quickly, but the commentators weren’t sure how much longer he could survive. The ref let the fight continue, Cortez dodged and blocked the last few seconds to the bell.
This was the moment coming up. The crowd were behind the local boy all the way.
‘Wu – Wu – Wu – Wu.’
31
Don had been in that position. On the floor twice in one round? Now was the time to finish him off. Cortez would just be looking to throw out jabs and keep Wu away, try and keep out of trouble until his legs came back, but Wu knew how to finish a fight. He’d be going for blood.
‘Wu – Wu – Wu – Wu.’
In fact he already had blood. A cut had opened above the American’s eye, pretty bad so the commentators said. Don wished he had some experts to tell him what was going on, someone who really knew their stuff. They came out for the fifth round, Cortez keeping on the move, and when Wu came within range Cortez wrapped his arms around him, not letting him get the chance to land anything too damaging. His legs were too shaky. The commentators were calling Wu the new Golden Boy. That seemed to be the nickname they were trying to make stick.
Don timed the round. It had to come now. A minute gone, with little action. Wu got a few jabs through, but Cortez was on the defensive, protecting his cut and then there was a minute left. Cortez on his knees, but the ref called it a slip. Now Wu moved in. He landed a couple, finding his range, took a couple of jabs back but that didn’t matter now. From the sound of it, Cortez didn’t have anything left in the tank. The crowd smelled a kill and Wu wasn’t going to disappoint. Don’s fists moved the air in front of him, remembering how it worked.
All Blood is Red Page 7
