All Blood is Red

by Michael Young

  It came fast, Cortez in the corner, body blows, half-blocked hooks, an uppercut, but Don didn’t know where it hit. Finally the legs went, and Cortez was on his knees. The ref pulled Wu back and the crowd lifted the roof. They knew it was over. The count from the ref came over the radio, ‘4… 5… 6…’

  And Cortez was back on his feet. Don froze, straining at the sounds from the arena. The ref counted to eight, let him fight on. Fifteen seconds left, now ten. Don couldn’t move or breathe as he listened to Wu taking the war to the American. Punch followed punch, all landing home, a haymaker shook the stadium. The bell sounded. Cortez had survived another round, and the money was gone. Don had lost.

  He’d lost.

  He sat in the car, perfectly still, as the commentators described the break. It was all very far off, unreal. Hell, it didn’t matter for shit. He just sat there, his eyes unfocused, gazing out through the windscreen, trying to comprehend. A minute into the sixth the ref stopped the fight for blood. The eye had opened up but it didn’t matter one bit. Don had lost. He started hitting at the steering wheel, and the rage flowed through his fists as he pounded on the horn. The radio was still going, the commentators giving stats from the fight, so he grabbed whatever he could find from the floor and started pounding at the stereo with it. The screen cracked and a knob flew off, and the speakers were filled with white noise that didn’t stop so Don reached underneath and ripped the wires out of the back. Then he slumped on the wheel.

  What had he done?

  32

  When he looked up again it was eleven twenty. His hands were shaking. He started the car and drove carefully to HEAVEN, parking up round the corner. Andy, handling the queue that was already pretty sizable, shouted over when he saw him.

  “Yo dude, you’re late.”

  Then he saw the state that Don was in. “Hey, are you alright?”

  Don muttered something and brushed past to take over the queue, but Andy grabbed his wrist.

  “Better get this seen to first, no?”

  Don looked at his hand. A couple of knuckles were torn up and there was fresh blood running down his fingers. Hadn’t even noticed, must have done it on the radio. He pulled his hand away from Andy, stalked into the club. Ten minutes later he was back out, plasters on his hand, and wordlessly took over the line. Andy knew when to leave someone well enough alone and retreated inside.

  He let another half a dozen people into the club, barely even noticing them. The kids in the line grew quiet as they got close to the front. Don had six inches over most of them, and right now he was radiating thunder. Nobody wanted to get too close. He stood at the head of the line for half an hour, his mind going over the fight, the money he’d kissed goodbye, where he was going to find some more for the Brothers Wang. One week left, one fucking week, and if he didn’t have the money by then it was time to scarper, or face them. Right now he felt like tearing them apart.

  That was when he saw the same black BMW pull up outside the club. The Brothers climbed out of the back seat followed by three guys from the SUV that followed. They ignored the line – guys like that didn’t queue for anyone – and walked straight past Don into the club. The taller one in white had a smirk on his face, and the shorter one in black tipped Don a wink.

  What the fuck was he doing? There was only one place he was going to get the money from, and it wasn’t here.

  Don pounded off around the corner to his car, leaving confused people in the line wondering what they were supposed to do. He slammed his door as hard as he could, stamped on the accelerator and, wheels spinning, sped off into the night. Working the door wasn’t going to do shit for him. Only one person had the money he needed, and he was going to get it. It wasn’t like fate didn’t owe him a break. His money had fucked off, so now he was laying a claim on someone else’s. ‘Come to my house tomorrow,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll tell you everything.’

  It was time to see exactly what kind of a job the widow had in mind, and exactly how much she was willing to pay.

  33

  He managed to hold off until the afternoon. It was three o’clock when he pulled up outside the iron gate and pressed the buzzer by the side of it. The sun was hotter today, no breeze to cool things down. Soon enough, her voice came back metallic through the grill.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs Lam. It’s Don Jacobs.”

  She didn’t reply, but the gate started sliding open by itself. He drove in and parked next to the bright red MG. The Mercedes was gone. So was its driver, he thought. Walking up the steps he found the door unlocked and pushed it open. His shoes clicked on the wooden floor as he stepped inside. The hallway was bright and spacious. A wide staircase went up, oil paintings lining the white wall. There was a door on the left and an archway to the right. The widow called from through the archway.

  “I’m in here.”

  The archway led to a large room that ran to the rear of the house. Large brown leather sofas and chairs were arranged around a rug and a stone fireplace. Above the mantle was a large painting of a red-jacketed man on horseback, a pack of dogs around the horse’s feet. Don thought he recognised it. Further back a huge dining table with heavy chairs in matching oak sat in front of wide-open French windows.

  Julia Lam stood behind a leather chair, clutching the back. Her lips were as red as ever, but this time her hair was down to her shoulders. She wore a different dress, the right colour for a widow but shorter. It had thin straps and dipped sharply down to show cleavage, with loose folds of material over her breasts.

  The same heart-shaped locket hung around her neck, but no veil on her head. Not today.

  “I’m very glad you came, Mr Jacobs.”

  Beneath her hair, a flash of diamonds in her ears.

  “Please, won’t you take a seat?” Nervous, unsure of herself.

  “I’d rather stand if it’s all the same to you. Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

  She walked over to him, and placed a hand on his. Her skin felt very warm. “Please, sit down.”

  She pulled him over to the sofa and he sat.

  “I’ll make some drinks.”

  Don couldn’t help but watch her as she padded out barefooted to the rear of the house. She was shorter without heels but tall enough, and slender. The loose folds of material dropped low down her back, well-defined shoulder blades and a delicate spine on display. She disappeared into the kitchen. “Any preference?”

  “I’ll have what you’re having,” he called. Strewn across the mantel was a selection of photographs: the happy couple at their wedding, on some exotic beach, with friends. The fireplace was cold and clean. On the rug in front of him was a large glass coffee table holding a lead crystal ashtray with two lipstick marked ends in it. Also a small wooden box filled with fat Cuban cigars, about six inches long. He was playing with the box when the widow appeared silently beside him, and he put it down again embarrassed. She placed two glasses on the table and sat next to him.

  “It’s okay. Help yourself. I don’t smoke them.” She pulled out a gold-tipped cigarette from the packet in her hand, waited for him to light it then blew the smoke away toward the ceiling. The smell of tobacco mixed with her perfume, which was light and flowery, spring-like. He leaned forward and sipped his drink. Vodka tonic, and pretty strong, too. His glass clanged loudly as he replaced it on the glass table. Then the silence returned. Don stared into the empty hearth. The widow smoked.

  “Mrs Lam,” he started, but suddenly didn’t know what to say. He looked round to find her eyes trained on him, watching his every move. She replaced the cigarette between her lips. “Mrs Lam, you mentioned a job. Why don’t you tell me about that.”

  His eyes followed her hand as she took a last puff on her cigarette and stubbed it out, half smoked. Her nails were carefully shaped, and red to match her lips. She took a delicate sip at her drink, another lipstick mark.

  “My husband arranged everything, I don’t really know all the details.” She took a dee
p breath. “Next week, a valuable artefact is coming to Hong Kong. My husband arranged to buy it and re-sell it in the same week. It wasn’t done through the business, this is a private deal.”

  “Illegal?”

  This time she caught his eye. She had long lashes, dark eyeliner emphasized the grieving look. “Not strictly legal, perhaps.” Another pause. “My husband didn’t do this sort of thing regularly, you understand. This was strictly a one-off.”

  Don didn’t care about the husband. “I understand. What is it?”

  “A tablet. Three tablets, actually. Solid gold, and engraved.”

  “Engraved with what?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. Where are they from?”

  “They’re coming from Jakarta, but that’s not where they’re from. They’re from Iraq.”

  “Looted during the war?”

  “Look, I said I don’t know. Probably, yes. Three Americans are bringing them in.”

  “Why from Jakarta?”

  “That’s where they’ve been for the last few years, waiting for a buyer.” She stood up with her drink, started circling, pacing up and down. “My husband arranged everything, Mr Jacobs, and I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’ve never done this kind of thing before.” She stopped walking and looked down at him. It was easy to believe her.

  “How much?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “How much are you paying for them?”

  “Oh.” She looked away again, took a deep breath. “Two million dollars. US dollars, in cash. That’s how much we’re paying.”

  Don took a breath. “And how much are you selling them for?”

  She looked him in the eye. “Ten million dollars.”

  The breath whistled between his lips.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing, Mr Jacobs. I’m out of my league. I need someone to back me up, to provide some muscle.” She turned away from him. “Otherwise I’m just a little girl walking about with a lot of money for people to take. I don’t trust the people we’re doing business with. I don’t even know who they are. That’s why I need your help.”

  She turned back to face him. Those big, brown eyes again. Moistening up, so helpless and scared. He leaned back into the couch. “You can turn the act off Mrs Lam. I’m interested in the money, that’s all.” She looked down to the floor. Hurt? Ashamed? He couldn’t tell. “Let’s say I decide to help you…”

  She met his eyes again. She was on the brink of tears, but held herself together, and sat next to him. “Fifty percent, Mr Jacobs, minus my front money. That’s four million dollars, US, in cash.”

  34

  Don became aware that his mouth was open. Four million. Easily over two million, British. He hadn’t seen money like that in his life, probably never would. He tried to stop himself from looking too amazed. Had to play it cool, not jump in. He still didn’t know anything about this deal. But four fucking million. “When is it supposed to be happening?”

  “Next Saturday.” One day before he had pay off the Brothers. And with enough change to see him through the rest of his life. “They’re going to ring when they arrive, to set up the meeting. There’s a special phone.” She turned to a small bookcase near the fireplace. Taking a mobile phone from the top, she sat down again next to Don, placing the phone on the glass table in front of them. “They will call on this phone, and one week later, the buyer will call to arrange the second meeting.”

  Don thought about it. Shit, he wouldn’t be getting any money until a week after he was due to pay. That was a bitch. But four million? Maybe he could make a deal with Uncle Wang. She placed a hand back on his arm. “So you see why I need your help Don. You see why I need someone with me. I can’t walk into that meeting all alone, carrying that amount of cash.”

  The eyes again. He grabbed his drink and stood up. He had to think about it, take his time. If she thought it was going to be dangerous, maybe it would be. He gulped back his vodka. But could he really turn down an opportunity like this? “Is that why he did it?”

  He was behind the sofa now, and she turned to face him. “Is that why Mr Sun killed your husband?”

  A look came across her face. A look he couldn’t read. She took his lighter from the coffee table, lit another cigarette. The smoke wreathed around her. “I don’t know. That’s the truth. I don’t know why he did it.”

  “Did he know about the deal?”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  “Is that where the money came from? Mr Sun said money was missing from the business. Did your husband steal it from Mr Sun for this deal?”

  She almost screamed back at him, “I told you I don’t know. Maybe, yes. Yes, I think so.” Then her shoulders slumped, deflated. She took another deep drag on the cigarette. Silence weighed on the room. The widow stood up. “Let’s go outside. It’s stuffy in here.”

  Don followed her through the dining area, past the kitchen and out into the garden. A small patio with cast iron garden furniture. Richly coloured grass stretched to the tall pines at the back. He was almost surprised to find the sun still shining. It was bright and hot. She walked out of the shade of the house onto the small lawn, the grass beneath her bare feet. He waited for her on the patio as she puffed away silently at her cigarette.

  When she was finished she crouched down, knees together, stubbed out her cigarette on the ground. Don sipped his drink. Finally she looked at him, looked up at the house behind him. Don could guess what she was thinking. Her house. Paid for by her husband, who couldn’t really afford such things. And now he was gone. If she wasn’t careful, so was everything else. Her gaze lifted up to the sky, the sun on her face.

  Don turned and walked back inside.

  He turned into the kitchen to fix himself another drink, his mind racing. The timing was out by a week, so he had to sort something with Charlie Wang. Did he really believe this woman? Would she try to double-cross him in the week between the deals? He didn’t exactly trust her, but she certainly seemed out of her depth. He didn’t think she would be any trouble.

  But what about the other guys? The sellers and the buyers? That was the point of bringing him along, as a bit of muscle. Maybe they’d be packing? Don didn’t have a gun. He’d barely touched one in his life. Then again, what did he have to lose? Right now, absolutely fuck all.

  He turned around to see the widow padding past the kitchen. When he returned with a fresh vodka tonic, she was again on the sofa where they’d started. He sat down next to her.

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  She whispered the words. He turned and looked into her face. Her eyes were cast down. Tear tracks lined each cheek. Another tear silently fell to her chin.

  “I’ve told you everything, like I promised I would.” Now she looked up at him.

  Doubts lingered in his mind. “I don’t know. I don’t like it.” Her eyes widened. Fear? “Even if I did, there’s a lot of things could go wrong.”

  “Please Don. Please, I need your help.”

  More tears. Her hand reached up to his shirt, and pulled him towards her.

  “I need you, Don.”

  The words were barely audible, the breath squeezed through her lips. So this was her final play. Her last throw of the dice, to get him on board. She pulled him closer by his shirt, her eyes closed and her lips slightly apart.

  He reached up behind her head and gripped her hair tightly. She gasped and opened her eyes. If this were how he was being bribed, then he’d make sure the price was damned high.

  “I presume that’s a yes, then,” she whispered.

  35

  They took drinks out into the garden. It was almost dark. She smoked a cigarette while Don puffed away on a quality cigar from the box in the living room, enjoyed the fine wine from dinner. For him these were rare treats. Julia was quiet, drinking too fast. Don still had questions about the deal, but supposed they could wait. Instead he asked, “Where’s the car?”

  “W
hat car?”

  “The Mercedes. Your husband’s car.”

  “I had some people take it away. Why? Did you want that, too?”

  Stung, he stabbed out the cigar.

  She put her hand on his arm. “No. I’m sorry. I miss him. We were still married, even if we weren’t together that way.” Her face softened, a drunken redness spreading across her cheeks. “There are many kinds of marriage. We were together for a long time.”

  “What did the police say? About how he died?”

  A moment of silence. Was he asking too much? “They didn’t tell me everything. I didn’t want to know the details. It was supposed to look like suicide, with a gun – a pair of antique guns from the store. But they found something in his blood. Rohypnol. Supposedly, Sun telephoned him, asked him to meet in a hotel. He didn’t tell me where he was going, that night.”

  “And the police still haven’t caught up with Sun?”

  “No, but they will. I know they will. That old bastard’s too stupid to get away for long.” She drained her wine glass, and filled it again from the bottle. Her hand was becoming unsteady. Then she shivered a little, and rubbed her arms. He saw goose pimples on her skin.

  “Why do you think he did it?”

  She looked at him again, her eyes slightly unfocused. She thought about it, carefully. “Money, probably. I don’t really know. The money that Alex took to buy the tablets, I suppose. Sun never liked Alex that much. When the store wasn’t doing well, Alex’s parents put up the funds for him to buy into the business. Sun never quite got used to it. The business never did really take off. Not like they planned.”