All Blood is Red

by Michael Young

  “Where do you want to go then?”

  She carefully lit a cigarette, the smoke filling the small car. “I don’t care, just drive.”

  He started the engine, feeling it roar under his feet. Carefully, he pulled out onto the road, grateful for the quiet dark streets, and started driving. For lack of any better idea, he continued along the coast and kept going, taking the route along which he had followed her husband. They passed the country club and he didn’t know if she realised. She appeared to be staring blankly out the front window, away in another world. In a couple of minutes they were overlooking the dark, empty beach, where the waves lapped so gently at the sand.

  The moon came out from behind a cloud to shine off the water. Julia got out with the new bottle of desert wine and walked unsteadily down the steps to the sand, popping the cork and taking a long swig. Don reluctantly followed. He passed her heels and then her jacket as she left them behind on the beach. When he caught up with her she pressed the bottle into his hands.

  “Drink,” she commanded.

  “Babe, I really think we should…”

  “Drink! Just drink the damn thing. It’s all I’ve got left.”

  He didn’t ask what she meant, but took a swig of the sweet, heavy wine. She pulled it away from him and carried on walking, sucking at the bottle, with Don following a few yards behind. The gentle breakers foamed and slunk away.

  She looked up at the moon, down again at the ground beneath her, and said “Here.” She dropped onto all fours on the wet sand, and with her hands started digging a small pit for the wine. With the bottle carefully propped in its hole, she rolled over and lay on her back and looked up at him. The dress had ridden up her thighs until it bunched around her waist, showing the tops of her stockings and more.

  Don looked around into the night, but they seemed to be alone. There was no movement or lights, just the sound of the waves ten yards away. “I really think we should be going.”

  She lifted a hand to him, but as he tried to pull her up she pulled him down, until he tripped over her legs and rolled on the wet beach. She climbed on top of him, straddling him without a word. Looking him unsteadily in the eye, her lips closed in on his and she kissed him, hard, drunk and passionate.

  46

  Saturday morning, the day of the deal.

  Don woke early because of the headache. He lifted Julia’s arm off him and slipped out of bed. The dress and Chanel jacket were still on the floor where he had tossed them. They had made love on the beach, and she had rolled over and vomited into the sand. The shoes had been left where she dropped them, and then she had passed out in the car and he’d had to carry her into the house and up to bed.

  His head hurt.

  He walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As it heated up he watched her sleep. The water glass was empty. He went down to the kitchen, drank as much water as his stomach could manage, necked a handful of aspirin. Back upstairs, a long shower, and the widow showed no signs of life as he dressed in his other suit, the one that didn’t have sand in the pockets.

  By the time Julia emerged, bleary and hung over, the coffee was on the table and Don was frying up some breakfast. The hangover was easing. He didn’t feel hungry at all, but knew he should eat something. They both forced the food down in silence. Julia looked awful, and he didn’t doubt she felt just as bad.

  When he was done, she gathered their plates, her own unfinished, dropped them in the sink while he refilled their coffee cups. She sat down next to him with a cigarette in her hand, pushed the packet towards Don. He took one, lit it, blowing smoke up in the air to mingle with hers. She opened her mouth to say something.

  The phone rang.

  They both turned their heads toward the sitting room.

  It rang again.

  Julia was the first to react. Don watched as she picked it up, looked at it, answered the call and pressed the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?” Silence as she listened. “Yes. Yes, that’s right.” More silence. Her eyes were suddenly sharp, hangover forgotten. “Yes. I understand.”

  She looked at the phone again, and replaced it on the shelf. Turning to Don, she said, “The Angels. It’s a hotel. Room six-fourteen. Two o’clock.”

  47

  By one o’clock they had been ready for hours. Don sat on the couch, filling up the ashtray and rubbing at the scar above his ear. It had suddenly become itchy. Julia moved constantly from the couch to the kitchen, upstairs to the bedroom, back down again. She was wearing the plum dress that didn’t reach her knees and left her neck exposed. She had checked her handbag a dozen times already. It was the large one with the gold Chanel double-C clasp. She had also telephoned the hotel to find out where it was, in Shek Kip Mei district on the northern edge of Kowloon City. She came down the stairs now, sat beside him on the sofa. Her flowery perfume mixed with the cloud of smoke hanging over him.

  She said, “We should go.”

  “We don’t want to be early.”

  “We won’t. Let’s just sit in the car. I can’t stand waiting here.”

  He stood and picked up the mobile phone, unplugging it from the charger. He looked at the last caller, a mobile number. Probably a new phone they picked up this morning, pre-pay, untraceable if they paid cash. Same as the one he was holding. He slipped it into his inside pocket. As they walked out to the car, she gave him the keys. “You drive.”

  He sat behind the steering wheel of the MG, fired the engine into life. Julia got in on the passenger side. “Let’s just drive past the hotel, so we know where it is.”

  He nodded, pressed the remote for the gates and pulled out, turning down the hill towards the tunnel. He drove in silence, while she sat clutching the handbag to her chest. Through the tunnel, up onto the flyover, north through Kowloon. They passed the turn-off for his old apartment and the Saturday traffic began to ease as they approached the edge of the city. Turning back into the side streets it took them ten minutes of winding around to find the place.

  It was barely any more than a sleazy motel. Just a large grey concrete slab with darkened windows, one amongst many away from the busy centre of the city. A good place for businessmen to take their secretaries, students, anyone who didn’t want to be seen with their partner. A large sign stuck out from a corner of the building on rusted iron struts. The Angels – Hotel – No Vacancies. The entrance was on a side street, parking underground.

  Don passed it at a crawl. There were no signs of movement, nobody around. The neighbourhood was drab, quiet. He drove on for a couple of blocks, crossed a busier high street, pulled up outside a corner shop.

  “I need cigarettes.”

  He left her in the car, bought two packets of Marlboro Lights. The little cash he had left was running out fast. Walking back onto the street, he paused to open a pack and pulled a fag out with his teeth. In the car, Julia was sipping from a silver flask. He lit his cigarette and climbed back into the MG.

  “What’s that?”

  “Scotch.”

  “Don’t you think you drank enough last night?”

  “Do you?” She held the flask out to him. On one side was a large coat of arms. It had some kind of long-legged bird in the centre and a motto in Latin around the outside. Don thought he’d seen that bird somewhere before. He grabbed the flask from her and took a long, hard drink, enjoying the burning sensation slipping down his throat. That’s right, on the gatepost of the country club where Alex Fong played golf. The coat of arms was on the entrance sign. He rolled his window down to flick the ash from his cigarette.

  She took the flask back and had another sip before putting it back in her handbag. What else did she have in there? Then a thought hit him.

  “Where’s the money?”

  “Don’t worry about the money.” She took her cigarettes from the bag and lit one.

  “What do you mean don’t worry about the money? Where is it?”

  She looked at him. “That’s my problem, not yours.”

&
nbsp; “Okay, but please tell me you’ve got the fucking money.”

  She rolled her eyes, and reached into the bag again. A zip, a side pocket, and she pulled out a small silver key attached to a plastic disc. She passed it to him. “The money’s in three large bags, in a locker. When they give us the tablets, I’ll tell them where the locker is.”

  Don was stunned into silence. He looked at the key. The plastic disc was stamped ‘516’.

  “Are you fucking insane?”

  She looked at him, defensively.

  “Do you really think they’re gonna let you walk out of there if you give them a key?”

  “The money’s in the locker. They can send someone to check it, or whatever. I don’t care.”

  “They’re expecting two million in their hands.”

  “Are we really going to cart two million in cash into a hotel with us?”

  “They are not gonna be happy with this.”

  “I don’t care if they’re happy.” The sudden venom in her voice shocked him. “My husband died for this deal. I am not going to walk in there and hand them the cash at gunpoint. If they want the money, they play by my rules.” She glared at him, daring him to argue. Don turned away, took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked it out the window, swearing under his breath.

  There was silence in the car for a minute, two minutes. She finished her cigarette, and he lit a new one. Finally, she said, “Five minutes to two. It’s time to go.”

  Don looked at the locker key, still in his hand. He slipped it into his jacket pocket and started the engine. “Well you could’ve told me earlier.”

  She leaned across, kissed him on the cheek. “You worry too much. It’ll be fine.”

  48

  They pulled up opposite the hotel at two o’clock exactly according to the dashboard. Don decided it was easier to leave the car here than take it into the underground parking lot. Easier if they had to get away in a hurry. Julia took a last swig of whisky and passed it to Don. He looked at the crest. ‘Here’s to you, Mr Fong’ he thought, raising the flask to his lips.

  Inside the hotel, a fat, balding man sat at a desk behind a plastic screen. He watched them silently as they crossed to the lift, but didn’t try to stop them. There was nobody else around. Into the lift, sixth floor. Suddenly they were stood in front of the door. It was too late to do anything else but knock.

  Don raised his hand, hesitated, knocked.

  For a long moment nothing happened until Don wondered if they had the wrong room, or the wrong time. Then the door opened a crack. A man’s bulky blond head looked out, checked them up and down, opened the door for them to shuffle inside. Don started sizing up the three Americans. They did the same to him.

  To the left, smoking by the window, was a tall thin black guy with short knotty dreadlocks. He was maybe an inch shorter than Don but with a lot less bulk. In good shape, though. Probably had plenty of speed. Sat on the edge of the bed in front of them was a stockier white guy with a black buzzcut. He was heavy-set with a thick brow, but Don guessed that this was the brains of the operation. His dark eyes were alert but calm, intelligent. The blond guy closing the door behind them was a slab with a crooked nose. Maybe the shortest of the lot, but built like the proverbial. He was the muscle, clearly. All three wore smart but anonymous dark suits.

  With the door closed the blond stepped back but not too far. He knew his job. In his head, Don swore loudly. Ex-military would be right. They all looked like they could handle themselves.

  At least he couldn’t see any guns. There were some bags on the floor behind the blond guy with flight tags still attached. No way they could’ve brought weapons on the plane. If they really had arrived today they probably had no chance to find any weapons locally. Probably. Don kept his eyes peeled anyway for bulges under their suits. Who knew what they might have concealed?

  It was the black haired guy on the bed who spoke first. He did all the talking for them. “No names, no questions, no problems. Let’s make the deal and go our separate ways. Capiche?”

  The accent was American. New York, perhaps? Boston? East coast, for sure.

  Don spoke up. “Right. No problems.” It was hard to believe that anyone still said capiche, even in New York.

  He could see the thought running through their heads.

  Who the fuck is the English guy?

  The New Yorker sized him up again, thought about it for a second, turned to the widow. He took a moment to size her up, too. They all did. “First things first. Am I to presume that you have the money to hand?”

  Julia stepped forward an inch. She held her chin up and looked him straight in the eye. “Two million American dollars, in one hundred dollar bills. Non-sequential, of course.”

  The New Yorker looked around the room exaggeratedly, and opened his arms wide. “And where is it?”

  Julia never wavered for a second, but the tension came through in her voice. “You’ll get the money when I get the goods.”

  “But I’d like to see the money.”

  “Goods first.”

  The New Yorker stood up. Don stepped forward and the other two matched his movement. The New Yorker put his hands up to stop them. He didn’t like this. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. Don didn’t blame him. Don didn’t like it, either. The room was getting tense. Someone was going to have to back down.

  The New Yorker slowly turned and nodded at the man next to the window. This one hesitated, questioning, but reached under the bed and pulled out a briefcase. He set it on the bed, flicked the catches. Inside, set in a piece of rough cut foam, were the tablets.

  To Don they were an immense disappointment. They didn’t shine, or glitter. They weren’t even very big. Just three oversized yellow bookmarks with scratchy scars across the face. Ten million? For that? Is that really how the world works? He turned to Julia, but she seemed satisfied. She nodded at him. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the locker key, held it out in front of him. “Gentlemen. The key to your money.”

  The New Yorker looked at Don, looked at Julia, looked at the key then back to Julia. “Well that’s great. But where am I supposed to fit the key.”

  Julia spoke up again. “I’ll call you when we leave, with the tablets.”

  He was losing patience. “The tablets go nowhere until I have my money.”

  “No. I told you. Goods first.”

  The impasse again. The other two Americans were getting edgy, nervous. Don turned to Julia, “Just tell them where the money is.” Her eyes flicked to him.

  “They want the money,” he said. “Wouldn’t you? Look, tell me where it is, I’ll go get it. Or they can send someone.”

  She was nervous, sweating, clutching her handbag to her chest. She looked from Don to the three men. The New Yorker spoke again, “I suggest you listen to your boyfriend, lady. Now show me some fucking money!”

  He took another step toward her, Don stepped forward and found the blond’s hammer of a hand in his chest. The black guy looked ready to jump. Then the three Americans all froze. Don turned to Julia, saw what the yanks were all looking at.

  They were looking at the gun she was holding, pointed right at the New Yorker’s chest.

  49

  It was a small silver revolver that fit snug into the palm of her slender hand. It was highly-polished and shone even in the limited light of the room. Delicate feathery engravings traced across its surface and a pearl handle showed through the widow’s fingers. You didn’t have to know anything about guns to recognise a thing of beauty. Of course, the antique store. They must get old weapons in there all the time. And she’d had it in her handbag from the start.

  “Stay where you are. Don’t move or I swear I’ll kill you.” The Americans got the message. Her finger was on the trigger. Her hand was shaking, a lot. So was her voice. “Don. Get the tablets.”

  Don winced. Now they had a name to put with his face. This was a bad move. But what choice did he have? He pushed past the blond and snapped the b
riefcase shut, then retreated behind the widow before her trigger finger could slip. “Come on. Let’s leave the key and get out of here.” He held the locker key out.

  “No.”

  No? He had a bad feeling about this.

  “They had their chance. I told you they had to play by my rules.”

  The Americans inched forward. “Now don’t do something you’re gonna regret later, lady. You’ve got the goods, now where’s the money?”

  “Get out of here.” This was to Don. She had no intention of parting with the money while she had the gun on them.

  Don tried anyway. “Come on, let’s just give them the key. That was the deal.”

  “Don’t you dare give them anything. Put it in your pocket, and go.” Her voice was steadier now. She knew what she was doing. Holding the trump card, that’s what. A pearl-handled, five shot, beautifully engraved trump card.

  Don put the key back in his pocket and walked out with the briefcase, leaving the door open for Julia. He pressed the button for the lift, twenty feet from the room. It was going down.

  Second floor.

  First.

  Nothing. He looked towards the room door. No movement, no sound. He stabbed at the lift button. Finally, it moved again.

  Second floor.

  Wait.

  Third floor.

  Wait.

  The gunshot boomed behind him. Don ducked automatically, as the report echoed up and down the corridor.

  He didn’t turn to look, but sprinted for the emergency exit sign. Smashing through the fire door he took the steps two at a time, the briefcase bouncing against the walls. Fourth floor, third, second. He thought he heard a crash above him that might’ve been the door he’d come through. First floor, ground, into the reception area. This time there was no man behind the desk. Out into the sunlight, he fumbled for the car keys in his pocket.