All Blood is Red

by Michael Young

  A hundred yards farther down he began to wonder if he had the right place, if Michael had lied to him after all. Would Michael do that? Was he in with Mr Sun? He said he would honour the deal if Don turned up with the tablets. Had he lied?

  A dark green sign with peeling paint, red Chinese letters and below that, in white, Yip Shul Industries. This was the place. It had a tall fence of rusting corrugated iron. The sign was above a chain link gate swung wide open, large enough for trucks. Don drove slowly through the gate to find potholes in the concrete, a small warehouse building with broken windows. The metal rolldoor was open, but the company must have closed down a long time ago. He edged the car through the rolldoor, his tyres kicking up clouds of wood dust, crunching over fragments of glass and rubble.

  The interior was dark and his eyes took a second to adjust. He stopped and turned off the engine. At the end of the small building, fifteen yards in front of him, stood Michael, covering his mouth against the dust. For the first time since Don had met him Michael was wearing a suit, a smart double-breasted number in dark grey with a sombre navy tie. Very business-like. With his short blond curls he looked like an up-and-coming legal hotshot. Don supposed that if you were dealing with that much money you wanted to look the part. Especially if you never knew who was going to be turning up.

  Next to Michael in a pile on the floor were five oversize sports bags. That would be the money. He hadn’t seen any other vehicle around.

  Don waited for the dust to settle, stepped from the car. Michael didn’t look too surprised to see him. “I thought I recognised that accent. How did you get a hand in this deal?”

  “You know how it goes, Michael. Friends of friends and that.”

  “Everyone wondered where you’d disappeared to.”

  Yeah, but not for long it seems. Behind Michael, against the wall, were another smaller bag and a small, smart black suitcase. “Going somewhere?”

  “I’m out of here this afternoon, goods and all, to take up my new position. Like I told you.”

  “Yeah, and good luck to you an’ all. But Jeannie didn’t seem to know anything about that.”

  Michael’s smile flickered but stuck around. “Well, sometimes that just the way it goes. I hope we’re not going to have any personal problems, Don.”

  “No. No problems. It’s all strictly business, ain’t that right?”

  “That’s right. Strictly business. Speaking of which, I suppose you have the goods?”

  “Yeah, right here.” Don opened the back door of the car and grabbed the briefcase. “No thanks to Mr Sun, who I ran into back at the car park.”

  “Ah well, sorry about that. He said he’d take eight, and I wasn’t about to turn that offer down. But a deal is a deal. Ten million, right here.” He gestured at the bags. “You can count it if you like. But first things first.”

  Don started forward. He only got five feet before the gun appeared in Michael’s hand. A black pistol pointing at Don’s chest.

  “That’s far enough, thank you Don.”

  77

  Don stopped and raised his hands a little. He thought of the pistol in his pocket. A little too late to go for it now.

  “No offense,” said Michael. “But you can’t be too careful dealing in large amounts of cash. Just slide the briefcase over, if you please.”

  The briefcase ploughed through the dust on the floor, sending plumes of it into the air, and stopped just in front of Michael. The American crouched down, put his gun on the ground next to him, keeping an eye on Don the whole time. “The number?”

  “Zero zero one.”

  Michael flicked the catches, opened the case. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out what looked like a photograph, compared it with what was in front of him. Satisfied that they looked the same, he now pulled a leather book-shaped wallet from another pocket. Michael carefully slid one of the tablets from the briefcase and placed it on one side of the open book, then took what looked like a pen connected to a wire from the other side.

  Now was Don’s chance, while Michael was distracted with testing the gold. He could take the pistol from his pocket, have it trained on Michael before he could even move. The real question was: did he trust Michael to let him walk out with the cash? This so called friend had betrayed him with Jeannie, now he was leaving her behind like litter. A deal is a deal, he’d said. But could Don trust him?

  Don’s hand edged closer to his pocket. If it came to a shootout, surely he didn’t stand a chance against the military man. But if he was fast enough…

  Michael replaced the tablet in the briefcase and was using both hands to close it. Don didn’t fancy getting stuck with nothing again. His hand went for his pocket. At the same time, he heard a powerful car pull off the road and drive in to the warehouse. Don spun around to see the MG skid to a halt next to his own car. By the time he had turned back to Michael, Michael’s gun had returned to his hand and was pointing at the newcomer.

  “It’s okay. She’s with me.”

  Julia surveyed the scene, stepped slowly from the car. Her eyes fixed on the gun in the thin, blond stranger’s hand. “Don?”

  “It’s fine babe. Everything’s just fine. Isn’t that right Michael?”

  Michael’s gaze took in the widow, carefully and slowly, from head to heel. He looked back at Don. “Well, this certainly explains a few things.” He put the gun back in his pocket. He didn’t need it anymore. Picking up the briefcase, he gestured with it to Don. “Yeah, everything’s just fine, Don. Just fine.” He nodded at the bags on the floor. “And all this is yours.”

  He noticed now that Michael was looking at the hand which had strayed close to the pearl-handled pistol in his jacket. Don lowered the hand, slowly moved toward the five bags on the floor.

  “Is that it?” said Julia. “Is that the money?”

  Don pulled open the zip on the first bag. It was stuffed full of American hundred dollar bills, the face of whichever dead president obscured by the paper wrap. Don put his hand in and pulled out a few bundles from the bottom. They were all the same.

  Michael said, “Are you gonna count it?” He walked over to the bags against the wall, slinging one over his shoulder, picking up the suitcase. “It’s all there, you know. Every dollar. My boss has a reputation to keep up. But then, I’m sure you know all about that.”

  Don looked at Michael. Of course, Michael didn’t know that they hadn’t set up the deal themselves. Michael had just taken instructions from Stateside. They’d all just fallen into it, really. He took a bundle of bills out of the bag. They looked real to Don. Not that he knew how to tell the difference, not with American money. He pulled out a single note at random, held it up to the light. There was a watermark, a metal strip. It all looked real.

  “Are we good, Don?”

  Don unzipped one of the other bags. Stacks of bills just like the first. He looked up at Michael. A deal’s a deal. “Yeah, we’re good.”

  “Okay then,” Michael spun on his heel, pushed open the fire door. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a private jet to catch. Take it easy, Don.” The door slammed shut behind him.

  Don heard Julia’s footsteps across the floor. “It’s really true, isn’t it? We’ve really done it.”

  Don turned to her. “Did you see Sun?”

  “I saw a crowd around him.”

  “Is he dead?”

  Through the back of the building they heard an engine fire up. Michael’s car rolled along the side of the warehouse to the front where it paused a second, roared off down the street. Michael was gone. “I don’t know. I couldn’t see. I heard sirens as I left. Oh Don, I thought you had abandoned me.”

  Don turned back to the bags. “I’m worried the police will have a description, of me and my car. I don’t want to get pulled over with this lot.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  He looked at the cars. He would have to dump his. Somewhere it wouldn’t be found for a long time.

  Could he think of any
where better than right here? He could always get the Brothers Wang to come and take care of it. For a fee, of course. But that wouldn’t be a problem.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ll put the bags in your car. I’ll leave mine here.”

  Julia didn’t argue, but reached into the MG to release the boot. Her heels clicked across the floor as she struggled with a bag. Even Don struggled with two at a time. Working in silence, they managed to squeeze three into the small boot and another behind the seats of the MG. The last one they just about managed to fit in the passenger foot well. She’d have to sit cross-legged, he figured, but they’d done it. The warehouse was empty of everything except the pair of them, their cars, the dust on the floor. Outside, the warm sunlight streamed down. Everything was silent.

  Julia turned to Don. She smiled at him, perhaps a little sadly. “I can’t believe it’s over. It’s finished.”

  He looked down into her face. The big brown eyes that hooked him, the cherry red lips that sucked him in. On tip toe she could just about reach his lips with her own. “It’s finished when we get the money changed,” he told her.

  “I’ve set that up. Ten percent, less than I thought. I’m meeting a man tomorrow.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Yes, I think so. He’s an old friend.”

  “Then let’s get out of here before anyone shows up asking questions.” He moved to his own car to lock it up.

  “You’re right. It’s time to go, my darling. One more thing, Don.” He turned to her.

  Over the roof of the MG she was holding the small, pearl-handled revolver. It was pointing right at him.

  78

  He stared at the gun for a second, not quite comprehending. He felt the pistol still in his pocket through the thin material. But of course, these things come in pairs. One for each hand. It must have been in the car.

  “I’m sorry, Don. I truly am.”

  She looked sorry, too. Sad, regretful, a little ashamed. But at the same time she was strong, powerful, commanding. As she squeezed the trigger she looked more beautiful to Don than ever.

  The report echoed for a long time around the warehouse. Don was on the floor, holding his chest, breathing in lungfuls of the wood dust. He lifted his hand to look at it as the MG’s door slammed shut. She had really shot him. That was his blood. And he wasn’t the first, he knew that. Never should’ve turned his back. More clouds of dust spread over him as the MG roared loudly in the small space, disappeared outside. The noise of the engine faded into the distance as she drove off down the road. The dust and the blood in his lungs made him cough. At the same time he convulsed in pain.

  Blood spat onto the dirty floor in front of him. It was an industrial area, nobody would ask questions about a noise like that, like the gunshot. They’d figure it was old machinery. Never tell where it was coming from anyway. He coughed again. More blood on the floor, from his mouth, leaking through his fingers. As the fog started to descend he saw the Corolla, just two feet away. Maybe he could? But no. It was beyond him now.

  He coughed again. The pain burst through him, white lights flashing behind his eyes. More blood was soaking into the wood dust. Well, that was that.

  He never should’ve trusted her. Don knew that now.

  There were a lot of things he should never have done.

  79

  The heat of summer was around the corner. Spring in Hong Kong is cool but cloudy. June would bring typhoons and unbearable humidity, but May so far had been sunny and fine. The widow took the latest script from her agent with her out to the garden. There was already an icy drink on the low table next to the sun lounger. She liked the sun, not like some girls who hide away beneath parasols. She loved the warmth on her skin, eyes closed, feeling a gentle breeze caress her body.

  For her, this time before the rainstorms hit were the most sensual, the most enjoyable. There was a storm starting to brew now, she could feel it. It may not hit for a few days or a week, but the tension in the air was rising. It gave her a physical feeling of excitement and anticipation in her stomach. She settled on the lounger to read.

  80

  Don walked up the hill toward the widow’s house. He still got out of breath easily. It was too warm for him, too warm to do this. The temperature was supposed to hit thirty later this afternoon. He had to rest and lean against the green railings.

  There was no movement in the house, it all seemed quiet. It always had, from outside. It took real effort to pull himself up onto the wall, heave his way over the railing. He paused to unsnag his jacket, and when he dropped he landed badly on the gravel. He rested again, breathing heavily.

  The MG was there, newly washed and polished. It gleamed in the bright sun of late spring. There was a slight breeze coming over the Peak above him, but it didn’t cool much. It was a warm wind that would bring storms, but not yet. He could feel the sweat collecting on his shirt, on his chest and back, under the arms.

  His shoes crunched on the gravel as he walked up to the house. The front door was locked, of course. He looked through the wide bow windows across the front. Inside hadn’t changed much, the same sofa and chairs and coffee table, but the cigar box had gone. There was no sign of the widow, but he saw that the French windows at the rear were open so he set off to walk around the house.

  At the back he saw Julia on a sun lounger. She was wearing a white bikini, her lips as cherry red as ever. She was also wearing a pair of large, dark sunglasses that obscured her eyes. But he knew she was looking at him because she lowered the pages that she was reading. He stopped a couple of yards away, below her feet.

  “Hello Don.” He didn’t answer. “I wondered how long it would take you to come here.”

  Don indicated the pages she was holding. “New script?”

  “That’s right.” She set the pages next to her drink. Gin or vodka with tonic, he guessed. A straw stuck out from the centre of the ice, red and white stripes.

  “I heard you were going to be in a film.”

  “It was canned by the studio. But something new will come along. Maybe this one.” She sat up a little to sip from the straw. Putting the glass down she set it on top of the script to stop the pages from fluttering in the breeze.

  Don reached into his pocket. “I’ve got something for you.”

  He pulled out the pearl-handled revolver. One bullet had been fired at the Americans last summer, but the other four chambers were still loaded. He pointed it at her stomach.

  She didn’t flinch. “I knew you’d come, Don. I knew you’d come back. I could feel it. What took you so long?”

  Don didn’t answer that. His eyes meandered up her body. He’d known it well in his time, but that time had passed. The widow took off her sunglasses. The full red lips, high cheeks, the big, dark eyes. Somehow he didn’t find her as beautiful as he had before. Maybe it was perspective. Maybe she could never look as beautiful as she had in the warehouse. He wondered what she had done with the other gun, the other half of the pair. It didn’t really matter now.

  She dropped the glasses onto the grass. He wanted to pull the trigger. He wanted to see the red bloody wounds explode in her body, wanted to watch the blood trickle over smooth, delicate skin, stain the pure white bikini.

  “Go ahead, Don. Why don’t you do what you’ve come here to do.”

  He couldn’t be sure but he thought her thighs opened a little as she said this. She lay there, so calm, so composed. As if she had prepared for this moment. He formed the image in his mind, carefully noting every detail so that he could recall it later. He didn’t want to miss a single thing, wanted every inch of her contained inside his head. She waited, as beads of sweat began to trickle down his forehead. He never did like the heat in Hong Kong.

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  About the A uthor

  Michael Young is a miserable bastard. He drinks scotch, smokes cigarillos and wears a lot of black. He doesn’t believe in anything very much, but does spend a lot of time thinking about comm
as. Too much, really.

  Also, aliens.

  Also Available on Kindle

  The Sky Might Fall

  Meet Harry Vee, a misanthropic, cigarillo-smoking, scotch-drinking, hardboiled private investigator. Guns, trouble, hangovers, women, beatings, car crashes, UFOs, death and serious injury follow him like a bad smell. He files his friends under ‘Other Expenses’. But somebody has gone to a lot of trouble finding him. He didn’t want to return to Hong Kong. Now it looks like he doesn’t have a choice.

  “The writing style will keep you totally involved and on the edge of your seat until the final page is read… Find a comfortable seat and enjoy the ride as you will not be able to put this book down!"

  -Marilou George, The Kindle Book Review

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  http://harry-vee-pi.blogspot.co.uk/

  mike_young_99@yahoo.co.uk

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