Dead and Kicking

by McGeachin, Geoffrey

  ‘It would appear there are still many people who want you dead, Mr Murdoch,’ she said quietly, ‘and not just in Vietnam.’

  My eyes flitted backwards and forwards between the gun and her naked torso. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s certainly put a dampener on the romantic mood.’

  She put the pistol down on the green jade vanity, pinned her hair up and stepped elegantly into the tub. As her breasts disappeared under the froth, I regretted using so much bubble bath. The toes of her left foot found a rather sensitive part of my anatomy and I sat up straight.

  ‘Is that perhaps bringing the mood back?’ she asked.

  I nodded.

  The next fifteen minutes were a battle between the water jets trying to relax me and Nhu working diligently on having exactly the opposite effect. She used that age-old female trick of doing and saying nothing and just looking gorgeous.

  Eventually, Nhu stood up, smiled and stepped out of the tub. That bottom really was amazing. There was a pile of plush white towels on a small table and she tossed me one. She took the pistol and placed it under the pile before towelling herself dry.

  ‘So I guess I can take it that you don’t think I’m in any danger of dying tonight?’

  ‘I think we can say there is little danger of that, Mr Murdoch,’ she said, dropping the towel and walking into the bedroom.

  But as it turned out she was mistaken. A couple of times before morning I felt like I might have come very, very close.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The Lisboa Suite was the bee’s knees. We had Krug champagne and Godiva G Collection chocolates in the minibar, a real espresso machine, windows that actually opened and no TV with CNN giving us all the bad news all the time. The bed was firm, the lighting was subtle, Nhu was soft and if things got too much for a bloke you simply pressed 9 on the phone on the bedside table for a paramedic with a defibrillator. Okay, 9 was really for room service, but I couldn’t think of anything I needed to send out for that I didn’t already have.

  At around three in the morning, when the traffic noise outside had died down and the room was dark, I realised I was alone in the bed. A light was on in the bathroom and Nhu came out with a glass of water and no gun so I figured I’d been holding up my end of the deal. She handed me the glass and I took a drink.

  I watched as she walked across to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes, leaving the semi-sheer diaphanous curtains in place. She was lithe, light on her feet and totally comfortable with her nakedness. In the moonlight she was all soft curves and mysterious shadows. I decided I could watch Nhu walk around naked all night, and all day for that matter.

  Even though there was no TV, the suite did have a sound system. Not one of those CD players made to look old in a retro cabinet, but an actual vintage rosewood console record player from the fifties. It looked like something Chairman Mao might have owned. Nhu walked across the room and searched through the collection of twelve-inch LPs next to the player. I decided I could watch her search through LPs all day as well.

  The control knobs on the record player were labelled in Chinese characters but she eventually figured things out and gently lowered the needle onto a black vinyl disk. There was a momentary crackle and then the mellow tones of Nat King Cole filled the room, enhancing the romantic atmosphere.

  Nhu got back into bed and settled down beside me, looked deeply into my eyes and delicately, subtly and with great sensuality began to pick my brains. I’d been interrogated a couple of times before in my life by people using less subtle methods, and given a choice I’d definitely prefer to go with this technique.

  This stunningly beautiful woman who was apparently keenly interested in my hopes and dreams and aspirations was in a rather skilful way trying to find out exactly what I knew about the Honourable Vaughan Crockett.

  ‘How would a Vietnamese police investigation into money laundering in Macau involve the American Ambassador to Australia?’ I asked.

  ‘These things are sometimes complex, Mr Murdoch. They are not always as they seem.’

  ‘Too complex for a simple photographer?’

  She smiled. ‘Sometimes simple photographers are not always what they seem, either.’

  I was wondering just what to make of that when Nhu decided to change the subject. The way she did it put her questions and the Ambassador right out of my mind.

  When I woke up again around six, the curtains were open, the sky was already bright and the traffic noise out on the street was beginning to build. Nhu was awake, too. She was standing at the window, naked, her back to me. The soft early-morning light diffused by the semi-sheer curtains accentuated the curves of her body.

  ‘You will be travelling back to Australia soon, Mr Murdoch?’

  ‘Today or tomorrow,’ I said. ‘WorldPix is launching a big photographic exhibition in Canberra later this week and they want me there.’ I paused for a moment and then added, ‘The American Ambassador will be doing the honours.’

  There was a subtle change in Nhu’s body language and I reached across and put my hand on the little Leica camera on the bedside table.

  ‘Please don’t make me go and get my gun, Mr Murdoch,’ she said, without turning around. I took my hand away from the camera.

  Nhu walked back to the bed, scooping up several discarded pillows on the way. She piled them up against the headboard then picked up my camera from beside the bed and pointed it down at me. The sight of this beautiful woman towering over me, naked with a camera obscuring her face, was one of the most striking images I’d ever seen. If I’d had a second camera handy, it would have been a shot worth risking my life for.

  ‘There are people in my department who would give almost anything for a picture of me with my clothes off,’ she said.

  I could actually help them with that since I’d casually pressed the shutter button when I touched the camera on the bedside table, just as she had warned me off.

  ‘I doubt if they’d be much interested in one of me,’ Isaid.

  She laughed and put the Leica down, but not before I caught a quick glimpse of the shutter opening briefly in the lens.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ I said, trying to read the expression on her face.

  ‘I was just thinking about breakfast,’ she said.

  ‘Want me to ring room service?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m certain room service won’t have what I had in mind.’

  The next fifteen minutes were a strange mix of bliss and discomfort. I jumped a couple of times because Nhu had very sharp teeth, which she used with tantalising effect.

  But those pearly white teeth also made me a bit uncomfortable for another reason. I was wondering if Nhu had been lying to me through them ever since we’d first met. I found it somewhat difficult to relax and go with the moment. But only somewhat.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘How’s your head this morning, Alby? My old gran always used to say feed a cold, starve a fever and treat a mild concussion with a big cooked breakfast.’

  ‘Your old gran wasn’t a practising neurosurgeon by any chance, was she, Jack?’ I asked.

  It was just after ten and a typical sunny Macau morning, the humidity already building. A breakfast table was laid on the rooftop terrace under a large green market umbrella. There were fresh pastries and rolls, sliced cold meats and cheeses, and a jug of chilled orange juice, along with a bottle of Krug in an ice bucket. Jack was standing over the barbecue while VT made coffees at a rather serious-looking espresso machine.

  The cast-iron barbecue plate held bacon, sliced black pudding, thick sausages, lamb cutlets, mushrooms, sliced tomato and thick chunks of potato sizzling amongst nicely caramelised onion rings.

  ‘Bugger all those chefs with their mod-Oz and fusion bullshit,’ Jack said, ‘believe me, Australia’s great gift to the culinary world is the mixed grill for breakfast. How do you like your eggs?’

  ‘Over easy.’

  The breakfast terrace had an amazing view across Macau that was being b
uilt out by the rapidly sprouting casinos. There were just the three of us and the table had only three place settings.

  ‘Nhu not around?’ I asked.

  Jack shook his head. ‘She’s done a bunk. Mr Rayes said she left sometime before eight.’

  I hadn’t heard Nhu shower or dress or leave the room, but then the events of the past week had been exhausting and the overnight erotic activities had left me totally wasted.

  ‘She told Mr Rayes she was on an important assignment and had to get back to it,’ Jack continued. ‘I suppose that could be true, Alby, or maybe you were just seriously crook in the sack.’

  VT gave Jack a dirty look before I could answer. Jack whistled and a bleary-eyed beagle wandered out from under the shade of a potted palm. I had a feeling Jack wanted to move the subject away from bedrooms and activities therein.

  ‘Meet Biggles,’ he said.

  The beagle stopped at my feet, sniffed my shoes and then wagged his tail. I gave his shoulders and neck a brisk rub and he flopped on his back, offering his chest for a pat.

  ‘What a bloody tart,’ Jack said.

  Breakfast was on the table five minutes later and gone ten minutes after that. My night with Nhu had also left me hungry.

  ‘After you headed off to bed last night, Nhu filled us in on your adventures on the way to the Foreign Correspondents Club. Looks like Crockett’s people aren’t giving up, so you might want to be a bit careful.’

  ‘That puts us in the same boat,’ I said.

  ‘VT and I can take care of ourselves and we keep a low profile anyway. We’ll just raise the drawbridge and hunker down until all this blows over.’

  ‘When do you reckon that might be?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Maybe when someone makes the American Ambassador an offer he can’t refuse. Another cup of coffee, Alby?’

  As I sipped my coffee I was wondering what kind of offer that might be. I was also wondering how Miss Hoang knew I was heading for the FCC from the ferry, as I was certain I hadn’t mentioned it on the boat ride to Macau. How she’d managed to be in Central at such an opportune moment was a whole other ball of wax.

  A few minutes later Mr Rayes walked out onto the terrace holding a silver tray. ‘This was just delivered by messenger,’ he said.

  There was a letter opener on the tray and a heavy envelope, hand addressed to me care of the hotel.

  ‘So much for me keeping a low profile,’ I said.

  Mr Rayes put the tray on the ground and Jack whistled for Biggles. The beagle gave the envelope a cursory sniff and walked away.

  ‘It’s okay, you can open it now,’ Jack said. ‘All deliveries get X-rayed and then Biggles gives them the once-over. He’s a retired explosives sniffer dog. We thought about putting in one of those electronic devices, but I’d much rather have something that likes having its tummy rubbed.’

  ‘Paranoid, Jack?’

  He nodded. ‘And still breathing, so it’s working for me.’

  I slit the envelope open and unfolded a sheet of heavy paper. The letter featured expensive printing, embossing, gold leaf and some extremely elegant calligraphy.

  ‘Apparently, the Manchu Palace Hotel & Casino requests the pleasure of Mr Alby Murdoch’s company at seven this evening for some fine dining at the chairman’s table in the Eight Banners restaurant.’

  ‘Very nice,’ Jack said. ‘The Eight Banners does some excellent nosh. Who’s doing the inviting?’

  I handed him the invitation. ‘It doesn’t say.’

  Jack frowned. ‘If it’s the Manchu Palace Hotel & Casino and the chairman’s table, it has to be Playford Peng.’

  ‘But how the hell would Playford Peng know I was in Macau?’ I was starting to get really pissed off that everyone else seemed to know more about what I was up to than I did.

  ‘Beats me, Alby,’ Jack said. ‘But aren’t you supposed to be getting on a plane back to Oz? You said that Gwenda person was threatening to have your guts for garters if you kept dicking around.’

  ‘Gwenda might have to wait. I know there’s some connection between Peng, the Manchu Palace Casino, Peter Tranh and the missing fish, and maybe I can find out what it is. The problem is, it says tonight is formal.’

  ‘Don’t worry about a dinner suit, Alby, we can fix that,’ Jack said. ‘The real problem is that when you’re dealing with the Peng family, formal means a bow tie, no firearms over 9mm and gentlemen will use silencers. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Modern Macau is a Special Administrative Region of China, and one schizophrenic little city. The former Portuguese colony was Europe’s first foothold in Asia, and pretty much a sleepy backwater when compared to Shanghai or Hong Kong. The colony’s Portuguese and local Chinese casually intermarried and intermixed their culture and cooking, producing the handsome Macanese and the world’s first fusion cuisine, with dishes like sweet curry crab or my favourite, galinha à Africana, spicy African chicken.

  The sleepy backwater part was jettisoned when the decision was taken to open the place up as a gambling mecca with multiple casinos. Macau’s low-rise colonial architecture dating back hundreds of years was now overshadowed by high-rise casinos springing up in the city and along the waterfront strip on land reclaimed from the sea. I guess you could describe that part of Macau as looking like Las Vegas, only without its understated good taste, elegance and sophisticated charm.

  If over-the-top opulence, blindingly bright lights and cross-cultural train wrecks are what you’re looking for in an evening out, you can’t go past Peng’s Manchu Palace. Speaking for myself, I wish I had. Within thirty seconds of strolling into the glittering foyer, my teeth started to ache. The joint was packed with goggle-eyed mainland Chinese visitors and featured an atrium tall enough to house a Saturn Five moon rocket. Surprisingly, that was exactly what it held, all 110 metres of it, with an Apollo space capsule seated on top for good measure. About thirty metres above me, two men in silver spacesuits bounced around on bungee cords in a jerky simulated space-walk.

  A beautiful girl wearing a see-through spacesuit over a silver-mesh bikini handed me a leaflet explaining that in honour of the Lunar New Year it was Moon Month at the casino, and various luminaries and retired astronauts from NASA’s Apollo space programme would be in attendance. There were also actual moon rocks from the actual moon on display, and Moon Burgers served with Space Fries and a complimentary glass of orange Tang – the Astronauts’ Drink – were available in the six 24-hour snack bars.

  I rode a smooth-as-silk escalator up twenty metres to the restaurant level, where a maître d’ in a dinner suit was standing behind a small desk. I handed over my invitation. The maître d’ ran his eyes down a list on a clipboard, frowned momentarily, checked the invitation again and then smiled.

  ‘Mr Murdoch,’ he said, ‘we are deeply honoured to welcome you to the Manchu Palace Hotel and Casino.’ He handed me a small black lacquer box embossed with the casino logo. ‘With our compliments, should you wish to spend some time at our tables.’

  Inside the box were ten poker chips. Ten one thousand US dollar chips.

  ‘And should you wish to avail yourself of any of our other facilities,’ he continued, ‘please feel free to simply sign for them.’

  He handed me another embossed black lacquer box. This one held a fountain pen. A gold Mont Blanc, with the hotel’s crest engraved on it.

  ‘Your pen, Mr Murdoch, is solid silver with 24-carat gold plating. It is part of a limited edition specially handcrafted for the Manchu Palace as a gift to its most honoured guests.’

  ‘I’m touched and moved,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad I decided to dress up.’

  Jack and VT had done a great job arranging suitable attire for the evening. Mr Rayes took some measurements, and a quick phone call produced a salesman with a dozen dinner suits, a range of dress shirts and several boxes of shoes. The salesman brought along a tailor for any adjustments that might be needed, a barber stopped by to trim my hair and scar
e the crap out of me with a cutthroat razor, and by six-thirty I was looking good enough to be critically assessed by two gay men and a straight comprador. Even Biggles had given me a yelp of approval.

  ‘Please follow me,’ the maître d’ said.

  The restaurant in the Manchu Palace made the State Dining Room at Buckingham Palace look like my local McDonald’s. It was the kind of over-the-top opulence where you wouldn’t be surprised to find fifty-grand Tang Dynasty ceramic horse statuettes used as doorstops. The place was packed, but most of the action was centred on a massive round table that seemed to have three waiters for each of the fifteen diners. Everyone at the table had one of the black lacquer boxes and a pen in front of them. As I approached, I saw a couple of familiar faces amongst the guests.

  One was Fysh Rutherford, twin brother of Graeme Rutherford, a former D.E.D. field agent retired from active duty after his cover was blown and he’d undergone some nasty interrogation sessions. While Graeme had gone into the espionage business, Fysh, who had a short attention span and a somewhat tenuous grasp of spelling and grammar, had become an advertising copywriter and made a bloody fortune. On a dollar return per word basis, advertising copywriting has been described as one of the most lucrative forms of writing there is, coming second only to ransom notes.

  ‘No camera tonight, Alby?’ Fysh yelled. ‘I wanted a snap of me and the missus.’

  All Fysh knew about me was my photography work for WorldPix. I shook my head. ‘I’m having an evening off, mate,’ I said, bending down to give Fysh’s gorgeous wife, Jacqueline, a kiss on the cheek. The bloke was a serious foodie so I asked if he was here as part of Jezebel’s Gourmet Asia tour but he shook his head.

  ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘just flew up to meet with a new client. We won the pitch for the Fischer Aquaculture business and we’re going to have Jezebel blanketing the media to launch this de’lish new wonderfish, barrana, which we’ll be marketing as JezzaBarrana if she gets her way.’