Dead and Kicking

by McGeachin, Geoffrey

  ‘Jezebel always gets her way,’ I said. ‘How much background have they given you on the product?’

  ‘Not a lot, mate. It’s still in the development stage, and we’ve signed one of those non-disclosure agreements, but it’s apparently some sort of fast-growing crossbreed they’re farming somewhere in the Top End.’

  I was starting to wonder what people thought the non-disclosure part of non-disclosure agreements actually meant.

  ‘They’re supposed to taste bloody Jezza-licious,’ he continued. ‘We’re pushing that for our tag-line by the way, so watch out for it.’

  ‘If I see it coming, I’ll run a mile,’ I said. ‘And speaking of the lovely Ms Quick, is she here tonight?’ I asked.

  I was wondering if she’d arranged for me to be invited, and then I spotted her.

  Jezebel was on the other side of the table, seated between two men – no surprise there. One I recognised from his photograph as Detlef Fischer, and the other was a rotund Chinese guy about the same age or a bit younger. Jezebel saw me at the same time.

  ‘Alby, you old bastard!’ she yelled, her voice carrying over the din of the packed room. ‘What the hell are you doing in Macau? Get your pasty white butt over here.’

  That appeared to take Jezebel off the list of people who might have invited me. When I finally reached the other side of the table I bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Sorry about missing you for drinks last night,’ I said, ‘but I was tied up.’

  ‘What drinks?’ she said. ‘I was stuck having a farewell dinner at Felix for my dickwit foodies.’

  Felix is the elegant Philippe Starck-designed restaurant and bar on the 28th floor of the Peninsula Hotel Tower. It’s popular with the Hong Kong glitterati, and besides the designer food and ambience, one of its many talking points is a men’s room where patrons piss into jade urinals in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, showing their willies to the whole of mainland China.

  But if Jezebel had been at Felix last night, who had sent me that text?

  ‘Jesus, mate,’ Jezebel said, looking at my outfit, ‘if I’d known you could scrub up this well I might not have given you the arse.’

  ‘I do kind of miss those romantic days we spent tripping hand-in-hand through flower-strewn meadows with packs of gambolling puppies.’

  ‘Screw you, Alby,’ she said. ‘Let me introduce the boys. On my left here we have Mr Detlef Fischer, who runs a couple of fish and chip shops, and this is our gracious host, Mr Playford Peng.’

  Fischer smiled and I was almost blinded by what had to be thirty thousand dollars’ worth of cosmetic dentistry. He looked as big awanker as he did in the photograph Cartwright had shown me, and he gave me one of those ‘I’m a good bloke, you can trust me’ bone-crushing power grips.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I said to Fischer, ‘any friend ofJezebel’s is … probably quite exhausted.’

  I bowed slightly to Playford Peng. ‘I have to thank you for the warm welcome to your wonderful casino, Mr Peng,’ I said, ‘and the generous gifts.’

  Stick me in a dinner suit, wash my face, comb my hair and you can take me almost any place.

  Playford Peng was staring at me with a fixed smile. It was the kind of stare that makes you want to check that your fly is zipped up. Or maybe it was the stare you get when you show up at dinner and the host is wondering exactly who the hell you are and what you’re doing there lowering the tone of the festivities.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Playford made a quick recovery and smiled as we shook hands. Compared to Fischer’s vice-like grip, Peng’s handshake was soft and pasty, like one of those Chinese custard tarts.

  ‘Any friend of our Miss Jezebel Quick is most assuredly a friend of mine,’ Peng said sincerely, sincerely not meaning every word.

  Peng’s tuxedo must have cost a bomb and it was cunningly tailored to disguise the fact that he was a short, fat little man. It made him look like a short, fat little man in an expensive tuxedo. His mouth made a shape roughly approximating a smile but his eyes were cold, hard and calculating.

  ‘As to the gifts,’ he continued, ‘the Peng family, under the sage guidance of my beloved father, believes that generosity is a virtue.’

  ‘Your father is well?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sadly, since his stroke he is confined to a wheelchair. I have been forced to see to the day-to-day running of the family enterprises.’

  ‘You have my best wishes for your father’s speedy recovery.’

  Playford smiled that insincere smile again and snapped his fingers.

  A chair was placed between Fischer and Jezebel, bowls and chopsticks appeared and a cup was filled with tea for me. Peng waved to a man who had the look of a bodyguard pretending to be a waiter, and whispered in his ear. The man nodded and hurried away. I sat down and smiled at Fischer.

  ‘Chip shops, eh?’ I said. ‘You a classic beer-batter man or do you lean towards something in the way of a light tempura?’

  He smiled politely. ‘It has been some little while since I worked the deep-fryer, Mr Murdoch, and fish retailing is only a small part of my business,’ he said. ‘I’m actually a fresh fish importer and wholesaler. ANL Fischer Seafoods, you may have heard of of it.’

  I nodded. ‘And there’s also a new fish-farming company in the works, I believe.’

  ‘Fischer Aquaculture Industries,’ he said.

  ‘When I hear the word aquaculture I reach for my grill pan.’

  Fischer stared at me.

  ‘Very good, very amusing,’ Playford Peng said. Now Fischer was staring at him.

  ‘Mr …?’ Peng said, smiling at me.

  ‘Murdoch,’ I said. ‘My friends call me Alby.’

  ‘Mr Murdoch is playfully paraphrasing the Nazi Heinrich Himmler who said, “When I hear the word culture I reach for my gun”,’ Peng explained to the table.

  ‘Or it might have been Hermann Göring,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit murky. Actually, I’m paraphrasing a misquote from a National Socialist play by Hanns Johst. The original line is “Whenever I hear of culture … I release the safety-catch of my Browning!”’

  Peng gave me that original icy look. ‘So you like fish, eh, Mr Murdoch? My good friend Detlef is in the fish business.’

  ‘I’ve heard,’ I said.

  ‘Detlef and I were at school together, in Melbourne,’ he added, ‘at Fairbrothers.’

  A bloke in a dinner suit appeared at Peng’s elbow. He looked a bit out of breath and I got the idea he’d been sent for and told to report on the double. The two men had a hurried private conversation that I had a feeling involved me, and possibly not in a good way. Playford didn’t stop smiling, but that didn’t make me feel any better.

  ‘Mr Murdoch, let me introduce my accountant, Mr Leroy Fong. Mr Fong looks after my …’ he paused, ‘interests.’

  Leroy Fong was about my age and height. If Leroy was Playford Peng’s accountant, I was a Dutchman. I figured his real job was accounting for anyone who got in Playford’s way. Fong bowed slightly and handed me a business card with both hands, which I took the same way. I know how to play the game.

  Waiters placed cut-crystal tumblers in front of Peng and myself.

  ‘A toast to new friendships, eh, Mr Murdoch?’

  The waiters half-filled our glasses from matching elegant crystal decanters shaped like smoothly polished river stones. Then the waiters stood ready with Coca-Cola bottles poised on the lip of each glass.

  ‘Brandy and Coke fine with you, Murdoch?’

  I lifted my glass and took a sniff. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘brandy Cokes it is.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Alby!’ Jezebel shouted, knocking the waiter’s arm away and spilling bubbling Coke onto the tablecloth. ‘That’s fucking Hennessy Ellipse! It costs ten grand a bottle!’

  I put my glass down and smiled at Peng, who didn’t smile back.

  ‘You don’t always want to believe what’s on the label, Jez.’ I picked up my teacup and raised it. ‘To new frien
dships, Mr Peng.’

  He smiled, but didn’t drink.

  ‘What kind of food do you like, Mr Murdoch. We have separate kitchens specialising in Italian, French and Japanese cuisine, all with five-star chefs, and our Chinese New Year banquet is beginning soon. You like Chinese food, eh? How about some sweet and sour pork or maybe some special fried rice? You look like a special fried rice kind of guy to me.’

  First the brandy and now this. Playford Peng was set on making me look like a dopey gwailo to his associates. It was a subtle game of establishing superiority that I’d played before and I wasn’t all that interested in allowing it to continue – ten grand-plus in welcome gifts or not.

  I shrugged. ‘Perhaps the kitchen can rustle up some Hakka food? Ngiong tew foo or maybe some kiu nyuk might be nice.’

  Playford smiled coldly and dipped his head slightly. Round one to Alby.

  ‘You might enjoy our Hakka salt-baked chicken or pork with fermented tofu as well?’

  I nodded. ‘Sounds great.’ I wasn’t a big fan of fermented tofu but I’d force it down just to piss Playford off.

  He clapped his pudgy hands and a waiter appeared. Peng rattled off an order and the waiter scurried away.

  ‘You and Miss Quick are old friends?’ Playford asked. When he mentioned Jezebel he smiled across at her, and for the first time I saw something approaching warmth and genuine affection in his eyes. The effect was even more disturbing than that cold calculating look I was getting used to seeing.

  ‘Alby and I go way back,’ Jezebel said. ‘In fact, we flew into Hong Kong together from Vietnam. Alby’s been working over there.’

  ‘Mr Fong has also been in Vietnam recently,’ Peng said, ‘acquiring items for my next big project. The Manchu Palace is staging a free outdoor production of Miss Saigon this summer.’

  ‘Sounds impressive.’

  ‘Impressive isn’t the word, Alby,’ Jezebel said. ‘For the final scene they’re going to use a real American military helicopter, a vintage Huey. It’s going to lift off an exact replica of the US Embassy rooftop in Saigon built on stage, and then actually fly away. Friggin’ awesome. Leroy has been spending a lot of time in Vietnam learning all there is to know about choppers.’

  ‘Is that right, Mr Fong?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Murdoch. Unfortunately, some of those old helicopters are getting to be quite dangerous.’

  Fong took a gold cigarette case from his pocket and offered me one. There was a bandage on his left hand that wasn’t quite covering a nasty graze. When I shook my head, Fong took a cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter. The lighter looked familiar.

  ‘I heard a Huey fell out of the sky a few days ago,’ I said, ‘near Dien Bien Phu.’

  Fong looked directly into my eyes. ‘Really? Was it pilot error or a mechanical problem?’

  ‘Neither.’ I held his stare.

  Jezebel shuddered. ‘You wouldn’t get me up in one of those things. I make it a rule not to fly in anything without wings and a first-class cabin, isn’t that right, loverchops?’ she said, turning her attention back to Detlef.

  ‘Do you spend much time in Hong Kong, Mr Fong?’

  ‘Please call me Leroy,’ he said. ‘I am in Hong Kong quite frequently. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I saw someone who looked a lot like you last night on Wyndham Street in Central.’

  ‘I’m quite sure it wasn’t me, Mr Murdoch. Besides, don’t we Chinese all look alike?’

  ‘My mistake,’ I said. ‘But believe me, I’ll know you next time.’

  Fong picked up a glass from the table and raised it in a toast. ‘Here’s to the next time.’

  I raised my teacup. ‘I look forward to it,’ I said.

  Behind us Playford Peng snapped an instruction in Cantonese and we turned towards him. He didn’t look happy. Fong bowed slightly with a fixed smile on his face and left the table.

  ‘Miss Quick tells me you are a famous picture-taker, Mr Murdoch. I’m sorry to say I’ve never heard of you. Do you do weddings?’

  I smiled. He’d have to do better than that. I’ve been insulted by experts in my time.

  ‘Why? Do you see a wedding in Jezebel and Detlef’s future?’

  ‘Miss Quick is not the marrying kind. And Detlef’s future is very much involved with his new venture.’

  ‘His top-secret wonderfish? How soon do you think we’ll be able to sink our teeth into them?’

  ‘Very soon, I believe.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait.’ I smiled. ‘Just as long as they don’t bite back, eh?’

  Peng’s expression didn’t change, but I saw a hard glint in his eye. ‘Please excuse me, Mr Murdoch. I need to check with my chefs on how our banquet is progressing.’

  I had a feeling that Playford was actually going to the kitchen to get his chefs to whip up some extra fermented-tofu dishes, and that they’d all be coming my way.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Mr Rayes let me back into the hotel through the locked security door just after eleven. I was a bloke in a well-fitting dinner suit just back from a night at a casino looking for some hot loving with a dangerous woman between crisp, thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Sipping vintage port with a couple of gay guys wasn’t the conclusion to the evening I had in mind.

  ‘How was dinner?’ Jack said, putting a third glass down on the table on the rooftop terrace.

  ‘Spectacular,’ I said as I pulled up a chair. ‘The food at the Eight Banners is as good as you said.’

  VT filled the glass from an open bottle. I picked up the bottle and studied the label. ‘Trying to get rid of the out-of-date stock, Jack?’ I asked.

  The port was Warre’s, the 1997 vintage – the really, really goodvintage. I took a sip. Then I took another. A bloke looking for something to take his mind off the events in the casino, getting dumped by a good-looking woman yet again and having no idea what was going on didn’t need to look much further than this. If I was a wine critic, I might have used the words voluptuous or lissom or elegant, but that would only have made me think of Nhu. Dangerous would’ve worked, too, especially if we finished off the bottle, which seemed to be on the cards.

  ‘Figure out who did the inviting?’

  I shook my head. ‘But I ran into some people I knew and I scored a couple of gifts. One was ten grand in poker chips.’

  ‘Sweet,’ Jack said.

  I nodded. ‘I dumped them into a charity donation box on the way out and almost caused a bloody riot. Plus I got these.’

  I took the gold fountain pen from my jacket pocket, along with a small red envelope.

  ‘Mont Blanc make a nice pen,’ Jack said. ‘And lai see. You been out mugging little kids for their lucky money?’

  I’d been given the little paper envelope as I was leaving the casino after dinner. The red envelopes called lai see or hong bao usually contain small gifts of money and are handed out at Chinese New Year to bring good fortune and prosperity for the coming year. The gift can also be seen as a way of symbolically clearing debts or starting off the New Year with a clean slate.

  When I’d left the restaurant there had been a huge crowd gathered at the bottom of the long escalator, the reason being that the Manchu Palace had a lion in the lobby. Not a real lion, though that was something I wouldn’t put past Playford Peng, but lion dancers, the traditional and always welcome visitors at Chinese New Year, or on any special or auspicious occasion.

  Long strings of red firecrackers were blasting off outside the casino to scare away evil spirits and there was much banging of drums and clashing of cymbals as the two men inside the lion costume pranced through the spectators. This was a southern Chinese lion, and a pretty boisterous one. It had a long, flowing piece of red, black and gold silk for its body and the dancer in front was throwing the fringed, tasselled and elaborately painted wood and papier-mâché head from side to side while winking its eyes and noisily snapping its massive jaws open and shut.

  In amongst the crowd I could
see an old man in a wheelchair. An attractive young woman in an extremely tight-fitting white nurse’s uniform was pushing the wheelchair. From time to time, the nurse would bend down and wipe the man’s lips with a tissue. The old man was in a dinner suit and was slumped to one side of the chair, his right arm lying limp in his lap, his head resting on his right shoulder. It looked like Playford Peng still let his father out on special occasions.

  Mothers in the crowd were pointing their children towards Old Peng and shoving them forward. Those brave enough to approach were rewarded with a crooked smile and one of the small red envelopes that the nurse took from a bag slung over the back of the wheelchair and placed in the old man’s left hand.

  The wheelchair was being pushed in my direction, and I was wondering if Old Peng still had enough of his faculties intact to instruct his nurse to wear a uniform a couple of sizes too small when I saw his right index finger flick up. The wheelchair stopped right in front of me and Old Peng slowly and painfully worked the words ‘Kung Hei Fat Choy’ out of his twisted and drooping mouth.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ I said back, smiling.

  The nurse reached into her spectacular cleavage and handed me a red envelope. As lucky envelopes went, that was one very lucky envelope. And suddenly the wheelchair was gone, swallowed up in the frantic New Year melee.

  I sipped my port and carefully opened the red envelope. There wasn’t any money, just a small, shiny paper sleeve holding a colour negative. Those shiny paper sleeves for storing negatives and postage stamps were called glassine and I hadn’t seen one for years.

  There were some Chinese characters written on the outside and the single photographic negative inside the sleeve was slightly faded but still in good condition. It was a small square format I also hadn’t seen for years, from a Kodak Instamatic, a very popular amateur point-and-shoot camera in the sixties and seventies. There weren’t too many GIs in ’Nam who hadn’t had a compact little PX-bought Instamatic stuffed in a pocket of their fatigues.

  I took the negative out of the sleeve, holding it carefully by the corner. When you’ve looked at enough negatives you can read them easily. And this one was very interesting.