Kiss Me, Hadley: A Novel

by Nick Macfie

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “What’s he on about? Do you think he’s sick?”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Rodney, but this is kind of urgent.” It was Zeb, who still had the deaf aid in his ear.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, it’s kinda heavy. I’m doing a story about royal weddings in Asia and I’m grooving on the history.”

  “Grooving on the history, Zeb?”

  “Kinda grooving, but I never can remember if Henry the Eighth had six wives, or Henry the Sixth had eight wives.”

  There was silence around the desk. You can’t make this stuff up.

  “Let’s split the difference and call it seven, Zeb,” Baxter said. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Don’t go, pal.”

  “Sorry, Zeb?”

  “Don’t split.”

  “I…”

  “Mellow out, man. It’s a cool question, vis a vis a story I have mentioning royal weddings in Europe and the possibility, according to a soothsayer from a southern Japanese prefecture, of another.”

  Zeb was in his mid-forties with black hair gelled back. He had dark, sullen eyes, a high hairline, was unshaven and looked tough. He wore glasses with thick lenses and a black metal frame that looked like scaffolding. I felt my head spinning. Zeb was attacking my brain with words and ideas thrown together from a tall gantry.

  “A soothsayer, Zeb?” Baxter asked.

  “Aye, a soothsayer.”

  Aye? Elsewhere in Hong Kong, people were doing jobs that kept the world ticking over - police, bus drivers, teachers, bartenders, cosmetic surgeons. And then there were hedge-fund managers and telecoms analysts, soothsayers and dodgy croupiers and copy editors. Was it the sun? The humidity? Am I going to start talking like this? Should I whack Zeb, with his really whiny voice, over the head?

  “There was an Anne, I know that,” he said. “Anne of Green Gables? There was a Jane who was in one of the Bond films.”

  “Jane Seymour,” Baxter said. “No Anne of Green Gables.” Baxter’s phone rang and he turned away.

  “I was joking, man. Jane Seymour. Anne of Cloves. Joan of Arc.”

  “There’s an easy way to remember how many wives Henry had,” I said, introducing myself and leaning over to shake hands. If right then I had happened to have a fat hypodermic full to the brim with some generic Third World anaesthetic past its sell-by date, I was sure I could have spared everyone in the room a lot of stress. “I’m Hadley.”

  “I’m Zeb, pal. I work here.”

  “I see that.” And if I was not mistaken, Zeb had just called me “pal”. “Well there’s an easy way to remember.”

  “Hit me, you fatuous prick.”

  Hit me? Someone else has told me to hit them, and we’re not even playing roulette? First he calls me “pal” and in the next breath it’s “fatuous prick”? Hit you? Fuck you, pal. “What did you just call me?”

  “Hey man,” Zeb said with a big grin. “You’ve got to groove to the sound.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Mellow out, Hadley.” This was Baxter.

  “Oh don’t you start. This bastard just called me a prick.”

  “Yes, well this bastard didn’t mean it, did you Zeb?”

  “Of course not, Hadley. Rodney told me all about you and said that you had that fine English sense of humour. I said I’d make you laugh with something rude. I guess it wasn’t very funny.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “I don’t get it myself,” he added.

  “Don’t get what, Zeb?”

  “The English sense of humour. I reckon it’s shit. Patronising and pompous.”

  He was looking directly at me, challenging me. Zeb was a piece of work.

  “I can tell you an easy way to remember how many wives Henry had,” I said. “If you are interested. And then perhaps I can move on.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “Well, think of ‘I’m ‘Enery the Eighth I am’. It runs off the tongue. ‘Enery the Eighth. You can’t say ‘I’m ‘Enery the Sixth I am.’”

  “That’s your easy way?”

  “Yes it is, Zeb. You can take it or leave it. Herman’s Hermits. They were big in the States, right?”

  “Sure pal. Your point is that if you know he’s the eighth, then you realise he must have had six wives. That is so cool.”

  “Yes.”

  “The trick will be to remember the song.”

  “Yes. And to remember that it’s from the sixties, not the eighties.”

  “I don’t know how I can thank you for this information,” Zeb said. “Tell me what I can do.”

  Well for one thing, you can fuck off and never speak to me, you total phony, unctuous fucker. There’s that word unctuous again. Never, do you hear? “Don’t mention it,” I said. Boy was I glum. This guy had got under my skin.

  “All right, Hadley, enough history for one day,” Baxter put his hand on my arm. “I just got a call. Hate to break this up, Zeb, but Hadley and I have got to go. We’ll meet up after this is over, okay? Give us half an hour.”

  “You got it, Rodney, pal. Thanks. You’re a brick.”

  Baxter’s phone gave another shrill few notes. “We’re on our way,” he told the caller. We walked towards the small, glass-walled meeting rooms that lined the corridor. “This is someone who knows all about the casinos. An oil and aero analyst. I should have told you, but he’s two days early.”

  “What’s an oil and aero analyst? Something to do with chocolate bars? Why is Zeb Shrubs working for us, by the way? He’s not a journalist. And why did he call you a prick?”

  “He called me a brick, Hadley. You will find out why later.”

  “Why is he so aggressive? Why did we hire him?”

  “Because we are playing the corporate game, or else we would be out of a job. And aero analysts analyse the aircraft industry. They look at the tourism, the planes and the price of fuel, and they analyse them.”

  “Is there such a thing as an aero-telecoms analyst?”

  “Try to pay attention to the job at hand.”

  “They could analyse the telephone systems on aeroplanes. How the pilot communicates with the cabin crew.”

  “And get paid ten times as much as your average wire journalist. Don’t think I haven’t thought about applying for the job.”

  “Great story.”

  A tall, serious man was sitting at the table, looking at the Shrubs calendar in his hands. Baxter introduced him as a hedge-fund manager specializing in the energy market, dropping the aero bit, and the look on his face told me now was not the time to ask questions about the Hampton Court maze or isotonic drinks. He was a tall, bald Brit wearing pin-stripe trousers and an expensive open-collar shirt. He was frowning at the December picture on Shrubs’s very own calendar. We shook hands.

  “I am looking at this picture of the founder of the Bangladesh bank which only helps slum dwellers.”

  “Ah yes,” Baxter said obsequiously. “The banker to the poor.”

  “Apparently not. You call him ‘the baker to the poor’.”

  “Oh no, how embarrassing.” Baxter frowned at the offending caption. “What a silly mistake. Anyway, Martin, Hadley has been assigned to the casino story.”

  “Unless of course he bakes things on the side and gives them to the poor as well.”

  “Afraid it’s a typo, Martin,” I said, taking the calendar away and putting it out of reach. “Nothing to do with us. Rodney was telling me…”

  “Martin is not my real name.”

  “I understand.”

  “And if you try to identify me in any way, you will be sorry.”

  I already am, you nob. “I completely understand.”

  “Now we’ve got that straight, it is possible, is it not, that this man, this baker to the poor, makes a lot of dough?”

  Baxter gave a rich laugh. “Good one, Martin. Probably not as much as you, though.”

  I wanted to get on w
ith the investigation. “Anyway about these casinos, is it true that…?”

  “Is it not also possible.” Martin was leaning back in his chair now and looking at the ceiling. “.that this man can have his cake and eat it?” Baxter cracked up again. “Maybe he likes muffins. What do you say?”

  If Baxter laughs again at another of these dick-shit jokes, I will strangle him and say I did it and deal with the consequences. Muffins? Never mind that that wasn’t even a joke. Baxter let his head fall forward, almost hitting the table, and now he rocked back sucking in air through his mouth in a forced, ugly, inhaled bray.

  “Maybe,” Martin went on, “he doesn’t loaf around.”

  This was too much for Baxter who slapped the table and cried “stop”, prompting a few heads to turn in the office outside. In the real world outside.

  “Maybe he’s on a roll,” I said. I couldn’t help it.

  Baxter stopped laughing and frowned. “What did you say?”

  “Maybe he’s on a ‘roll’.”

  Baxter sat back in his chair. “What on earth do you mean by that?”

  “Do you mean.” Martin was smirking unctuously. “Do you mean: has he got a bun in the oven?”

  Baxter was doubled over again. And then he slapped the table again! What for? Bun in the oven? It made no sense at all. How could a man be pregnant? It made even less sense than the muffins. What kind of hold did this man have over Baxter? This conversation was completely unfair. It was also a waste of time. I was going to stop playing. And as if things couldn’t get any worse, there was Zeb staring at me, grinning malevolently outside the glass door. He knocked and came in.

  “Sorry to interrupt, guys, but it is kinda urgent. Lay it on me one more time, Hadley. Sixties pop song. Not eighties.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re the best. So long gang.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Martin said, wiping a pompous grin off his face. “I am afraid I have no information on the casinos that I can divulge to a journalist.”

  “I see,” I said. “What information do you have?”

  He ignored me. “What I can do is give you some useful background on gambling in Asia and in Hong Kong per se, which might add some substance to your reports.”

  I grabbed a window of opportunity. “I’m so sorry, Rodney, I have to pop out quickly. I think Zeb may have got it wrong about the sixties. Excuse me.”

  I left quickly, went to Zeb’s desk and leant on my hands. He looked up at me puzzled.

  “Hey, it’s the funny man. Whatya doing?”

  “I had to get out of that meeting. How’s it going? The royal wedding story?”

  “It’s cool. Everything’s cool. It’s my story.”

  “I know it’s your story.”

  “So easy with the ‘whoa, let’s lay the pressure on the new guy real heavy’ jive.”

  I stared at the dark eyes and saw pits of conspiracies. Years and years of them. “I didn’t understand one word of what you just said,” I said. It was like listening to King Lear.

  “I don’t need pressure to deliver it sooner rather than later, you know what I mean? It’s all got to be mellow yellow.”

  “No pressure, Zeb. I have nothing to do with your story and everything’s mellow yellow.”

  “It’s like ‘whoa, hold the horses man. Let’s ride herd on the party dude.’”

  Nope, nothing registered in that sentence either. I tapped his table with my fingernails.

  “I’ll be leaving now,” I said.

  “Cool. I’ll get on with the story. Some people have work to do.”

  “Sure. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “You kinda interrupted the flow. The muse.”

  “The muse. Okay. Sorry about that. Good luck with the story.”

  Was this the real life? For Zeb, nothing was real. For me, the pain in my arse was real. Next stop, the pub.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I PUT MY PHONE to my ear as if answering a call and started towards the exit talking to no one as Baxter and the privet-hedge aeronautical glucose chocolate bar prick swapped jokes.

  I swept past walked Marcus’s desk without acknowledging him.

  “The coroner recorded an open verdict,” he called out. “Had you heard that?”

  I stopped and lowered the phone from my ear. There was no way Marcus could have known that I was talking to no one. He was just being completely inconsiderate.

  I said “hold on” to my imaginary telephone conversation partner. “I hadn’t heard that, no,” I said to Marcus. “I’m on the phone, actually.”

  “It only happened this morning.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why is that good?”

  “I’m going to have to call you back,” I said into the phone. “I’m really sorry about this.” I put away the phone. “I mean it’s good that they returned an open verdict,” I said to Marcus.

  “Only a coroner’s jury returns a verdict. A coroner sitting by himself records a verdict.”

  “Of course.”

  “This coroner was sitting alone.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Why is an open verdict good?”

  “Marcus, I was on my way out of the office.”

  “And why do you say ‘oh dear’? Please, I want to know.”

  “Marcus, have you met Zeb? Look, he’s sitting over there with nothing to do. I think you’d get on really well. An open verdict means he didn’t decide it was murder or suicide. That’s good, isn’t it? And ‘oh dear’ because he was sitting all alone. Just like Zeb.”

  “Are you taking the piss? Doesn’t this news give you a complete buzz?”

  “What news is that?”

  “About the open verdict.”

  “Marcus. This is my first day back at work. I don’t know what you are talking about. Please let me storm out of the office as originally planned.”

  Too late. Baxter swept past towards his glass box, calling me in on the way.

  “Don’t close the door,” he said, fussily hanging his jacket on a wooden hanger.

  I sat down wondering if Baxter still kept a bottle of Famous Old Grouse in his bottom drawer. He swivelled his black, mesh-fabric chair until he was facing the harbour.

  “Martin’s a lovely fellow. A fine, rich sense of humour.”

  “Rodney, he was awful.” Actually, compared with Zeb and Marcus, Martin was hugely entertaining. A real live wire.

  “How he made me laugh,” Baxter said. “He told this one about the Pope and Tiger Woods…”

  “He didn’t give us any information.”

  “Not this time. But he is someone we should develop as a source. He’s a rich font.”

  “Now you’re almost talking.”

  “Can you see the Mariners’ Club from here?” Baxter was looking across the harbour at Tsim Sha Tsui. “That’s your favourite haunt, isn’t it?”

  “One of them. Great place for swimming. You can’t quite see it. It’s behind the Sheraton.”

  “I see.”

  “No, as I say, you can’t quite see it.”

  “Don’t you worry about the mariners pissing in the pool?”

  “Never see them. Not at the pool, anyway. It’s a select clientele, Rodney. It’s Hong Kong’s best-kept secret. Used to be full of Cathay air hostesses before they moved the airport.”

  “I see.” He swivelled round to face me and leant on the desk. “Hadley, we have a situation here. Let me speak quickly because he is coming in now.”

  “Who is coming in?”

  “Zeb.”

  “Oh no, what now?”

  “I’ve asked him to come over. Let me finish. He has some problems.”

  “Hold the front page.”

  “No, external issues which he has told me about. They are a bit out of my comfort zone but they overlap with your casino story. I think you can help and I told him so.”

  “But why is he so aggressive?”

  “Shhh. He’s coming. I’ll let him explain.
” Baxter stood up. “Zeb, please come in.”

  I half stood and moved my chair to the right to make room for the loud American. I assumed he would pick the empty chair next to Baxter and pull it over and sit next to me, but he didn’t. He sat down next to Baxter and crossed his legs, looking about him wide-eyed. They were like an interview panel. I was sitting alone. Like a coroner.

  “This office is so cool,” Zeb said. “The view is awesome.”

  “Yes, I’m very lucky,” Baxter began.

  “And I’m lucky in love.”

  “That’s great,” Baxter said.

  “There is no other luck.”

  Baxter glanced at me. The look said: “I know what you’re thinking; unbalanced, moronic, a complete fuckwit. But please be patient, because he has powerful friends.”

  “So, Zeb,” Baxter said. “I’ve asked Hadley into this meeting because he is one of our most experienced editors.”

  “So people keep telling me,” Zeb said.

  “Yes, so they should,” Baxter said a little testily, bless him. “Because it is true and you can learn a lot from him.”

  “Ten four, big buddy.”

  “He is also experienced in the ways… How shall I put it? Hadley, how shall I put it? Hadley is also experienced in the ways of Hong Kong. And, as I told you earlier, he is going undercover. Hadley, I asked Zeb to tell you his story, on the assurance that none of this leaves this room and before we take things any further. You will understand more in a moment. Zeb?”

  Zeb uncrossed his legs and put his hands together over his crotch, intertwining the fingers as Baxter turned to stare across the harbour.

  “Awesome, Rodney. A neat introduction. I know I am among total professionals and I feel a huge weight of history upon these old shoulders.” Total nonsense. “I know you want me to cut straight to the chase, so, Hadley, pal, I’m going to ask you straight up. Like a zip. Do you know the Carnivale Club?”

  There it was again. The “pal” thing made me clench my sphincter. Never mind the fucking zip.

  “I’m sorry, Zeb?”

  “Do you know the Carnivale Club, in Tsim Sha Tsui?”

  “The Club Carnivale. Behind the Mariners. Of course. Dead most nights.”

  “Dead most nights, you say?” This was Baxter.

  “Dead every night I’ve been there. I’m not there every night. It’s possible that on the nights that I am not there, it’s heaving. But it’s unlikely. What about it?”