Jade Woman l-12

by Jonathan Gash

  Two o’clock in the morning and I lay awake thinking about this after my American sports-convention-in-Mongkok lady had departed. My West German lady had, so to speak, come and gone in great heart. La Colorada had given me name, address, phone number, an invitation to visit the USA, in return for which I’d offered her free hospitality at the hotel in Wan Chai which I lied a friend happened to own, and the use of my yacht moored vaguely off Kowloon. Sternly I told her that I usually didn’t fall for every woman, but she was special. She left in tears. She was flying in the morning, thank God.

  The point is, I felt sickened. I mean, okay, so I’d misbehaved. There was moral purpose to it, namely saving my skin from the omniscient Dr. Chao. He was doubtless a Triad’s front man. And destitution, Hong Kong had convinced me, was a condition best avoided. I’d always believed that I was independent. There were crimes to which I would not stoop. Even an ineffectual wastrel like myself would draw the line at certain shames. I’d been shown otherwise.

  There was something else, really rotten. I was a crackingly good gigolo.

  Take the Iserlohn lady, for instance. A merry lass, eagerly treating the whole escapade as one huge joke. She was a puzzling twenty-six, married, hubby something in tractors.

  She and her pal had vowed “to try it out this trip” after hearing women in Bangkok talking about hired men. She wanted me same time tomorrow night, but I cried off, saying I was fully booked. She pouted, sulked, said I’d get no tip. With a mental shrug I relented, and promised to check her in for an hour. We arranged to meet at the Tiger Balm Gardens, wherever that was. Some hopes. With a final flourish, I said she was so marvelous I’d not charge her. She was thrilled and paid me double. See what I mean?

  Is every moral man up for grabs? Given the right—indeed, the wrong— circumstances, is every politician, priest, judge for sale? Every nun a secret wanton? Every matron a prostitute? Every hungry antique dealer a coward easily bullied into being gigolo, liar, thief, anything? Answer: Who knows until they’re put to the test? Leung and Ong, my silent watchful Laurel and Hardy nerks in their limousine, might have been cherubs once upon a time. Now look at them. Hatchets. To me such serfdom was living death.

  Yet here was I, in that very state and congratulating myself on my success. Three clients so far and a hit with them all. Hundred percent. Smugly is ugly, and I felt both. I was so tortured in conscience I knew I’d not sleep.

  A note pushed under the door woke me hours later from profound slumber. Steerforth wanting his cut and saying when to be at the Digga Dig. Lorna and Mame had booked us. He’d bring them from the ship.

  Ten o’clock, at the Flower Drummer Emporium.

  It seemed nothing more than a factory for plastic flowers situated off Nathan Road down from Boundary Street. The day had not quite steamed up so I felt quite perky. Or was I becoming acclimatized? The traffic was streaming in pandemonium and people were milling but I was fast learning to ignore the contumely and concentrate on essentials.

  The factory doorway at least gave me shelter from the sun. A watch seller on a bicycle stood among the street hawkers, so I was relieved to check that I was on time even if the other bloke wasn’t. Slouched against the doorjamb, I inspected the scene and started teaching myself: Here in this busy street, what were the real essentials?

  The background was noise—of cars, light lorries, taxis, engines, clattering barrows.

  Nothing much there. Okay, tick off noise. The people were mostly of course Chinese, moving with that casually loose walk, talking. They varied: slim smart youngsters looking bound for business school, bulbous elderly women in black pajama suits, thin old men in high-necked Eastern suits, the singlet-and-shorts brigade of peddlers already hard at it along the curbs. Nothing there, either. Or was there?

  Across the way I’d glimpsed a patch of pavement for a second through the traffic. Many pavements are covered like cloisters with rectangular pillars. The far side was like that.

  I kept looking, wondering what had caught my attention. A few minutes later I heard a hawker shouting. He was a trinket man, everything the world could possibly need on his bicycle parked against a pillar opposite. As the traffic chugged and nudged, I moved slightly.

  A stubby shape trundled across my field of view, two miniature poles thrusting at the ground, the whir of skate wheels inaudible. Only there for a second before a lorry’s green canvas hood came between, but I knew it was my leper Titch being ballocked.

  Probably ruining the hawker’s trade, discouraging customers.

  The statistical odds against seeing somebody twice in a couple of days in Hong Kong must be a lot less than elsewhere. How many encounters did this make now, three? But I might have been mistaken. Steerforth had said the poor blokes were quite common.

  Yet, if Hong Kong’s population was four million, with, say, a million tourists at any one time, and its surface area was—

  “Lovejoy. Come.” Leung and Ong, plus three subordinate nerks, but all the bloody same.

  “Right, lads. Morning.” I refused Leung’s offer of a handful of sunflower seeds. He seemed to live on the damned things.

  Would you credit it, but we only went next door.

  Outwardly the place resembled a restaurant, its facade stilled and shuttered in a slice of that blinding sunlight. It was actually an oppidum, an armed encampment. We were admitted in what can only be called a threatening manner. The dark interior hummed air to coolness. Women moved, tidying and cleaning. Bar mirrors reflected what they could manage. A stage was just visible, silent and empty. Is there anything sadder? A honky-tonk, perhaps down on its luck.

  Stairs, a series of screens, curtains, a swinging door and the sudden ice-cold bliss of a softly lit room. My goons left me there just inside the doorway. I didn’t care. The cool was delicious, the stillness unbelievably soothing. It was a tranquil island in Hong Kong’s electric activity.

  “Do come in, Lovejoy.”

  Even the voice was tranquil. Ling Ling was sitting in a carved rosewood chair. Two men were with her, but her kingfisher-blue cheongsam made her brilliant and I couldn’t look anywhere else. She was lovely, lovelier, perfect. More, she was in her natural habitat and in command. A woman stood behind her chair, partly in shadow.

  Awkwardly I edged forward. The elegant room had been appointed by somebody who knew. Not a single color or item of furniture jarred. All was harmony. Screens, carvings, ivories, the angles the furniture made with the decor, the wall tapestries. Beautiful and tasteful but semi-modern grot. I felt a familiar clang deep within and looked to the left.

  An antique calling me? But there was nothing notable, really, except some wall plants that should have been out playing. Odd, that. I’m not usually that wrong.

  “Sit down,” a voice squeaked.

  One bloke was Sim, standing and fidgeting. He looked nervous to the point of agitation.

  You can smell fear. For once I wasn’t terrified on my own. The man who had spoken was honestly the fattest man I’d ever seen in my life. He belonged in a fairground. His flesh overhung the vast rosewood armchair so much that his knees were splayed to keep him vertical. His face was a moon with symmetrical craters. Even sitting motionless he wheezed. I began trying to work out a crazy sum: If an average man is eleven stone, which is 154 pounds weight, and he could make nearly three averages, then he weighed 462 pounds. No, couldn’t be, surely to God, but he was so enormous…

  I sat, vowing to start slimming the minute I regained my independence, and tried not to gawk at Ling Ling.

  “You are Lovejoy?” Wheeze, wheeze. His voice was a distant reed pipe. No wonder, all that fat.

  “Yes.” A silence. “How do you do,” I offered shakily.

  Fatty ignored this. “You know antiques.”

  “Well, yes, in a way.”

  “Tell.” Even that took a prolonged inhalation.

  “Eh?” I swallowed, lost. Suddenly my hands were clammy, the room not so cool after all. Was Fatty going to go berserk because I’d told St
eerforth the truth about a few fakes, fingered a genuine article here and there? “Look, ah, sir,” I got out, my voice whining with panic. “I didn’t realize there was some antiques scam on, honest. If you’ve lost on some deal, I’ll try to—”

  “You are in no danger, Lovejoy,” Ling Ling said in her mellifluous voice. “It’s simply a matter of explaining your skill.”

  She meant the divvy bit. “Right.” I wiped my brow with my sleeve. “Er, well. Antiques are special. At least, I think so. They, er…” I tried to clear my throat, couldn’t much. “I feel, well, different, like. With a proper antique. See?”

  Silence. Fatty’s bulbous hands pudged into fists like a tire advert. I coughed, tried again. “Most of the things around nowadays aren’t…” I glanced about her room and changed my tack. “I like old. It’s better than new.”

  Silence. My oratory skill winning no prizes. Fatty, slogging from wheeze to wheeze, suddenly turned and spoke at length to Sim. The nerk began to answer in jerky monosyllables of agreement. He was being interrogated quite nastily, his story under test. He nodded in a frenzy of agreement. He even made a throwing-away gesture, me at the ferry concourse chucking the phony porcelains into the harbor. Silence, but not peace, descended. Fatty glanced at Ling Ling. She inclined her head, spoke to the standing woman behind her, who answered briefly.

  “Please be undeceived, Lovejoy.” I could have listened to Ling Ling all day, watched her a lifetime. “You are safe with us. But do not dissemble. We have video film of you at the antiques viewing. We have tape of your conversation.”

  Dissemble? “Look, miss. Honest. I didn’t realize I was trespassing on your —

  somebody’s—scam. I’ll go and tell them it was all a mistake…” The image of Dr. Chao swam into ken and stopped me. Were we all pals together? How many armies were in this particular war? Unless I was careful I might fall foul of them all. I chucked the towel in, distraught. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  Ling Ling smiled at my face. “Be frank, Lovejoy. Remember, we here believe that all is capitalism.”

  “If you say.” But I’ve never yet managed to pin down an ist or an ism. Once you start asking what the hell it really means it’s suddenly all Scotch mistism.

  “Please do not be afraid,” she said. Snow White full of compassion. I must look like I felt, shivering in abject surrender. Easy for her, perfect beauty and power combined.

  “Can your skill be learned, or is it a gift?”

  Ah, that was it. She wanted to know if ‘perfect’ meant divvy, too? “Er, no. It can’t be picked up, miss.”

  She began speaking in Cantonese to Fatty, who listened querulously with occasional egophonic interjections. Sim tried to speak once, but was roundly abused by the corpulent man. I was pleased at the way Sim trembled, remembering how he had butchered my one pal in Hong Kong. During their chat I peered towards those plants.

  By leaning forward I detected a gleam of reflection from behind one spreading poinsettia, and rested, satisfied. An antique plate or some such had been lodged behind it for some reason. Same tricky try-on, as at Dr. Chao’s? They’d be narked if I got up to have a look, so I stayed put.

  “Lovejoy.” Fatty rotated his umpteen pendulous chins in my direction and rose. I gaped.

  He simply unfolded roll after roll of blubber and kept going, seven feet tall if an inch. I doubled my weight estimate. He was a spherical giant. “Out.”

  “Sir?” I sat mystified, until Ling Ling gave me a smile of dismissal. It was like sunrise. I babbled good-byes and blundered through curtains, screens, and doorways until I stood blinking at the pavement glare. No car. No goons. Only Hong Kong doing its raucous exuberant best.

  And the vanishing shape of a tiny figure swiftly poling itself along the pavement out of sight. Food for thought. Three times lucky, yes, but four sightings was getting on for constancy. I learned to watch this world where survival came minute by minute.

  14

  « ^ »

  A slap on my back broke my reverie. “Hi! Johny to you, J. C. Chen to the rest!”

  He emerged from the foyer behind me and stood there, a thin callow youth in jeans and a “Los Angeles Is Greatest” T-shirt. Except he wasn’t still. He seemed in perpetual motion. He shuffled, jigged, hopped, even spun round twice from sheer exuberance. To this day I can’t remember Johny Chen still. He didn’t need much in the way of reply.

  “Yoh Lovejoy, right? So come on, man! Let’s mo-o-o-ove it!” He’d bopped halfway up the street before he realized I wasn’t sprinting alongside. “Hey, man! Yoh-all taken root, Lovejoy?” He pranced back indignantly.

  The accent was grotesque Texas, a kind of voice graft. Like a Liverpool newscaster talking BBC posh. He wore sneakers, a sloppy-band wristwatch crammed with data. He was the phoniest thing I’d ever seen.

  “No.” I’d been captured and sold too many times since my arrival to accept this nerk.

  “Hey, what’s this explain sheet, man?” He was jiving away, snapping his fingers. “I say come, yoh move yo’ ass, dig?”

  About three years back I’d been laid up in hospital from a knife wound. The weeks of convalescence had exposed me to an entire paraculture of daytime television reruns and pathetic quiz chats. No wonder everybody’s thick these days. Johny Chen would have been in his element in any of those creaking forties-fifties B films. He was a cutout latter-day rebel without pause.

  “You look like James Dean,” I said, guessing the effect it would have.

  He yelped with glee, leapt and bounced, doglegged a buck-and-wing dance between passersby. “Hey, man! Yoh has a class eye, ’deedy-do!”

  “The point is, Johny, I stay here until I’m told otherwise.”

  Face to face, his grin seemed patchy gold a mile wide. “Thee poind eez, man, Ah tell yoh uth-ah-wise, dig?”

  But I refused to budge until he twinkle-toed inside and fetched Sim downstairs to authenticate him. My least favorite killer was accompanied by the lady who had remained standing in the shadows. She asked in ultra-precise words why I was delaying my departure.

  “It’s my life, love,” I said patiently. “So I want to know exactly what to do with it for the next few hours.”

  “I am Shiu-Won, or Marilyn to you, Lovejoy,” she said. “You will accompany J. C. Chen.

  That is all.” She was thirtyish, maybe, a little different from the local Chinese in features. Her dark hair waved naturally, but she wore the cheongsam in style. You wouldn’t notice this woman in Ling Ling’s company, but on her own she was lovely.

  “See, man?” The young nerk wasn’t crestfallen in the slightest as he zoomed us into a taxi. “Ah gives yoh plus, man,” he praised. Even sitting down he hand-jived, wagged shoulders, did heel-toe paradiddles. I’d only known him a minute and I was worn out.

  “Caution’s what Ah likes, dig-geroo? That woman, Shiu-Won. Eats owda de palm of mah hond, man.”

  He was ridiculous, but I found myself smiling. Until his arrival, good humor had been lacking among Hong Kong’s death threats. “You speak Cantonese well for a Yank, Johny.” I’d heard him prattle to Sim and the taxi driver.

  He was over the moon. “No sheet, man! I’se a Yank frum way back. Arkan-zaw bo’n an’

  bred. Bud Ah’s got relatives heeyah. Ah’ve bin in liddle old Hawng Kawng fo’ years.”

  Well, if he said so. There was more of this absurd gunge during the short drive. He’d earned honors degrees in practically everything from UCLA, nearly won Olympic gold medals for the USA in the javelin, mile, marathon, except for a spectacular but unique illness that intervened at the last moment.

  Our destination was a disappointment. “Are you sure this is it?” A godown place, hardly a window.

  “Am Ah shoowah? Is the Pope Catholic?” He shimmied inside caroling a ditty that had been popular a year ago. I dithered a moment among the pedestrians because nobody had paid the taxi off, but it crawled away without protest.

  The godown was oddly unproductive. Johny was along the empty cor
ridors like a waltzing ferret. Twice I got lost, once into a neat office filled with girls hard at work at computer consoles, once into a sort of ticket office with a world map for a wall. It was the weirdest place, a series of stage sets reached by a warren of grotty tunnels.

  “Heeyah, man. Hide an’ say nuttin’, dig?”

  “Eh?” What had he said? Hide? I looked about. A faded dance hall? Disused school gym? Anyway, a long wide room all the more astonishing because it was empty. Its emptiness testified to somebody’s power. Since landing I’d never seen so large a space without a crowd of hawkers, improvised shacks, mushrooming curbside traders. And it was air-conditioned.

  “In the fuckin’ wall, man.” He pointed.

  “Where else?”

  He had to come and open the wall for me. It was a wooden panel with two spy holes concealing a cupboard-sized space. I went in and stood there feeling a fool. He shot in and pulled it shut, checking the phases of the moon on his pulsar watch.

  “Raat own, man.”

  He only grinned when I asked what we were up to, and pretended to shoot me into silence. We settled down to wait. He nearly drove me mad with his humming and finger-drumming and talking of how great life was in California, Miami, the Big Apple.

  Though I occasionally glanced out of my spy hole, the room stayed empty. Fifteen minutes later still nothing, and me nearly demented by his inanities: how he’d driven the prototype Mustang Radar breakneck from New York to San Francisco in a single day for a bet, fought a bull in New Mexico… But gradually amid this crud I became conscious of a low humming sound. More air-conditioners? No, too up-and-down, a distant playground. Waiting, I might even have nodded off. Then Johny suddenly silenced. This terrified me alert.