Jade Woman l-12

by Jonathan Gash

  “Hohoho!” Irwin offered me a cigar, which I declined. George Brookers took one from his partner. In contrast he was a tall stooper with a golfer’s walk and bushy eyebrows, Mame with him tinier than ever. “That’s what you say, Lovejoy!” He mangled my hand.

  “Mame’s told us how helpful you were!”

  “Not really,” I said into Mame’s novice-nun smile. Her eyes betrayed the daytime agony of the poor sleeper, but she was still up to innuendo. (“Oh, but you were!”) My own expression felt false, a ghastly give-away rictus.

  “Now we’d like to buy you guys lunch,” Irwin said. His Episcopalian timbre forbore refusal.

  Steerforth nudged me. “Why, thank yoooou!”

  “There’s a price, Jim!” Irwin winked openly at George. “We’re going to pump you about these antiques. Right, George?”

  “Don’t wear them out totally!” Sweetly from Mame. “They’re going to show us around later!”

  “Antiques?” Steerforth’s ignorance made him hesitate.

  “Certainly,” I said, relaxing. No harm can come to poor slobs who follow orders. To Steerforth’s relief I encouraged them. “I’ll divvy the whole lot if you like.” Most of them I could do from memory anyway. “In return I want to hear everything about how you two set up your antiques business.” I meant it as a joke, but Steerforth warned me with a glance. George and Irwin went oho and laughed as the lift lofted us to the roof restaurant.

  “Lovejoy wants company secrets, George!” Irwin whooped.

  George was itching to tell. “Well, I met Irwin in Minneapolis. He was a furniture salesman and I ran a downtown store…”

  The meal was a jovial business, George and Irwin reminiscing and pulling each other’s leg, Steerforth playing the campy innocent, me chuckling at their sallies, Lorna and Mame hugging themselves and swapping carefully timed glances.

  We seemed in the sky. The restaurant was walled with glass panels so that Hong Kong’s harbor formed a panorama of toy skyscrapers and blue water drawn upon by the wakes of ships. Only too glad to be noshing, I hadn’t taken much notice. Then Lorna exclaimed, “Just look at that!” and we saw the most remarkable sight.

  Junks were streaming round all the headlands, but mostly from the western approaches. They came steadily, without sails. Encased in the glass turret, we were unable to hear the engines, but the spectacle made me gape, hundreds converging on the typhoon shelters in Kowloon and closer by in Wan Chai. I asked a waiter what was up.

  “Typhoon warning. Number One. Junks come to shelter.”

  “A typhoon coming?” I asked Steerforth. I wasn’t sure what one was. The weather looked the same, a hot blue day. I’d seen a film about a cyclone once. The whole world was saved by one palm tree that gamely stuck it out.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “They start out in the South China Sea. If we’re in the path, it hits us. If not, it goes on to Japan.”

  “When?” Mame was excited.

  “Actually they usually don’t arrive. Typhoon One is the first grade of warning. The higher the number, the greater the likelihood of our being hit.”

  I’d have liked to hear more, fascinated by the vast fleet slowly cramming into harbor, but antiques called, so I helped to get a move on. It only took us a couple of hours to be down into the thick of the antiques. The women got bored and drifted off to the hotel shops with Steerforth. By four I was checking the last two or three items.

  Interestingly, George and Irwin already had separate reports from somewhere.

  “You’re pretty well informed.” I was impressed.

  They laughed. “Organization. An amateur like you won’t realize, Lovejoy. But us old pros’ve got reps in every major city. It pays.” George added, “Our staff surveys every auction—Geneva, London, New York—you name it, our people’re picking over the spoils. It’s money, boy.”

  Money again. I kept my face smiley, or thought I did, though George’s manner was beginning to irritate.

  “Staff of sixty, Lovejoy”—from Irwin.

  “Cost us enough!” boomed George. “That’s how we made Brookers Gelman the wholest antique wholesalers you ever did see! Hey, seen this crappy porcelain?”

  I drew breath to explain, then gave up, too narked to play the fool anymore. I’d done my bit, as ordered by the Triad. Let him make a fool of himself. Had he looked properly, he would have noticed that lot 463 was far too translucent for porcelain. It was a simple white mug enameled with a picture of maidens with a basket between trees, lovely deep glass made in Germany about 1770, using tin oxide. A mint specimen is an utter rarity. As they moved on I touched it to feel its superb quality speak to my senses.

  “Yes, rubbish,” I agreed, giving the mug a pained mental apology. Quickly I eased my smile back into place, for Lorna’s steady eyes were reflected in a chevalier mirror. That was the start of the death. The finish occurred after we were gathering in the foyer.

  A series of display cases stood expensively showing off luxury wares. Naturally I crossed over to take a look, and surprised Johny Chen daydreaming out of sight behind one.

  “Wotcher, Yank,” I said. “Private eye, huh?”

  He grinned. “Shamus to yoh, man. Godda do—”

  “Whatcha godda do?” I did the best accent I could. “Look, Johny. The auction’s six o’clock tonight. Bid on 463.” I told him a limit price.

  “Sho’ can, man. Say no mo’.”

  The others were audible then, so I emerged casually as if inspecting the pricey modern dross jewelers make these days. We separated, George and Irwin to meet two of their buyers flying in from London. During the meal they had agreed that we take Lorna and Mame on an island tour, though I felt I’d done enough touring to last a lifetime. I’d have rather been at the auction. We went out and hired a hotel limousine to take us.

  Doesn’t sound much of a killing gambit, does it? But it was, it was.

  Take every superlative. Multiply it by every exotic adjective of praise known to all lexicographers. Apply the product to every single aspect of Hong Kong. And there you have the dusk-time tour.

  The Peak tramway’s slow climb shafts the clouds to set you on a mountaintip surely intended for an eastern Olympus. The giant net of lights and reflections is spread out below to make you gasp.

  A car had driven to meet us, and we were taken to marvel at the famous beaches of Repulse Bay, Stanley, the astonishingly uninhabited hills of the island, the luxury shops and bars, the smaller townships so unbelievably varied.

  For a couple of hours afterwards we danced in a night club, sharing a table. We watched a garish but mediocre Western-style floor show, gamboled some more. We strolled along the evening shoppers’ haven of Wan Chai and Causeway Bay, admiring the spice shops, spectacular decorations, colors, the busy nightlife.

  Then it was nine o’clock, and by a fluke we found ourselves outside the Digga Dig, surprise surprise. Supper time, drinks, more laughs, talk of Hong Kong’s wondrous dynamism, all that jazz.

  We had different rooms from last time. I honestly thought I’d had quite a good time, experienced a marvelous tourist’s day.

  At one point quite far on in our activities she said shyly, “Lovejoy. Because I’m the, uh, y’know? Does it mean I can, well, say, y’know, whatever?”

  Warily I considered this proposition from Wittgenstein. What the hell did she mean? “Er, if you like.”

  She considered this lengthily. “Do I just, right out, y’know, you to, y’know? Or not?”

  Christ. Were many permutations left? “Sure.” I assumed a campaign veteran’s gruffness.

  She stayed until three in the morning. I’d asked what time Mame was supposed to meet her, but she only pressed a hand on my mouth and went, “Shhhh.” I also worried about Irwin. I could see him bursting in with a shotgun. Surreptitiously I checked the fire escape.

  Maybe it was this worry or the loving we got up to that vexed me when she did the envelope bit. My refusals are never any good with women, so I went all reticent and simply said,
“Don’t, love.”

  She was dressing, me still in bed. “But it’s your… Won’t you get in trouble from the, y’know, agency? James told Mame how strict the rules are.”

  “No.” I must have sounded harsher than I’d intended because her eyes filled. “No money. Understand?”

  She came to me. “Oh, darling. That’s perfectly sweet. Can’t I just give it you as a present?”

  See? Tell them no and they argue the hind leg off a donkey. “Just go,” I said. I could see Irwin and his sixty revenge-seeking assistant dealers gunning for me as despoiler of the honor of Brookers Gelman, Inc.

  She departed smiling through her tears, really odd. Worn out, I rolled over for a quick zuzz, wishing I’d told her to have some tea sent up on the way out.

  I’d just dozed off when my bad dream came true. The men burst in with the shotguns I’d been so terrified of.

  Gift

  18

  « ^ »

  TRUTH to tell, it wasn’t such an invasion. I just became conscious that somebody else was in the room. Still dark, but the door was ajar and light cut in from the corridor. If it’s ever happened to you, you’ll know that instant nausea, how your heart bangs.

  “Who is it?” I spoke feebly, pulling the sheet up like a surprised matron.

  The door clicked shut. Lights came on. Leung and Ong were standing there, Ong with a stubby shotgun. That was okay—they looked incredibly neat, dark suits, ties. Uneven bookends, except for that gun. What scared me most was their gloves. I’ve never yet met an honest man wearing black leather gloves, and that’s the truth. They’re all criminals.

  “You’re ready to come, Lovejoy.” Leung was telling me, not asking. I decided he was right.

  Babbling assurances I scrabbled on my gear and went. People calm as this pair never experience palpitations like us cowards. They don’t need to.

  Three in the morning. The hotel foyer was curiously empty, the night outside hot. The streets were calm, a few people walking to work, some sleeping in doorways of cinemas, the odd car, bar girls brightly tumescent in neon-stenciled doorways, trucks collecting rubbish. We drove to a place that was strangely familiar, a high-rise block with balconies. The queasy feeling returned. The place where Johny Chen lived?

  We were let in on the eighth floor without knocking. Fatty was colossally there, almost filling the room, his piggy eyes maddened. A small table, one armchair, television set, American posters plastered everywhere. A pungent stench sickened me further.

  Something was smeared down one wall near ground level. Paint, or not? A long bundle was blanketed on the floor.

  “Lovejoy,” Fatty piped. He was smoking, wheezing, quite crazy. “You disobeyed!”

  “Me?” I’d done every bloody thing I’d been told by everybody. “No, er, sir. Honest.”

  Something blackened the world with a whoomph of excrutiating pain in my belly. Little Ong had crumped me with a single blow. He belted me down onto hands and knees.

  More blows came. I retched from the vast ache. His fist must have gone through to my backbone. Thank God it wasn’t his huge partner, Leung. Thrutching emptily, I gaped at my hands propping me up. Blood. That paint smear was blood. It was puddled on the floor and down the table leg.

  “Uncover it, Lovejoy.” Fatty nodded at the bundle.

  With effort I stood. The room careered about for a bit. I retched it to a groggy standstill, went and gently pulled off the blanket.

  Johny Chen had been battered to death, hideously so. He was almost unrecognizable.

  He’d been flung against the wall by prodigious force before sliding to his final indecent sprawl. In his terror and pain the poor lad had filthed himself. Only God has polite agonies; for folk like Johny Chen and me, existence is a choice of degradations. By Johny’s body was lot 463, the white mug with its maidens and trees.

  “You disobeyed!” Fatty shrilled. I don’t know what he was smoking but its stench was cloying.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, bending in the gale. “I’m sorry.”

  He took a step and lashed me across the face. It was evidently too much for him because he wheezed louder and made a defeated gesture to Ong, who hardly moved but made my face sting and my head flop about like a doll’s. Six clouts and I crumpled, on my back.

  “You sorry?” Fatty shrieked.

  I said upwards, “I am extremely sorry, sir.” A foot kicked my side so pain spasmed through every other muscle, quite a knack. God, but these goons must have practiced.

  Maybe Hong Kong’s locals did torture like we do football. “Most sincerely. I was very stupid and thoughtless, sir. I’ll obey everything in future. Honest.”

  Fatty rose and waddled off, his huge haunches hunching up and down in his long garment. Laurel and Hardy kept their faces towards me as they followed. I was left alone with Johny.

  It took me five whole minutes to creak into action, climb erect. I did a deal of whimpering. First I shut the door onto the corridor, went and washed my hands in the sink. Then I returned to Johny and removed lot 463. I said “sorry” to him and it, like a fool.

  “Johny,” I said, covering him, “I pray God has the sense to make heaven like California.”

  Why had nobody come to anybody’s aid—mine, Johny’s? Surely somebody must have heard? I went out and slowly started down the stairs at a funereal limp.

  If I’d had any sense, I’d have realized exactly what Johny’s tour and Marilyn had tried to tell me. A few groups of people ruled Hong King—not police, law, any of that. By accidentally losing my possessions at Kai Tak Airport, plus my divvying skill, I’d fallen in with them. At the time I’d thought it a rescue. But rescue had been at the cost of Del Goodman’s life, and now Johny Chen’s. Some rescue. Like being plucked from a fire by the Hindenburg. No more.

  Lot 463 was in my hand.

  The night’s humid heat swamped me as I made the street. I leaned against the doorjamb. I’d had it. Johny had done sod all except obey, and still he finished up murdered, exactly as I’d… well, arranged. I blotted my face with a sleeve and managed to flag a cruising taxi. Escape time. With one bound I’d be free…

  “Kai Tak Airport, please,” I said and just sat with my eyes closed. I had money enough to reach Singapore, Taiwan, maybe with luck Australia. Hong Kong could get stuffed and… the taxi had stopped at my hotel.

  The driver’s grin was reflected in his mirror. I drew breath to ask if he’d misunderstood, but gave up. The weight of the world was on me as I descended. I didn’t offer to pay.

  That was my escape attempt, so brilliant it had lasted six minutes, during which I hadn’t even got a yard.

  The one hotel guard didn’t look my way as I buzzed the lift. Wise man, I thought. If questioned, he’d swear I’d never left my room.

  The trouble with nights, as far as I’m concerned, is that I sleep fast. Nights are hardly worth the bother. Lying on my back watching the ceiling, from four o’clock onwards, I thought of being here in Hong Kong and the plight I was in. Thinking, it seemed to me that antiques here too were a notorious game.

  Take Ariadne, for instance.

  Ariadne was extraordinary. By that I mean she was so way out, she was a phenomenon. Schooling? In Russia, though her folks were English. Talents?

  She played every musical instrument, just like Richard Lionheart. Degrees? Oxford and Cambridge, naturally, and enough languages not to need earphones. Now, it’s well known that antique dealers have a hard time learning the alphabet, so you can understand how she stood out among us nerks in East Anglia. To boot, she was a nun, so she stood out even more. You get the picture: clever, wise, holy, and pretty. She couldn’t fail. Plus, she was in the game for profit whereby to fund an orphanage. We were all helplessly in thrall to Ariadne for as long as she cared to flutter her eyelashes under her wimple.

  Enter Gargoyle.

  Gargoyle was grotesque, a great shambling ox of a man who came into antiques via boxing. He’d been a fairground fighter through years of incompetence and l
ooked it. His clothes fitted worse than mine. His shoes flapped their soles like a panto clown’s. He was an addled wino. He turned to antiques because he’d once learned a curious but true fact: King Edward I lashed out eighteen silver pence, total, to buy 450 decorated Easter eggs to give to members of his household. (Decorated eggs only entered England after the Crusades, though they were a feature of ancient Rome and China.) Well, Gargoyle had Edward’s eggs endlessly faked by Doggie, his deaf-and-dumb partner on East Hill. No detailed record of the king’s eggs exists, so it was easy. Any medieval pattern would do, and did for this pair of amiable rogues scratching a living by selling their ancient but brand-new eggs. Doggie wasn’t too bad; he used the right natural dyes and earth colors, and copied his patterns off Books of Hours. A good scam.

  Until Sister Ariadne heaved in and explained that, having unwittingly come across a batch of King Edward’s millennium-old eggs in a state of incompletion, she was reporting them to the law. On that fateful day she glared righteously at the repellent gormless Gargoyle—and fell in love. Truly. The first we heard of it was when the kindly Margaret had a whip round to pay for Doggie’s lawyer, Gargoyle having flown with Ariadne the flying nun. Bereft of his front man, Doggie did a year in clink. The orphans were left in God’s tender care which, it is well known, is rough on infants. But the clever, wise, holy, et cetera, Ariadne was away in Marseilles learning life’s sordid facts with Gargoyle. We heard later they’d been arrested for touting fake Russian icons in Naples.

  See what I mean? Antiques make men mad. And women too. But why? Is it the money they represent? Or is it the magic that lies in them, that clue to immortality, that glimpse of artistic perfection?

  My problem was this: Fatty was solely concerned with the money, keeping us all in order. That’s why he had Johny Chen killed. And Sim also knew the score, that Goodman had to go—how else to keep his own share of the forthcoming antique deals high? Sim was probably only a mere peddler.

  Dr. Chao? An organizer, maybe the learned adviser to the Triad’s money men. Ling Ling? I didn’t know. Marilyn? A harmless assistant. James Steerforth? Gigolo, a China Coast pimp living on his wits and any other bits of him women would pay for. Add numerous soldiery and enough money to pull any scam you cared to name, and that was the team as listed. Fatty was head of the execution squad, of course. Who was boss, though?