Jade Woman l-12

by Jonathan Gash

  “Yes.” That took two whole breaths.

  “Why?” His slender hands spread expressively. “Were you not well treated?”

  When in doubt, use silence. I tried it until my nerve broke. “Yes.”

  “So money matters so much to you that you would make a duplicate Song Ping, hide it, hope to gain by selling it later?”

  “It was my one chance.” I tried to sound convincing. “Money is antiques.”

  He seemed to listen as if to distant voices, then sighed. “One curiosity, though. It was an atrocious fake, Lovejoy. Fittingly, it has been destroyed. As you will now have to be, Lovejoy. A last request?” He didn’t want to offend any gods tuned in to my last agony.

  I rose, amazed I could do it. “Ling Ling, please.”

  He came to see me out. “Ling Ling? You mean… ?”

  “Yes, please. Her.” I faced him. “You wouldn’t want me to be an annoyed ghost, ne?”

  After all, at least one or two of them felt superstitious about me. Their mistake, but I’d naught else.

  He stood his ground, judging me, but it took nerve. He nodded seriously. “Very well. I’ll see if it can be arranged. Good-bye, Lovejoy.”

  The only so-long I knew in Cantonese means see-you-again. “So long,” I said.

  The yacht sailed within twenty minutes. I was confined to a cabin, forbidden to shave or change. I could see the story—expat Lovejoy, Westerner on the run, would be found dead months from now in some remote bay. There would be no evidence.

  Funny how things affect you. Sitting on the edge of a bunk I dozed, imagined a helicopter’s sibilant beat, dreamed I was back in my thatched cottage on a chill November morning.

  And awoke sweating with Ong beckoning from the cabin doorway, saying, “It’s time, Lovejoy.”

  The yacht anchored in a bay. A few islands were visible to seaward. Mountains rose steeply from a beautiful but narrow sandy beach. All was still and hot as hell as I climbed down into the dinghy. A sailor rowed us ashore. Ong and Leung plus two other goons accompanied me.

  The sand was gritty, not soft. It felt machine made and shone like powdered rock. I went a few paces and asked what happened now. “I’ve never done this before, see.”

  “Siu Jeah.” Ong pointed along the beach. Little Sister? Ling Ling was sitting in a shade recess where the rock face dived into the bay’s crescent. A frilled parasol protected her from reflected sun. She was a picture straight out of the Song Ping painting I had done.

  I made it, the sand’s heat striking up through my shoes.

  “Hello.” I stood like a lemon. She looked up, said nothing. “Look, love. I’m sorry. I only said it in desperation. I didn’t think they’d make you come and, well.”

  “You are declining, Lovejoy?”

  “Christ,” I said, then realized I’d better watch my language, the position I was in.

  “Heavens, of course I want to… It’s just that, you being a jade and me only…” I flapped my hands.

  She offered me an elaborate goblet of cold white wine. It was about 1680, Netherlands-made in the Venetian fashion with octagonal bowl, façon de Venise. I sat with her on the carpet. The faded tangerine color, its rice-grain pattern with the five medallions, the ivory, blue, and yellow, put it about Ch’ien Lung. She smiled. “Yes, Lovejoy. I too doubt the inclusion of yellow. But who can challenge the wisdom of ancestors?”

  She was delectable, decorating the carpet with grace in her silk cheongsam. I felt a slob, and knew I looked it.

  A board clattered not far off, cups on a tray. I recognized Ong’s voice. Rattle, shuffle.

  Mah-jongg in progress. An amah laughed. Assistants and murderers waiting in the wings.

  For a second I had a mad idea of spinning it out with clever conversation, making a run for it, but gave up. Ling Ling was probably a black belt, whatever. And whatever I could plan, they’d planned light-years before.

  “Your health,” I said. The wine was luscious.

  “And yours, Lovejoy.” I watched her mouth lower to the frosty glass and her lips open to the cold white wine.

  So in the broad day, beneath a parasol shade, sheltered by mountains that curved down to the aching blueness of the South China Sea, with my killers laughing close by, Ling Ling and I made smiles. Greed, I learned, is the only appetite that never fails—all others weaken with satiation.

  Last rites. Perfect last rites. And I’m not being blasphemous. More things in this life are sacraments than we suppose.

  Most women natter after love. Ling Ling is the only one I’ve ever known who knew better. It must have been an hour later that I surfaced, seeing my face-marks on her breast. The clatter and slap of mah-jongg, Hong Kong’s sound, meant the game was still on. I yawned, buried back close to her.

  “Was that the best, Lovejoy?” she asked. I could hear the smile in her as she added,

  “No. I know your answer: the next.” I thought, how’d she know that?

  The yacht gave a single hoot then, constricting my throat. She rose from the carpet as an old amah came to enfold her in a dressing gown. I pulled myself together and stepped a yard to look at the bay. The white vessel was standing in close to us, less than a hundred yards off. The seabed must shelve steeply, as in Repulse Bay. It was moving slowly, crewmen motionless and ready for anchoring.

  “Lovejoy.” Leung came beside me, cracking sunflower seeds.

  The end, then. On a beach, knackered from love and worry, not a friend in sight. I went, stood amongst Leung’s four goons watching the yacht, eighty, sixty, finally stopping with a rattle and splash less than forty yards from the cliff. Dr. Chao was first to come ashore. Then, separately from round the blind side, Sun Sen, Fatty, and Steerforth—surprise, surprise, a dinghy rowed by two sailors. I realized the enemy quartet were as out of their depth in all this rurality as I was. The difference was they were going to do for me, not vice versa. We formed two small groups. Ling Ling vanished with her woman into the nearby greenery.

  The trouble was, Steerforth looked in a worse state than me. Neat as ever, but lacking in confidence. Two of us?

  A sailor stood behind Dr. Chao shielding him with a sunshade. Another shaded Fatty, making ancient emperors of them. Chao ascetic, thin; Fatty enormous, wheezing. They stood formally, generals talking war.

  “Lovejoy has been devious,” Dr. Chao announced gravely. “He made an extra copy of the Song Ping. What sentence?”

  “Execute,” Fatty shrilled. “We no need him now.”

  “Very well.” Dr. Chao gave an order. Leung beckoned me. Ong followed with Steerforth.

  Forty paces into the vegetation, and boulders hid us from the beach.

  “I’m sorry about this, Lovejoy.” Steerforth, fine-weather faithful, gestured for Leung to move away. I stood by a boulder. “Want to turn round?”

  They say you scream and pee yourself. It’s not true. You want to but you can’t. You can’t do a thing.

  “You’re the one who stabbed Del Goodman, Steerforth. I should have known. Sim can’t bear violence.” That from the godown when they’d killed the old addict.

  “Yes.” He shrugged. “An asset like a divvy—I just couldn’t lose the chance of trading you to the Triad. It’s made my future, Lovejoy.” And brought him closer to Ling Ling.

  Ah, true love.

  “Noticed anything, James?” I indicated my plight.

  “Promotion costs casualties.” He even shrugged, which was big of him.

  “You didn’t pass on the message I gave you?”

  “Not until…”

  “Until you dropped in at my studio to nick the extra painting.” I’d already guessed.

  “Even though you knew it was the price of saving Marilyn? Is she another casualty?”

  He moved an arm a fraction and a knife slipped into his hand. I really wished I could do that. “No more talk, Lovejoy.”

  He stepped at me. Leung shot him. He seemed to give a shudder as if clouted. Blood came from his mouth as Leung shot him a second tim
e. I heard myself going “Argh, argh,” in fright at the deafening gunfire, backing away from the appalling sight of Steerforth, handsome elegant Steerforth, scrabbling wide-eyed on hands and knees in blooded sand.

  Ong touched my arm. I leapt, screeched in terror. He only stood there, grinning.

  “Come,” he said. I followed, warily eyeing Leung in case it was a ruse. As if he’d need one.

  The beach was empty, except for a huge mound where Fatty had once stood. The mound was him. Blood was welling beneath a sheet of flies on his face. A dinghy was already approaching the yacht, Dr. Chao incongruous beneath a sunshade in the stern while sailors rowed. Sun Sen and a matelot waited by the second boat.

  “Excuse me a sec.” I retched and retched until my vision blurred and I fell down.

  “Hurry, Lovejoy. Boat leaving.” Leung shed sunflower husks. Ong climbed aboard.

  Me too? “What about this frigging carnage?”

  “Enemies, bam-bam.” They were only waste.

  We got into the dinghy and were rowed to the yacht. By the time I had stopped trembling we were rounding into Lamma Channel. Dr. Chao invited me to tea with Ling Ling “and a special friend” in the dining cabin. I declined.

  38

  « ^

  WHERE are you going, Lovejoy?” She was sitting upright in bed. I’d got halfway to the door.

  “Oh. Hello, love. Trying not to wake you.” I smiled my sincerest, inventing. “Er, just down to the lobby shops.”

  “You’re not going to that Digga Dig? Because those bitches are up against a real American woman right here, and—”

  “Didn’t I promise?” I waxed indignant. “I’ve ordered a little present in reception for you, Lorna.”

  “Oh, darling. How sweet you are.” She beckoned, clutched me. “From now on just you remember it’s us two, capeesh? Once I clinch the merger for Brookers Gelman, I’ll be here permanently.”

  “Great, love.” We’d already gone through this tiresome tirade but she was still misty.

  “And you’ll be advisory consultant, darling.”

  “Great, darling.” I declutched and headed for the door.

  “Lovejoy. Where is Steerforth? Only, Mame’s—”

  “Dunno, love. I’ll ask if there’s a message.”

  And escaped thankfully. Where do women get their determination?

  The Digga Dig was warming up for the evening. This was the first time I’d called since the terrible business three days ago. Chok and the other waiters were pleased to see me. Fourteen letters, three cables, and six presents had arrived for me. Nobody mentioned Steerforth’s mail. He’d vanished, and Hong Kong determinedly took no notice. I opened the missives, forgot the presents. Sundry Carmens, Olgas, Lavinias, and Marias made impassioned offers. From dates given, some troublers were already here. And, most ominous of all, a speculative note from Janie, of all people, saying she’d had a private detective trace me to the Digga Dig. She was at the Hilton. Gulp.

  One bird from America included an air ticket to New York. I cheered up. Maybe they’d cash it for me, a rebate? I borrowed some notepaper, and scribbled the same sad message to each of the women threatening arrival. I put, “Dearest, I’m so sorry that I can’t see you right now, only I’ve fallen on hard times and I’m too ashamed. Perhaps in another few weeks, if you are still around… ? Love and cheers, Lovejoy.” It sounded just right, because women never want a penniless bloke.

  Avoiding the temptation to see what had happened at Steerforth’s flat, I crossed to the Hong Kong side and lazily caught the tram, walking left and up Cleverly Street to my studio.

  It was like old times. The panel where I’d concealed my killer copy had been invisibly repaired. The studio would need a good going over before it could be used again as a faker’s studio, of course. I locked up and walked into the Mologai, up towards Hollywood Road, with Cat Street on my right. The message had said six o’clock, plenty of time, so I paused and had a bowl of rice and vegetables between the jade stall and the phony coinmonger. I didn’t know how long this meeting with the ultimate boss would take and I get famished easily. A silent foki followed me, but I’d crashed the terror barrier.

  Sixish, I was sitting on the curb by the temple. Traffic was diminishing. The old opium smokers were emerging opposite for the evening cool, sucking on their gigantic bamboo stems.

  Listening, I heard him coming, his little poles going clack-clack above that familiar trundle.

  “Wotcher, Titch,” I said, sarcastic. “All right for money?”

  “Evening, Lovejoy.”

  He did his braking trick, sparks flying from the wheels. “Are you?”

  “Don’t you ever get out of breath, getting about like that?” I was curious.

  “Good heavens, no. Second nature. We lepers adapt.”

  “Aye. You manage all right, Titch.” I hesitated. “One thing. No offense intended with the nickname—”

  “Please. I like it. Local color’s the best protection.”

  “That why you don’t go about in a specially adapted Rolls?”

  “Something like that.” He gave me quite a shy glance. “Sorry about Steerforth, but when he tried lifting that extra painting, obviously for his own gain, he deserved punishment. Of course the place was watched.” He anticipated my question and gave a lopsided shrug. “I ordered Dr. Chao to promise him immunity from harm if he divulged your message. He was then ordered to execute you. He’d done that sort of thing before for us.”

  “Immunity? But your people topped him.”

  “We lied to him, Lovejoy,” Titch said calmly. “One small point: How did you know Fatty had exceeded his permitted squeeze?”

  “He killed Johny Chen for a trivial purchase Johny made at my request.”

  “Ah. He reported that it was because Chen withheld commission.” He gave his uneven grin. “You were lucky, Lovejoy. Did you really plan it all as it came out?”

  “No. But I made an offering to Kuan Ti like you said.”

  He was delighted and laughed so much he started rolling off the pavement and I had to stop him. He sobered. “You’ve placed a few strange orders yourself, Lovejoy.” So he’d heard; inevitable.

  “Only one, really. At a paper shop I once passed, Kowloon side.”

  He sniffed censoriously. “They’re very expensive, Lovejoy. Cheaper nearer Boundary Street. Sim’d have got you a special price.”

  “Will it matter if I don’t know her parents’ names?”

  “I’ll see you get their parents’ full written names. You’ve ordered it for tonight, I believe.”

  “Yes.” I thought a second. “Their parents? Plural?”

  “Marilyn and Ling Ling are half-sisters, of course.”

  “The parents kept Marilyn?”

  “Yes. But exposed the next girl baby on the hillside to die. It happened a lot in those days, Lovejoy. Still does, one form or another.”

  “And you happened along.” I eyed him. “Good of you, seeing you have your own difficulties.”

  “She was all I had,” Titch said simply. “I’d just learned I was a leper. I went up to the mountain to… to do I don’t know what. I was actually there, alone and freezing on the summit, when the flakes came. I must be the only indigenous to’ve been snowed on here.”

  “Then you found Ling Ling?”

  “She was one of two. I picked her up. She was perfect even then. Can you imagine? Me a leper, my corruption diagnosed that day probably at the exact time that perfect child was born? Like a sick joke. I only took her from, what, curiosity. Maybe to lessen my horror. I paid an amah to look after her. I became like her father. When she showed as she truly was, she was six years old. By then I was working for the Triad, one of a flock of messengers, street people. Naturally Ling Ling received everything from then on.

  Genius, gifted, perfectly beautiful. She became full jade at fifteen, the earliest ever since ancient times. Her brilliance in commerce brought great luck to the Triad.”

  “Clover ever after,
eh? And you the boss?”

  “One boss, Lovejoy.” He seemed to blush. “I went to school, a private pupil, late-evening classes on my own at one of the great schools. Kennedy Road. I’ve a degree now.”

  “Why can’t you… ?”

  “Become a superman?” He held out his arms in display. “Once it’s advanced, it’s basically a repair job. The leper island hospital at Hey Ling Chau did its best, but I am as I am. Did you know I’m not really infectious?” His bowl of food.

  “No, but you’ve an honest face. Which brings me to Marilyn.”

  He gave his grating laugh. “Marilyn? Once Ling Ling became influential in the Triad, I had them take on Marilyn. I’d found all the relatives by then. Ling Ling could never come to terms with being literally cast out—though her parents were bone poor.”

  I’d guessed all that from the day at Stanley. “Where is she, Titch?”

  “Didn’t you worm it out of Lorna, Lovejoy?” He was honestly surprised. “She’s temporarily with Brookers Gelman, New York.”

  “Safe?”

  “Certainly. She sends her love, Lovejoy.” He watched while I worked something out, then shook his head. “No. Sorry, but you can’t take up the Brookers Gelman offer of local rep.”

  “I haven’t said anything of the kind!” I said indignantly, shifting my feet so a hawker’s barrow could get past.

  “Of course not,” Titch said politely. “But you shall be the consultant for each Song Ping painting manufactured by us. You’ll authenticate it. Your pay will be freedom.”

  “I can go?” Penniless, inevitably.

  “You must, and soon. We’ll be in touch, Lovejoy. About once a year.”

  I stood. These moments always embarrass.

  “Here, Titch. How does it feel being a taipan, guv’nor of… well, practically everything?”

  He said after a moment, “Second-best, Lovejoy. To any healthy layabout.”