He shat then, with the private pleasure of it. He was starting to smell Chinese to himself. Happened on every trip to the East.
And then, as he finished, he heard the old attendant greeting another man in Cantonese.
"Evening, sir."
"Yes."
The stall door next to Charlie's opened, shut, was locked. The man was breathing as if he had hurried. Then came the sound of pants being unbuckled, some loud coughing, an oddly tiny splash, and the muffled silky sound of the man slumping heavily against the wall he shared with Charlie.
"Sir?" The attendant knocked on Charlie's door. "You open door? Open door?"
Charlie buckled his pants and slid the lock free. The old man's face loomed close, eyes large, breath stinking.
"Not me!" Charlie said. "The next one!"
"No have key! No have key! Climb!" The old attendant pointed to the top of the wall between the stalls, pushed past Charlie, stepped up on the toilet seat, and stretched high against the glassy marble. His bony hands pawed the stone uselessly. Now the man in the adjacent stall was moaning in Chinese, begging for help. Charlie pulled the attendant down and stood on the toilet seat himself. With his arms outstretched he could reach the top of the wall, and he sucked in a breath and hoisted himself. God, how his arms had gotten weaker. Grimacing, he pulled himself up high enough so that his nose touched the top edge of the wall. But before being able to look over, he fell back.
"Go!" he ordered the attendant. "Get help, get a key!"
The man in the stall groaned, his respiration a song of pain. Charlie threw his jacket to the floor and stepped up on the seat again, this time jumping exactly at the moment he pulled with his arms, using the ancient knowledge of a boy, and then yes, one and two, he was up, right up there, hooking one leg over the wall, his head just high enough to peer down and see Sir Henry Lai slumped on the floor, his face a rictus of purpled flesh, his pants around his ankles, a piss stain spreading across his silk boxers. His hands clutched weakly at his tie, the veins of his neck swollen like blue pencils. His eyes, not squeezed shut but open, stared up at the underside of the spotless toilet bowl, into which, Charlie could see from above, a small silver pillbox had fallen, top open, the white pills inside of it already scattered and sunk in the water—scattered and sunk and melting away.
"Hang on, guy," breathed Charlie. "They're coming. Hang on." He tried to pull himself through the opening between the wall and ceiling, but it was no good; he could get his head through but not his shoulders or torso. Now Sir Henry Lai coughed rhythmically, as if uttering some last strange code—"Haa-cah . . . Haaa!-cah . . . Haaa! Haaa!"—and convulsed, his eyes peering in pained wonderment straight into Charlie's, then widening as his mouth filled with a reddish soup of undigested shrimp and pigeon and turtle that surged up over his lips and ran down both of his cheeks before draining back into his windpipe. He was too far gone to cough the vomit out of his lungs, and the tension in his hands eased—he was dying of a heart attack and asphyxiation at the same moment.
The attendant hurried back in with two waiters and Sir Henry's bodyguard. They pounded on the stall door with something, cracking the marble. The beautiful veined stone broke away in pieces, some falling on Sir Henry Lai's shoes. Charlie looked back at his face. Henry Lai was dead.
The men stepped into the stall and Charlie knew he was of no further use. He dropped back to the floor, picked up his jacket, and walked out of the men's restroom, expecting a commotion outside. A waiter sailed past with a tray of salmon roses; the assembled businessmen didn't know what had happened.
Mr. Ming watched him enter.
"I must leave you," Charlie said graciously. "I'm very sorry."
Mr. Ming rose to shake hands.
"My daughter is due to call me tonight with important news."
"Good news, I trust."
The only news bankers liked. "Perhaps. She's going to tell me if she is pregnant."
"I hope you are blessed." Mr. Ming smiled, teeth white as Ellie's estrogen pills.
Charlie nodded warmly. "We're going to build a terrific factory, too. Should be on-line by the end of the year."
"We are scheduled for lunch in about two weeks in New York?"
"Absolutely," said Charlie. Every minute now was important.
Mr. Ming bent closer, his voice softening. "And you will tell me then about the quad-port transformer you are developing?"
His secret new datacom switch, which would smoke the competition? No. "Yes." Charlie crinkled his face into a mask of agreeability. "Sure deal."
"Excellent," pronounced Mr. Ming. "Have a good flight."
The stairs to the lobby spiraled along backlit cabinets of jade dragons and coral boats and who cared what else. He hurried past Tiffany glasswork and mahogany paneling. Don't run, Charlie told himself, don't appear to be in a hurry. But he was holding his coat-check ticket before he hit the last step. In London, seven hours behind Hong Kong, the stock market was still open. He pointed to his coat for the attendant and then, after dropping thirteen floors in the club's elevator, nodded at the first taxi waiting outside. The back door opened mechanically, and he jumped in.
"FCC."
"Foreign Correspondents' Club?"
"Right away."
It was the only place open at night in Hong Kong where he knew he could get access to a Bloomberg box—that magical electronic screen that displayed every stock and bond price in every market around the globe. He pulled out his cell phone and called his broker in London. He kept his trading account there so that he could straddle the Asian, European, and American markets.
"Jane, this is Charlie Ravich," he said when she answered. "I want to set up a huge put play. Drop everything."
"This is not like you."
"This is not like anything. Sell all my Microsoft now at the market price, sell all the Ford, the Merck, all the Lucent, all the Wal-Mart and Deutsche Telekom. Market orders all of them. Please, right now, before London closes."
"All right. Now, for the tape, you are requesting we sell eight thousand shares of—"
"Yes, yes, I agree," he blurted, for the purposes of the automatic recording device. "Just hurry."
Jane was off for a moment, getting another broker to carry out the orders. "Zoom-de-doom," she said when she returned. "Let it rip."
"This is going to add up to about one-point-oh-seven million," he said. "I'm buying puts on Gaming Technologies, the gambling company. It's American but trades in London."
"Yes." Now her voice held interest. "Yes."
"How many puts of GT can I buy with that?"
She was shouting orders to her clerks. "Wait . . ." she said. "Yes? Very good. I have your account on my screen. All those stocks are going to cash. We're filling those at the market, waiting for the—yes. The sells are showing up . . ." He heard keys clicking. "We have . . . one million seventy thousand, U.S., plus change. Now then, Gaming Technologies is selling at sixty-six even a share—"
"Is the price dropping?"
"No, no, it's up an eighth last trade, two minutes ago, in fact."
"How many puts can I buy with one-point-oh-seven?"
"Oh, I would say a huge number, Charlie."
"How many?"
"About . . . one-point-six million shares."
"That's huge, all right." A put was the option to sell a stock at a certain price by a certain time. Because the cost of each put was a fraction of the share price, a small amount of money could leverage a huge sum.
"You want to protect that bet?" Jane asked.
"No. The stock is going down."
"If you say so."
"Buy the puts, Jane."
"I am, Charlie, please. The price is stable. Yes, take this one . . ." she was saying to a clerk. "Give me puts on GT at market, immediately. Yes. Hang on, Charlie. One-point-six million at the money. Yes. At the money. I'm giving my authorization."
The line was silent a moment. He had just spent more than a million dollars on the right to sell 1.6 mill
ion shares of GT at $66 a share.
"You sure, Charlie?"
"This is a bullet to the moon, Jane."
"Biggest bet of your life, Charlie?"
"Oh, Jane, not even close."
Outside his cab a silky red Rolls glided past, its license plate indicating it was owned by an officer of the People's Liberation Army. Hong Kong was like that now, the PLA—vulgar and dangerous and clever—getting rich, forcing corruption through the pipes. "Got it?" he asked.
"Not quite. You going to tell me the play, Charlie?"
"When it goes through, Jane."
"We'll get the order back in a minute or two."
Die on the shitter, Charlie thought. Could happen to anyone. Happened to Elvis Presley, matter of fact.
"Charlie?"
"Yes."
"We have your puts. One-point-six million, GT, at the price of sixty-six." He heard the keys clicking. "Now tell me?" Jane pleaded.
"I will," Charlie said. "Just give me the verbal confirmation for the tape."
While she repeated the price and the volume of the order, he looked out the window to see how close the taxi was to the FCC. He'd first visited the club while on leave in 1970, when it was full of drunken television and newspaper journalists, CIA people, Army intelligence, retired British admirals who had gone native and were no longer welcome in their own clubs, crazy Texans provisioning the war, and just about every other expat lonesome for conversation; since then, the rest of Hong Kong had been built up and torn down and built up all over again, but the FCC still stood, tucked away on a side street.
"I just want to get my times right," Charlie told Jane when she was done. "It's now a few minutes after 9:00 p.m. on Tuesday in Hong Kong. What time are you in London?"
"Just after 2:00 p.m."
"London markets are open about an hour more?"
"Yes," Jane said.
"New York starts trading in half an hour."
"Yes."
"I'll be able to watch the market from here, Jane."
"Yes."
"But I need you to stay in your office and handle New York for me."
She sighed. "I'm due to pick up my son from school."
"Need a car, a new car?"
"Everybody needs a new car."
"Just stay there a few more hours, Jane. You can pick out a Mercedes tomorrow morning and charge it to my account."
"You're a charmer, Charlie."
"I'm serious. Charge my account."
"Okay, will you please tell me?"
Of course he would, not only so that she could score a bit of the action herself, but because he needed to get the news moving. "Sir Henry Lai just died. Maybe fifteen minutes ago."
"Sir Henry Lai . . ."
"The Macao gambling billionaire who was in deep talks with GT—"
"Yes! Yes!" Jane cried. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"It's not just a rumor?"
"Jane. This is Charlie you're talking to."
"How do you know?"
"Jane, you don't trust old Charlie Ravich?"
"Please, Charlie, there's still time for me to make a play here!"
"I saw it with my own—"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
"—eyes, Jane. Right there in front of me."
"It's dropping! Oh! Down to sixty-four," she cried miserably. "There it goes! There go ninety thousand shares! Somebody else got the word out! Sixty-three and a—Charlie, oh Jesus, you beat it by maybe a minute."
He told her he'd call again shortly and stepped out of the cab, careful with his back, and walked into the club, a place so informal that the clerk just gave him a nod; people strode in all day long to have drinks in the main bar, a square room with many of the famous black-and-white AP and UPI photos of Asia: Mao in Beijing, the naked little Vietnamese girl running toward the camera, her village napalmed behind her, the sitting Buddhist monk burning himself to death in protest, Nixon at the Great Wall. Inside sat several dozen men and women drinking and smoking, many of them American and British journalists, others small-time local businessmen who long ago had slid into alcoholism, burned out, boiled over, or given up.
He ordered a whiskey and sat down in front of the Bloomberg box, fiddling with it until he found the correct menu for real-time London equities. He was up millions and the New York Stock Exchange had not even opened yet. What do you know about war, Mr. Ravich? Please, tell me. I am curious. Ha! The big American shareholders of GT, or, more particularly, their analysts and advisers and market watchers, most of them punks in their thirties, were still tying their shoes and kissing the mirror and reading The New York Times and soon—very soon!—they'd be buying coffee at the Korean deli and saying hello to the receptionist at the front desk and sitting down at their screens. Minutes away! When they found out that Sir Henry Lai had collapsed and died in the China Club in Hong Kong at 8:45 p.m. Hong Kong time, they would assume, Charlie hoped, that because Lai ran an Asian-style, family-owned corporation, and because as its patriarch he dominated its governance, any possible deal with GT was off, indefinitely. They would then reconsider the price of GT, still absurdly stratospheric even after its ride down in London, and they would dump it fast.
Maybe it would go that way. He ordered another drink, then called Jane.
"GT is down almost five points," she told him. "New York is about to open."
"But I don't see panic yet. Where's the volume selling?"
"You're not going to see it here, not with New York opening. People may think New York will buy before they know the news. I'll be sitting right here."
"Excellent, Jane. Thank you."
"No, thank you."
"Oh?"
"I got in with my own account at sixty-four and out at sixty-one, so I made a nice sum this afternoon, Charlie."
"Why didn't you hold?" he asked. "I think it's going down further."
"Maybe I don't have your guts."
"Jane. Jane. You think old man Charlie is going over the edge—I can hear it in your voice."
"Not at all. Call me when you're ready to close out the play."
He hung up, looked into the screen. The real-time price of GT was hovering at fifty-nine dollars a share. No notice had moved over the information services yet. Not Bloomberg, not Reuters.
He went back to the bar, pushed his way past a couple of journalists.
"Another?" the bartender asked, perhaps noticing the scar on Charlie's hand.
"Yes, sir. A double," he answered loudly. "I just got very bad news."
"Sorry to hear that." The bartender did not look up.
"Yes." Charlie nodded solemnly. "Sir Henry Lai died tonight, massive heart attack at the China Club. A terrible thing." He slid one hundred Hong Kong dollars across the bar. Several of the journalists peered at him.
"Pardon me," asked one, a tall Englishman with a riot of red hair. "Did I hear you say Sir Henry Lai has died?"
Charlie nodded. "Not an hour ago. Terrible thing to witness. I just happened to be standing there, at the China Club." He tasted his drink. "Please excuse me."
He returned to the Bloomberg screen. The Englishman, he noticed, had slipped away to a pay phone in the corner. The New York Stock Exchange, casino to the world, had been open a minute. He waited. Three, four, five minutes. And then, finally, came what he'd been waiting for, Sir Henry Lai's epitaph: GT's price began shrinking as its volume exploded—half a million shares, price fifty-eight, fifty-six, two million shares, fifty-five and a half. He watched. Four million shares now. The stock would bottom and bounce. He'd wait until the volume slowed. At fifty-five and a quarter he pulled his phone out of his pocket, called Jane, and executed the option to sell at sixty-six. At fifty-five and seven-eighths he bought the same number of shares he'd optioned, for a profit of a bit more than ten dollars a share. Major money. Sixteen million before taxes. Big money. Real money. Elvis money.
The whiskey was finding its way around his brain, and now he was prepared to say that soon he would be drunk.
IT WAS ALMOST ELEVEN when he arrived back at his hotel, which loomed brightly above him, a tinkle of music and voices floating out into the gauzy fog from the open-air swimming pool on the fourteenth floor. The Sikh doorman, a vestige from the days of the British Empire, nodded a greeting. Inside the immense lobby a piano player pushed along a little tune that made Charlie feel mournful, and he sat down in one of the deep chairs that faced the harbor. So much ship traffic, hundreds of barges and junks and freighters and, farther out, the supertankers. To the east sprawled the new airport—they had filled in the ocean there, hiring half of all the world's deep-water dredging equipment to do it. History in all this. He was looking at ships moving across the dark waters, but he might as well be looking at the twenty-first century itself, looking at his own countrymen who could not find factory jobs. The poor fucks had no idea what was coming at them, not a clue. China was a juggernaut, an immense, seething mass. It was building aircraft carriers, it was buying Taiwan. It shrugged off turmoil in Western stock markets. Currency fluctuations, inflation, deflation, volatility—none of these things compared to the fact that China had eight hundred and fifty million people under the age of thirty-five. They wanted everything Americans now took for granted, including the right to piss on the shoes of any other country in the world. The Chinese could actually get things done, too; they were rewiring with fiber-optic cable, they were tearing down Shanghai, a city of fourteen million, and rebuilding it from scratch. The central government had committed a trillion dollars to the effort, bulldozing any neighborhood deemed standing in the way of progress. If you didn't like it, and announced as much, the Chinese tied you spread-eagle to a door for a month or so. With a hole to shit through. They knew America didn't care—not really. There was too much money to be made—he could see that right now, the boats on their way north, the slide of time.
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