Exploits (3 page)

The room filled up to overflowing with guards about ten seconds later. A couple of them even covered me with their pistols until they saw the emerald where it ought to be, and then they helped me put the glass cover back on. I explained that I was new on the job, and that I was just trying to clean up after myself because I had spilled some beer, and after telling me what a clumsy fool I was, they told me to pack up my gear and go home, that my services were no longer needed. They managed to get the alarm turned off just about the time I was climbing down the museum steps to the sidewalk in front of the building.

I went back to my room at the Luk Kwok Hotel, where I had a little chat with my Silent Partner, explaining to Him that while what I did may have seemed a criminal act on the surface of it, if He would examine the consequences carefully He would have to agree that it was for the best all the way around. Willie Wong was still going to capture Rupert Cornwall, so
he
would be happy; the museum would never know they weren't displaying the real Empire Emerald, so
they
would be happy; Cornwall was going to go to jail anyway, so at least he wouldn't be any
less
happy for not having the emerald in his possession for a couple of minutes. And me, I finally had sufficient capital to build the Tabernacle of Saint Luke, which I promised the Lord I would do just as soon as I spent a few years scouting out the territory for the very best location.

Everything went pretty smoothly the next day. First thing I did was stop by the laundry and drop off the uniform, so no one would notice it was missing and maybe start thinking about
why
it was missing. Then I scouted up some lunch that didn't smell of fish, and wandered the streets a bit, and at about two in the afternoon I walked over to the museum, lingered there for an hour or two, had a very public misunderstanding with a blonde Frenchwoman, and then headed back toward the Luk Kwok.

Along the way, I picked up some chewing gum and stuck a wad of it into my mouth. Then I stopped by a little gift shop, and while the proprietor was speaking to another customer, I stuck the Empire Emerald on the back of his radiator with the chewing gum. Since it was mid-summer, I knew he wasn't going to fiddle with the radiator for another few months, and I figured to be back for it within just a day or two. The very last thing I did was hide the cloth bag with the lump of coal inside the water tank behind the toilet once I returned to room in the Luk Kwok. Then I lay back on my bed, pulled out the Good Book, and whiled the night away reading about Solomon's more exotic dalliances.

The police showed up right on schedule, at a quarter after two in the morning, and hustled me off to jail. I kept protesting my innocence, the way I figured both Willie Wong and Rupert Cornwall would expect of me, and then, just after daybreak, a guard came and unlocked my cell. As far as I was concerned he could have waited another couple of hours, since I hadn't yet got around to converting Mei Sung again, but given the circumstances I didn't think it proper to protest, so I let him escort me to freedom, which turned out to be Wong's little cubbyhole.

“Good morning, Doctor Jones,” he said without getting up from his chair.

“Good morning, Brother Wong,” I said. “How'd it go last night?”

“Apprehend whole gang,” he said happily. “Rupert Cornwall in cell one flight up from yours.”

“That's great news, Brother Wong,” I said. “And did you get the emerald back?”

“Empire Emerald once again on display in Fung Ping Shan Museum.”

“I guess that closes the case.”

He nodded. “Cannot teach old dog new tricks.”

“Well, I'll sure remember that the next time I run into an old dog, Brother Wong,” I said. “I assume I'm free to go.”

“Farther you go, the better.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It best you leave Hong Kong,” said Wong. “Many friends and clients of Rupert Cornwall not very pleased with you.”

“A telling point,” I agreed. “Gimme just a couple of hours to get my gear together and I'll be off.”

“Thank you for help, Doctor Jones,” said Wong. “Knew you were right man for job.”

“My pleasure, Brother Wong,” I said.

Then I took my leave of him, went back to the Luk Kwok, and looked around to see if there was anything I wanted to take along with me. There were some old shirts and pants and socks and such, but since I was about to pick up the Empire Emerald on my way out of town, I decided that I really owed myself a new wardrobe, so I finally left empty-handed.

I moseyed over to the area where the gift shop was, did maybe an hour of serious window-shopping up and down the street for the benefit of anyone who might have been watching me, and finally entered the little store after I was sure I wasn't being observed.

“You are Lucifer Jones, are you not?” asked the proprietor the second I closed the door behind me.

“How did you know?” I asked. “I don't recall talking to you last night.”

“I was given your description by Inspector Wong,” he replied. “He left a note for you.”

He handed me a folded-up piece of paper, which I opened and read:

Dear Doctor Jones:
Had feeling all along you were perfect man for job. Had honorable Number Ten, Fourteen, Seventeen, and Twenty-Two sons observe you constantly since you left custody. Not only is Rupert Cornwall under arrest, but we now know weakness in museum security system, all thanks to you. Is old Chinese custom to exchange gifts. You will know where to look for yours.
Your humble servant,
Willie Wong,
Hong Kong Police
P.S. Money is root of all evil.

I threw the paper down on the counter and raced over to the radiator. I reached behind it, found my gum and the stone, and pulled it out: it was the same lump of coal Rupert Cornwall had given me two days ago.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Jones?” asked the storekeeper.

“Nothing I shouldn't have expected from trusting someone who ain't a decent, God-fearing Christian,” I said bitterly. “Give me a map, brother.”

“A map?” he repeated.

“This town's seen the last of me,” I said. “I'm heading to where a man of the cloth can convert souls in peace and quiet without being worried about getting flim-flammed by gangsters and detectives and the like.”

He pulled a map out from behind the counter. I looked at it for a minute and then, with four hundred and fifty pounds of Rupert Cornwall's money still in my pocket, I lit out across the mouth of the Pearl River for Macao, where I hoped to find a better class of sinner to listen to my preaching.

2. The Sin City Derby

Macau didn't smell a lot better than Hong Kong, and it wasn't no cleaner, but it offered more opportunities to an enterprising Christian gentleman like myself. In fact, it offered more opportunities to just about everybody, since it was where all the young Hong Kong bucks went to do their gambling and find their short-term ladyfriends.

I got off the ferry, trying to figure out what to do next, when a young blond guy pulling an empty rickshaw stopped in front of me.

“Howdy, brother,” I said. “Take me to wherever it is that the white folks stay when they're in town.”

“That'd be the Bela Vista Hotel,” he said in perfect American. “But you can do better at the Macau Inn, over on the Travesso de Padre Narciso.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, climbing into the seat. “Let ’er rip.”

“I can also get you into half a dozen high-class gambling clubs,” he said as he began pulling the rickshaw down the street. “And if you've got an interest in the ladies...”

“Well, mostly I'm here to raise money for my tabernacle,” I said. “But I gotta admit it makes more sense to go where the money is than where it ain't. And of course, part of my calling is to show wicked, painted Jezebels the power and the glory.”

He turned and grinned at me. “It sounds like you've got yourself a mighty interesting religion, Preacher,” he said. “I wouldn't mind joining up myself.”

“How'd a well-spoken young feller like you come to be in the rickshaw trade thousands of miles from church and home in the first place?” I asked him.

“It's a long story,” he said. “But the gist of it is that I hired on to work on an archeological dig in the Gobi Desert. Our boat docked in Hong Kong on a Saturday afternoon, and a bunch of us came over to the Sin City of Macau for one last fling before going out in the wilderness.”

“Makes sense,” I allowed.

“They told us to be back at sun-up on Monday, which was when the truck was leaving. I guess I overslept a little.”

“And they didn't wait for you?”

“I didn't get out of bed until half past Tuesday, and I figured they were all gone by then, so I looked around for some way to earn my passage back home. I thought I could be a croupier, or maybe a personal manager for some ladies of the evening, but all the good jobs were taken, and so I wound up pulling this goddamned rickshaw.”

He took a hard left turn, and suddenly I could see the Macau Inn straight ahead of us.

“Here we are, Preacher,” he said, sprinting the final fifty yards.

“Take it easy,” I said. “We ain't in no race.”

“Sorry,” he said, coming to a stop in front of the hotel. “Sometimes I pretend I'm still outrunning tacklers on the football field back in high school. It helps to pass the time.”

“You played football?”

“Sure did,” he answered. “And being an ex-halfback gives me an edge on the competition. If we see a single customer stepping off the ferry or out of a hotel, I always get there first.”

It was just about that instant that the Lord smote me right betwixt the eyes with a great big heavenly revelation.

“Are you telling me there ain't no coolie in town can match strides with you?” I said.

“Not a one,” he said. “I even had a couple of Big Ten scholarship offers—until they threw me off the team for a few minor infractions, that is.”

“What kind of infractions?”

“Oh ... Zelda, Thelma, Patti ... those kinds.”

“Brother,” I said. “How'd you like to get enough money for passage back to the good old U. S. of A. and have a little pocket money left over for an occasional infraction?”

“You've got a curious expression on your face, Preacher,” he said. “I can't quite tell if you're joking or not.”

“I never joke about money,” I said. “It's against the Third and Eighth Commandments. Come on inside and let's talk a little business.”

He pulled the rickshaw over to a side of the road and followed me into the Macau Inn. There was a great big fountain in the middle of the lobby, with about a dozen parrots dangling down from the ceiling in bamboo cages. There was a fat white man in a wrinkled suit and a fez talking to a couple of turbaned Indians in a corner, and an Englishman in tweeds was sitting on a leather chair, smoking a pipe and reading a copy of the
China Morning Post
. We walked past the check-in desk and turned left at the restaurant, which was just about empty, it being the middle of the afternoon.

“Have a seat,” I said, escorting my rickshaw driver to a small table.

“Don't mind if I do,” he replied.

“By the way, Brother, I didn't catch your name.”

“Harvey,” he said, reaching out and shaking my hand. “Harvey Edwards, and before we discuss any further business, you still owe me for the ride.”

“How much?”

“Tell you what,” he said. “Buy me a couple of beers and we'll call it square.”

“I can't do that, Brother Harvey,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a couple of coins. “This ought to cover what I owe you.”

“You got something against beer, Preacher?” he asked.

“Not a thing,” I answered. “Nothing slakes the thirst like a cold beer.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“
I
ain't got no problem, Brother Harvey,” I said. “But
you
—you're in training.”

“For what?”

“The rickshaw races.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about? There
ain't
any rickshaw races in Macau.”

I grinned at him. “Yet,” I said.

Suddenly his eyes lit up like little candles. “Oh?”

“Brother Harvey, I been mulling on it, and I can't see no reason why I should risk the Lord's money playing fan-tan and other games of chance with these local sharks when we can invite ’em into
our
pool.”

“You know,” said Harvey with a great big smile, “I can't think of any reason either.”

“Good!” I said. “Then we're in business.”

“Fifty-fifty,” he replied.

I shook my head. “One-third for you, one third-for me, and one-third for the Lord, which is only fair, since He's putting up the money.”

“He ain't doing the running, though,” said Harvey adamantly.

Well, we hemmed and we hawed and we haggled, and what it finally came down to was that Harvey and I would split the first ten thousand pounds we made down the middle, and the Lord got Himself a twenty percent option on the rest, provided He produced fair weather and a fast track. That settled, we indulged in a couple of grilled Macau pigeons, and then I started asking him where we were likely to find the biggest plungers.

“No question about it,” he said. “They're all at the Central Hotel.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You're about the first person I've run across who hasn't,” said Harvey. “It's the biggest building in town, even if it
is
only nine stories tall. You can see it from just about anywhere.”

“Maybe I ought to rent a room there instead of here,” I suggested.

He laughed at that. “They'll be charging you rent every twenty minutes, Preacher,” he said. “It ain't exactly your run-of-the-mill hotel.”

Which was an understatement if ever there was one.

We waited til the sun went down and then made our way over to the Central Hotel, which despite its name wasn't a hotel at all. We walked in the main entrance, and found ourselves on the ground floor, which was crawling with coolies. There were small-stakes games of roulette and baccarat and fan-tan going on everywhere, and the girls were just about all in need of a little soap and water and a good dentist.