The Dragon's Tale: A Jack Lauder Thriller (10 page)

     Graham Witherspoon was another rave from the grave. The tough looking Australian was exactly as Jack remembered him - medium height, brown, crinkly hair, almost ginger. He had thick spectacles and skin tanned like kangaroo hide.  "How ya going mate, what brings you here?" The tones were dulcit Brisbane.

     Of all the people he’d known here, he remembered Graham as straight, someone you could rely on in a crisis. Now he looked round at the Headquarters of the Independent Commission Against Corruption and said, “Never figured you for a politico!"

     "Not much else you can be these days. You do as you’re told or you take the high road. The place just about belongs to the Chinese now. The Gwai Lo is on his bike, mate." He stretched out in his chair and lit a cigarette. "You still don't?" Jack shook his head. It wasn’t entirely true but it was ninety-nine per cent of the time. Graham fixed him with a friendly stare. "Bet you, you haven't come all the way over here to talk to me about my pension prospects. What are you here about?"

     “Don’t tell me you don’t know I got a visit? Two officers from your Commission? They landed at my place and interviewed me. All very secretive and very high-powered, but I imagine I don’t have to tell you that?"

     “Farago and Sullivan, you mean? I saw their report.” He grinned wryly, avoiding any answer as to the extent of his knowledge before the event. “Same old Jack!”

     "To be honest, I'm looking for Gerry Montrose, too." He watched his friend’s brow knit.  Why was it that whenever he mentioned Gerry's name it had that effect?

     "You and just about everybody's Aunt Sally, mate."

     "Well, I'd begun to appreciate that, including some pretty handy Chinese guys and, oh, not to mention your blokes. That at least is what they said they were after.”

     “And you doubt that?”

     “I doubt the reasons. They suggested they wanted to arrest him for corruption but they weren’t making much sense. I had the idea they wanted him for something he had, same as the other guys.”

     Graham smiled and pursed his lips, "There are those who think Monty's gone native, mate but you know what this place is like, it gets to you. The sun gets to you, the humidity gets to you, the night-life gets to you, the women get to you, most of all the money gets to you."  He winked conspiratorially. "Of course I knew officers from the Commission had interviewed you. I was surprised your name cropped up but we discovered Monty had borrowed money from you. There was another problem. The fact is there was a nasty smell at the end of the K.K. Chow trial. It fell flat on its face when the prosecution witnesses cocked. That's what caused the notoriety. 'Gang boss cleared in corruption scandal' is an even better headline in the Hong Kong Sun than 'Gang boss convicted'.”

     "Mr. Ma’s paper?”

     “Right in one.  Most of the baiting is fuelled by Ma. He’s got a real axe to grind against anyone connected with the colonial Government. Gerry nearly put him away you know and the word was he knew it was a fit up.”

     His old friend had obviously a shorter memory than Mr. Ma so Jack didn’t remind him of his involvement in that case. He’d heard the rumours but they arose from Gerry’s closeness to the cops involved - not strange when you prosecuted most of the high profile cases. "I heard all that but I still don't see how they could blame Gerry for the K.K. Chow case.  Maybe it was just a bad case?"

     "Yeah but there was a niggling doubt that Gerry had an inside track. Maybe it came from when Samson met Delilah?" He had another twinkle in his eye.

     "Delilah?"

     "Diana Lundy."

     "Oh, Diana! Ah well, now there might hang a tale."

     "And guess who she works for?"

     Jack looked at him askance and then he caught on: "Not K.K. Chow!”

     “Bull’s eye!”

     “You’re kidding me!” Deflated, Jack stuck doggedly to his point. “No way would Gerry get involved. He wouldn’t have the control. Only the solicitors would have that.”

     “He knew the risks when he took the case for Chow. The guy was the front for the Taiwan Mafia.” By the latter sobriquet Graham was referring to the group of wealthy businessmen who had seen the trouble coming and fled to Taiwan to escape, first of all, the Queen’s writ and, now, they wouldn’t be coming back in a hurry with the People‘s Republic almost in charge. In fact they’d be praying that the mainland and island republics didn’t decide suddenly to bury the hatchet, which was unlikely as the Taiwanese majority had been displaced by the Kuomintang cuckoos from the mainland. The invaders had quickly usurped the ruling order of the island and changed its official language to their own Mandarin. It was about as democratic a republic as the People’s on the mainland and now also the proposed SAR of Hong Kong. “But you see,” Graham went on, “Chow  has an agenda of his own quite apart from what he appears to be doing for the Taiwan faction. He’s got friends in the north.”

     “Really? I would have thought he’d have more to fear from the mainland than most, if they’re serious about crushing the Triads.”

     “It’s the crazy politics of these times. It’s not the same here any more. You’d think the Triads would be shitting themselves; you’d think they’d be keeping their heads down. But there are more and more factions now, with their tentacles spreading into Hong Kong, jockeying for an edge. Control of this little Kingdom is like getting the keys to Fort Knox on an army away day. Fill your boots! All the CCP men up north are gangsters and some of them are fighting over it.”

     Jack remained silent, digesting the information, not wanting to get side-tracked. “Do you have any idea where Gerry is now?”

     Graham shrugged, "He’s gone to ground. He was spending fortunes on the tables at Macao, and then he disappeared, in a puff of smoke. The rumour is he's in the Philippines."

     “I’d heard that.”

     “I heard you’d been asking around.”

     They chatted a little and then Jack rose to go, “I won’t keep you any longer, storm’s brewing.”

     “Yes, I think it may be moving away but they’ll leave the number three hoisted until they’re sure. It’ll probably come back. That’s the way it works, if you remember? Stay in touch. If you’re going to be here a few days, let’s do something.”

     As he took his leave of his old friend, it occurred to Jack that there was something about him which he couldn't quite put a finger on, a cynicism perhaps, a kind of attitude that nothing really mattered anymore. Perhaps he was facing up to the end of civilisation as he knew it. Soon he'd have to think about returning to Aussie, getting back into the rat race and earning a living. He hadn't been used to that for a while. Emerging from the express lift on the ground floor he was in time to see its neighbour, across the hall, filling up with people. He looked again because a couple who looked like the blond and the wealthy young Chinese guy from the airport were getting in. Was it Diana Lundy? He went and stood in front of it, letting her see it was him if she looked but the lift was too full. She was looking down at her mobile and half-hidden behind a couple of tall guys. The door closed. He watched the floors light up as the lift shot upwards. It went to the Commission floor and stopped. Curiouser and curiouser, he thought.

     Arriving back he called in the Captain’s Bar to slake his thirst and heard some Australians talking about how the storm had veered away from Hong Kong and was heading for Taiwan. “No guarantees it won’t turn back again,” one of them added, gazing morosely into the golden liquid in his glass. “That’s what happened last time, it just circled round and came back twice as strong.”

     “Glass half full, that’s your problem, mate,” the other said before he sank his drink in one quaff.

     Jack sipped easily, conscious of how the heat and humidity can seduce you into drinking too much for the good of your liver. Anyway, he had a date that night, which was an unexpected bonus. No way did he want to be three sheets to the wind when he met Amie. He just sat there and took stock of the weight Ma had taken off his shoulders. It justified the trip by itself and it had been much easier than he had dreamed. Too easy, it might be said. But no, let’s not go there, he thought.

CHAPTER 3

     She was as good as her word, appearing in the lobby on the dot of eight. "You look stunning." She flashed him a radiant smile, her almond eyes sparkling mischievously. She was wearing a Cheong-sam, the greatest of evening dresses, Kingfisher blue streaked with gold, the revealing split in the skirt at a modest height above the knee.  Her hair was tied back, only a fringe over her forehead.  Her face make-up was white against ruby red lipstick. “Would you like to eat here?” he asked her.

     “Not really. A bit too formal, I think, and too expensive.”

     “That’s my problem, not yours,” he laughed.

      “I’ll show you something of the town before we eat, if you want. The storm may come back so make hay while the sun shines, eh? A few things will have changed since you were last here, I reckon. But you are lucky in one sense. This is the month of festivals. Tin Hau, Cheung Chau, the birthday of Buddha and Tam Kung.”

     “Who’s Tam Kung?”

     “The fisher god, the male equivalent of Tin Hau if you like.” She laughed her delightful laugh as the tall Sikh commissionaire bowed to them and held the glass door open. Jack followed her out of the hotel and across into Statue Square; they walked up Pedder Street to Queens Road and then up the hill to Lan Kwai Fong, the L shaped street, which was the home nowadays of Hong Kong’s pricey western bars and the haunt of the young tigers of the financial markets. Amie wasn’t averse to a drink and the pub-crawl gathered hilarity.  “Are you hungry? I know a great restaurant up in Tung Lo Wan.”

     “I’ll show you something of the town before we eat, if you want. The storm may come back so make hay while the sun shines, eh? A few things will have changed since you were last here, I reckon. Mind you, today is not the most auspicious day in the Chinese calendar!”

     “Okay by me, and you’re right, the Mandarin is expensive. I can’t really afford those prices indefinitely. I’m going to have to get somewhere cheaper to stay if I don’t take care of the business quickly.”

     “Did you get in touch with Mr Ma?”

     “Oh yeah, I met him. I think he’s solved half the problem for me.”

     “He is a very influential man.” Then she seemed to think a moment. “Why not stay in Gerry’s place?” she added. “It’s empty.”

     “I’m not sure he’d approve of that.”

     “Nonsense, it’s exactly what he would want. He’d hate you spending fortunes at the Mandarin. I‘ve got a key. I‘ll let you have it.” He thought it best not to enquire why she had a key. She was the P.A after all. Besides there was too much going on all round to be side-tracked by thoughts which were none of his business but if what he was thinking was the reason then his old pal was a lucky man.

     They took one of the rattling old trams up Queens Road, through the red light district of Wanchai, until they came to Causeway Bay.  The streets bustled with life as they walked down the tram.  The only way to negotiate a Hong Kong tram is start walking to the front as soon as you get on at the back, and they did just that, until they disembarked at the rear of the Excelsior in Yee Woo Street, crossing over to the far side, through Jardine's Bazaar, where, jostling with a swarming crowd, they turned left. The steamy heat of Causeway Bay was as physical as a moving, sinewy body, a large almost visible python, uncoiling itself along the street. They crossed over by the Chinese Emporium towards the Central Market off Queens Road.  It buzzed with activity: coolies rushed here and there with barrows full of produce to replenish the market stalls; spicy aromas assaulted Jack’s nostrils as he admired the fish tanks outside the restaurants.  Live fish swam around aimlessly, the journey to the wok measurable in moments.  Eels, shrimps and prawns huddled together at the bottom of tanks to escape the predatory eyes of discerning diners. "My God, is that a tortoise?" Jack pointed at a creature hiding behind a rock in a dry tank.

     "Afraid so. Does it offend your European sensibilities?" 

     "I don't know, there's something pretty barbaric about the idea of choosing your food live."

     "Nonsense, that's just hypocrisy,” she admonished him but then she pointed. “There's something you'll have difficulty with.” They stopped at a fish stall and saw an astonishing sight. He worked in a fishing town and had reason to appreciate the skill and expertise of Tyneside fish filleters. They had nothing on the sight before his eyes: Cantonese fish filleters can scale, skin and fillet fish with such surgical precision that they remain alive for anyone wanting proof of the freshness.  There in front of him lay the evidence: live fish, laid out on a slab, stripped of cover, expertly filleted, their hearts still beating. Taken in by all this, fascinated by the colour, the smells and the sound, he turned and found his progress blocked by two guys who looked like wharf coolies. They sported stubbled chins and coolie jackets over frayed denim shorts.  Their legs and feet were bare except for flip-flops.  They wore greasepaint expertly made up into ghoulish masks. Jack laughed momentarily, thinking it all part of the festival, then one of them put a hand on his chest, pushing him backwards. He resisted, trying to stand his ground. Amie, a few metres ahead, hadn’t noticed and the crowd thinned alarmingly; people scurried by, heads down, pretending not to see.  The second male, done up like a grinning skull, stood behind the first in an exaggeration of the Kung Fu posture known as Two Tigers at the Ready.  The first man held out his other hand in the traditional gesture of the Hong Kong street beggar.  Just then Amie turned round to look for Jack and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tense like a cat about to spring. Trying to defuse the situation he held up his hands. "Okay!” He took out a one hundred dollar note. 

     The robber’s face broke into a twisted, sneering smile. "Mo!" He looked at his friend cockily then inclined his head towards Jack and took his hand from his chest. He reached for the bill.  "I'll take this too but you are dead man. I swear it in name of the Ngai.” Jack recognised the name. The
Ngai
faction of the 14K Triad was infamous for its viciousness. The robber grabbed the hundred dollar bill from his hand and pulled a chopping knife from his baggy shirt. The weapon flashed towards Jack. The only response was to close quickly. The flat of the knife caught Jack obliquely on the forearm. He poked the attacker in the eyes and made him stagger back. Then a flash of movement knocked him aside. Amie's bunched fist came down on the man’s elbow. Jack heard the crack as something broke. A scream rent the air. His accomplice adopted the Bow and Arrow position, slightly crouched, one foot in front of the other with heels aligned, fists pronated. He stalked around Amie who hadn't moved a muscle since dealing with the first attacker. Now her eyes followed the second attacker while his friend collapsed in a heap, howling with pain. The crowd formed a circle some metres from them.

     Whining noises came from the second attacker, then he struck, twisting his body and kicking with his heel. Amie knew exactly what was coming: this was a feint attack; the thug leapt through the air, leading with his shaved head. She deflected the feint; the thug’s head crashed into her fist, delivered a short distance with power. The man's neck snapped back. Reeling he hit the deck. Amie leaned over the first attacker, took the hundred dollar note out of his hand and returned it to Jack.   "Welcome to Hong Kong," she said. He was too flustered to reply. "You did the right thing to offer the hundred dollar, because it is red." She guided him by the arm through the amused crowd, laughing now at the attackers beaten by a mere slip of a girl. "Red is a lucky colour.  If you don't give it, they will take it.  If there is nothing else, they will take blood."

     "Shall we call the Police?"

     "No point. It's just another mugging. They are more and more commonplace nowadays. We are close to civil unrest as the handover approaches.  Those two will disappear into Bak Gok before the Police can do anything. Could you identify them again?” She pointed at the crowd.

     “No, not with that mask.”

     “Hmm. The mask was more typical of Yu-lan hui. I wondered about that. The festival of hungry ghosts when all the gates of hell open. It‘s too early in the year but there is so much crossover these days!”

     “Hungry ghosts? That sounds gruesome.”

     “There is a way of getting rid of them.”

     “How?” She just smiled enigmatically. “But I am not sure it was just a mugging. Why should he say I am a dead man?” he asked.

     “Bravado.”

     It was no use making a big issue of it; it wasn’t her fight and, besides, something else was nagging at him. “Was that all in a day’s work for a Hong Kong office girl?”

     She shrugged. “I can look after myself.”

     He laughed because that was the understatement of the century. They turned a corner and found themselves back in the mainstream of Causeway Bay, Amie acting as if nothing had occurred, this was the Orient. Jack was still shaking his head in bewilderment as he followed her through a shop selling provincial sweets and pastry cakes until, a few doors further on, she stopped outside a crowded restaurant.  The queue spilled out on to the street. "Man Fai," Jack said, reading the Romanised sign above the door.

     "The best Chiu Chau food in Hong Kong. Try the bo bo.” Out of respect for her, he feigned enthusiasm, although he’d lost his appetite.  A man in the restaurant recognised her and came out and they exchanged words in another dialect.  She introduced him and he shook hands with the man, who beamed with pleasure then led them through the queue to two seats at a long trestle table. Any doubts he’d entertained about eating disappeared as dish after dish of Chiu Chau cuisine appeared: squid with noodles; cuttlefish balls; octopus heads; all washed down with Chinese tea. He cemented the discussion about Gerry’s flat and, short of hers, which wasn’t on offer, it seemed to fit the bill. Eventually, full to the gills, they called for the bill. Hand in hand, a gesture which he interpreted as intended to provide him with reassurance for the recent past rather than hope for the future, they struggled past the mass of humanity until they found themselves on the streets looking for a taxi.  "Are you Chiu Chau then?" he asked. 

     "I'm a mixture of Szechuan, Chiu Chau, Shanghainese, and no doubt a good sprinkling of other things thrown in."

     "Pretty gorgeous mix," Jack said and his heart skipped a beat because the look she threw him didn’t speak immediately of disgust.

     A taxi arrived.  Amie gave directions to Western district.  She obviously had something in mind. They alighted on the waterfront and wandered through crowds of people dressed like dragons. There were lions and tigers in there too, all carrying Chinese lanterns. She led him down the gangplank of a junk. Two Chinese sailors dressed in traditional Chairman Mao type jackets and wearing
kuei
ghost masks helped them aboard.  "We're heading to the Da Miao at Joss House Bay. Forgive me, I wanted it to be a surprise.” He felt privileged standing there. All that time he’d spent in Hong Kong in his earlier years he’d never got inside Chinese society. No
Gwai lo
truly does. The Chinese are xenophobic. They may let foreigners partially under the skin, to preserve working relations, but that’s about as far as it goes.

     Meanwhile, the cumbersome vessel’s prehistoric sail was setting in the darkness and Jack felt the cooling wind from the South China Sea. It brought a wide grin to his face.
At Joss House Bay, the festival was in full swing:  armadas of junks, sampans, ferries, lighters and private launches, crossed the harbour, heading for the foreshore beneath the temple; the beating of tom toms filled the air; fire crackers exploded; a thousand gongs clanged; a dragon and a lion pranced on the shore.  Floats of paper altars laden with all the offerings of the Orient wound their way towards the temple, followed by worshippers carrying joss sticks as thick as an elephant's trunk.  Offerings of roasted piglet, rice, fruit and "hell" money floated by as the cavalcades of people streamed ashore from the junks and made their way up through the temple grounds. They crammed themselves into the prayer halls. The thin, yellow smoke of the joss sticks swirled above them, turning the air acrid and murky.

     “You know, I was thinking something odd about Gerry,” Jack said as they stepped ashore in a throng of party-goers.

      “What’s that?”

      “How come nobody has any idea what’s happened to him? It‘s like a conspiracy of silence.”

     “You think people know?”

     “It’s crossed my mind. Plum told me he's gone off to the Philippines, then someone else told me the same. But no detail. It’s all very vague as if everyone is feeding off the same rumour.”