Vulture Peak (16 page)

She agrees to meet me this evening in the Neptune II bar in Wanchai.

•  •  •

The bar is an underground cavern that seems to be a Filipina hangout as well as a pickup joint for freelancers. I order a beer and watch the Filipino band get ready on the stage and wait. I gave the maid—her name is Maria—my description. After the band has started into a perfect imitation of an old Bruce Springsteen number, a woman in her midtwenties sits down on the stool beside me. She is heavily made up. I think she comes here to make some extra money now and then.

“Hello, sir. I am Maria.”

I buy her a drink. She smiles and wriggles in a way that could be provocative, or not, depending on what I want. When I ask about the Twins, she asks about money. I pass a few notes in Hong Kong dollars under the counter. Then she starts to talk. It seems the Twins are notorious. They have to pay double the going rate for maids, and even then most quit after a month or so.

“The first thing that disturbs one is their fights, sir,” Maria says. “They are quite bloodcurdling. Quite often one will run after the other with a weapon, a knife or some heavy object, and the other will have to lock herself in a room until the danger is past. Many a time I was frightened for my life. Then one of the former maids told me they have both spent time in mental hospitals. They are quite insane, sir, in my opinion.”

“That’s why the maids always leave?”

“Not exactly, sir. There is a room, sir, which they keep shut for the first week of one’s engagement. Then when they have decided one is strong enough, they order one to clean it. I shudder when I think of it, sir.” She shudders. “It is the most terrifying experience of my life.” I wait for her to finish shuddering. “That room is full of human organs, sir.”

“Human organs?”

“Yes, sir. The organs are embalmed in bottles on shelves, just like in a hospital or laboratory. They appear to collect them.”

“They collect human organs?”

“Yes, sir. All with labels in Chinese characters. It is their hobby. They receive body parts and dissect them at home. They appear to be quite skilled. It would appear to be legal, however, otherwise they would not be so open about it. But that room is full of ghosts, sir. We Filipinas are quite sensitive to such matters. In my village in Oriental
Mindoro, there is a good deal of lore on the subject, so I know what I am talking about. Ghosts of those who have died violently and who are seeking a new bodily vehicle in which to express themselves. I have spoken to the other maids, all of whom agree with me on this point.”

“I heard they often get into trouble with the police.”

“That is quite a different matter, sir. It seems they are frequently short of funds and have recourse to fraudulent practices. However, they always seem to find the money in time to pay off the debt and avoid prosecution. In any case, they have
guanxi
, so they are able to get away with such things. That is all I can tell you. If you wish, I can ask some of the other maids to contact you. I am sure they will corroborate my evidence.”

I pass her some more notes under the counter and forget to ask what
guanxi
is.

The bar is warming up. Since we have been talking, a number of Chinese women with mainland accents have arrived, along with more Filipinas and quite a few Thais. Some middle-aged men have dropped in after work in their business suits. It’s almost like home. Maria seems to have a friendship with one of the men who looks like a British businessman and excuses herself. I watch the band get ready for their next number, which is vintage Beatles from
Abbey Road
. Then they play “California Dreaming” for the old folks before segueing into “Between the Moon and New York City,” then a couple of Cantopop numbers I’ve never heard before, each song reproduced perfectly to the point of being indistinguishable from the original. While I’m listening to the music, a Thai woman in her early twenties approaches me. As soon as she realizes I’m Thai, she gives up on the proposition, and we talk about Bangkok politics and the proposed extension to the Skytrain.

I must have been enjoying myself because more than two hours have passed. It’s about ten-thirty, and the bar has filled. There’s plenty of light groping going on, but it’s pretty tame compared to my mother’s bar; couples disappear up the stairs to the short-time hotels just the same, though. I also climb up the steps to street level, where I’m
immediately surrounded by four uniformed cops and an inspector, also in full uniform with resplendent stars and a shiny peaked cap. At about six foot, he is unusually tall for a local Chinese.

“Passport,” the inspector says. I give it to him. He examines it, then jerks his chin toward a police van parked down the street. “I’m afraid I must ask you to accompany us to the police station,” he says.

Now, DFR, a tip from a pro: the first thing you do when apprehended by police in a capitalist democracy, where everyone is equal under the law, is prove to them that you possess high monetary value and social status, whether you do or not. So when he gives me back my passport, I make a point of opening my wallet as if I keep it there, and allow the black Amex to fall out. I was afraid he might not know what it is, but this is Hong Kong and he is Chinese. He has instantly adapted his manner. Now we are walking together to the police van as if we are chums, and he gets in the back with me.

“It’s a little thing, probably won’t take up too much time,” he explains, sitting on the opposite bench. “Just that some busybody
gwaipaw
British woman complained that you were impersonating a Hong Kong police officer. Of course, she was just trying to be important and collect gossip at the same time. You weren’t, were you?”

“Of course not. If it’s that HiSo woman in the Jaguar you’re talking about, all I said was that I was a police officer, then when she asked more, I told her I was based in Bangkok.”

“Good,” he nods, “very good. Even if you’re lying your head off, which you probably are, there’s no way I can challenge that line of defense.” He removes his hat and puts a hand on his spiky black hair, as if he enjoys the feeling of bounce. (I understand: there is something irresistible about the feel of spiky Asian hair when it’s short. Whenever one of my mother’s girls goes that way, we like to bounce our hands up and down on it; it has the feel of a soft broom.) The van trundles toward a set of lights. “Anyway, I don’t really care if you were impersonating a police officer, I’m more interested in what you were doing with the Yip twins. So how about we do a deal? I’ll pretend to believe you are not here on police business, and you’ll pretend to believe I have a right to interrogate you about the Yips.”

“That’s what I call policing,” I say.

•  •  •

At the station Inspector Chan does not lead me to the cells or the interrogation rooms, although they all look pretty comfortable compared to District 8, but straight to his office. (Such luxury: air-conditioned to exactly twenty-four Celsius, and he has his own door that he shares with no one. That’s a tiger economy for you.) Chan hangs his hat on a hook so he can press a hand up and down on his spikes while he sits in his executive chair, opens his top drawer to fiddle with something, and stares at me. “You told the
gwaipaw
you were investigating a murder,” he says.

“No, I didn’t. I told her I was from the murder squad.”

“So you’re from the murder squad investigating tax evasion? Is that how Thai law works?”

“We already agreed I wasn’t investigating anything.” I stand up. “Where’s your voice recorder? In your top drawer, by any chance?”

He smiles, takes out a digital voice recorder from a drawer, and lays it on his desk. “Just testing. Turn it off yourself so you feel comfortable.”

I look at it for a moment as I sit down again. I say in a loud voice, “I am here in Hong Kong purely for private interest and have no professional purpose to pursue during my stay in the SAR of the People’s Republic of China,” then switch it off and give it back to him.

Now he’s laughing. “Streetwise, that’s for sure. Kind of third-world, though. You remind me of the sort of cops we had here under the British. They were so corrupt, everyone spent their entire working lives covering their backs. Had to—it was what the job was all about.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s all about
guanxi
—a different ballgame altogether.”

I’m about to ask what
guanxi
is, when he stands abruptly and starts to pace with his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be straight. I run the cops up on the peak, and one of my most important assignments is to keep an eye on the Yips.”

“They are trouble?”

“They’re gifted maniacs. Eccentrics of the old school, the kind of Chinese women the West doesn’t yet know much about. Ha! A lot of
gweilo
have this fantasy our women are all submissive slaves who would still have their feet bound if not for Western enlightenment. Anyone who thinks that way should meet the Yips.”

“Tell me.”

“No. You first.”

It may not seem it, DFR, but I’m in a tricky spot. Chan could easily find some excuse for locking me up and delaying my departure if I don’t play his game, but on the other hand it has occurred to me that everything I’ve done that involved the Yip sisters has been either illegal or highly eccentric. I’m playing for time when I say, “They like to gamble.”

Chan stops pacing and stares at me. “You don’t say.”

“I mean, they’ll gamble for astronomical stakes on anything, like a fly crawling up a window.”

“So would ninety percent of the population of this city. How d’you think we got so good at capitalism?” He is watching me with a slightly altered attitude. “They didn’t invite you to Monte Carlo by any chance?”

“Monte Carlo?”

“From your body language I think they did.”

“Did they invite you?”

“Yes, but unlike you, I didn’t go. You went, didn’t you?”

I’m fighting a blush. “It was part of an ongoing investigation I’m not at liberty to talk about.”

He extends an arm in order to point a finger directly at me and says, “Ha! You did. You went.
Ha, ha
, you fell for it. Now you’re pissed that you were not the only one.
Ha, ha
. They corrupted you in a heartbeat,
ha, ha
. Poor little Thai cop lives in a hovel and drives a clapped-out Toyota if he drives at all, dazzled by money and glamour—I’m assuming that black Amex is just on loan—from a wealthy superior perhaps who has a vested interest in the case? Now the Yips have you in the palms of their hands.
Ha, ha.
”

This guy sure knows how to irritate. I’ve never used soft-obnoxious as an interrogation technique myself, although I’ve heard of it. Just to spite him, I refuse to ask how many other men the Twins have taken to Monte Carlo over the years.

“D’you want to know how many other men have fallen for that?”

“No.”

“Liar. I’ll tell you. I keep records. You are the last of at least five we know about.”

“Were all the others Hong Kong cops?”

He frowns and sits in his chair, puts his feet up on the desk. “No.”

“But some were?”

“One.”

“Did he live in a hovel and drive a Toyota?”

Chan stares at me. I know what the stare means because I’ve used it so many times myself. It means that if I don’t tell him something useful, or at least a piece of gossip worth repeating, he’ll hold me for the night out of pure spite. “I’m on a special assignment,” I confess.

The phrase, hackneyed and overused though it is, seems to strike a chord in Chan. He raises his brows. “About time. That’s what I’ve been trying to get at since we picked you up.”

“But I mean, it’s a
Thai
special assignment.”

“Meaning? Don’t tell me, let me guess. Meaning illegal, not at all the sort of thing cops do, but something you have to do to lick the ass of your superior?” He waves a hand. “We study Thai police as an example of how not to do things. Now I’ve met you, I know why.”

I have to make a choice. On the one hand, I really want to get back to Bangkok; on the other, if I tell all, I risk getting snuffed by Vikorn. But I really want to get back to Bangkok. “It’s to do with organ trafficking,” I say.

To my surprise, Chan looks suddenly bored. “Really?”

“You know that’s what they do?”

“Sure, but they don’t do it in Hong Kong.” He has suddenly and totally lost interest—or is he faking? “How far have you got?”

“Nowhere yet—I’m at the beginning.”

“That’s why you’re here? Nothing else? No other dimensions to your investigation?”

“What ‘other dimensions’ could there be?”

“Not telling you.” Chan bites his thumbnail for a while. “D’you gamble?”

“Not at all.”

“Really? They say Thais are worse than Chinese. The milliondollar blackjack tables at Las Vegas are dominated by your people these days.”

“The Thais who play at Vegas all have Chinese blood. They’re Chiu Chow, from Swatow. They run the economy.”

Chan assesses me with his eyes. “And you? You’re half
gweilo
? A half-caste product of a GI on R&R from Vietnam and a Thai peasant?”

“The GI was a peasant too, from the Midwest. I have pure blood.”

The volatile Chan seems to have decided he likes me for saying that. As an interrogator myself, I can see he has made a decision of some sort. He has changed his tone and manner by about a hundred and eighty degrees and speaks almost gently when he nods at the map on his wall. It is of Hong Kong Island, Kowloon, the New Territories, and the various islands that make up the Hong Kong SAR. Now he stands to walk up to it and points at a giant island at least twice the size of Hong Kong.

“Lantao Island. Heard of it?”

“Isn’t that where the airport is located?”

“Correct. It’s where you landed. Personally, I find it mysterious the way Lantao Island has become important all over again, thanks to the airport.”

“Why, what was it important for before?”

“Opium storage. There were pontoons used as go-downs at all the western beaches—it’s closest to Macao and the Pearl River. They had square miles of pontoons where opium was stored. You see?”