Jade Woman

25

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THAT same night Hong Kong taught me another lesson. It’s called a typhoon. Dai Fung, big wind. Believe me, it is all of that.

Steerforth wasn’t quite his usual self when we met by the Yaumatei Ferry. He looked hung over, lacking in zest. He started nervously when some children larked about with a ball.

“You okay, Steerforth?”

He gave me a bloodshot gaze. “Course. You? With all your high connections?”

So that was it. “Look. I didn’t ask to work for the Triad. You pay them squeeze too, mate. People who live in glass houses.”

“I’m warning you, Lovejoy. You’re in too deep.” He lit a cigarette and stared out over the silent harbor. The water was uncannily still, the oily glisten unspoiled by wakes. “If you cross the Triad, they’ll top me too.”

I examined him, curious. Normally he raised his game. Waiting for clients he’d be casual, at ease. When they appeared he was instant camp, loud, outrageous. “Surely you’re not at risk? There must be some way out for a bloke like you. With all your pals, tour operators, guides, women.”

“Not a chance, Lovejoy. Unless I bought myself out.” I shifted an inch or two along the rail. His exhaled smoke clouded him. “You don’t understand, Lovejoy.” He was in a morose mood. “My prospects were nil, umpteen deadbeat years, then a pension.

Suddenly it was the high life. Okay, a different woman every evening. All shapes, all ages. But wealthy enough to pay.” He coughed a bubbly reverberation that wafted a tunnel in his smoke. “Call it penny-shagging, the gigolo game, prostitution. Millions do.

But my clients lap me up, treat me like a king. There’s a waiting list for me, know that?

I’m top dog on all the dick brokers’ lists at the sea terminals. Champ at the fame game, me.”

“So what’s the problem, champ?”

He did his bloodshot inspection. “You, Lovejoy. You’re rocking the boat— my boat. I’ve enough to buy myself out. Another two years and I can retire. Then I’ll fix on one or two clients. Deep purses. Buy a villa somewhere, leave Hong Kong.”

“That’s your problem, eternal luxury?”

“Yes, if you ball it up, Lovejoy.” He looked away. “I’m not young anymore. Oh, I make up for it. Old bull and the young bull, y’know? I’m a smoothie, wine lists, waiters. I’m discreet. I can sus a client with a glance, know exactly what she wants. Satisfaction guaranteed. The things I’ve done’d turn your hair. Steerforth the magician.”

A sampan nudged along below the rail, the only vessel moving in the world. The ferries had all stopped running.

“Age fucks you up, Lovejoy. Some days I’m just so frigging tired. Laughter lines don’t vanish overnight. My jokes sound repetitive. Last night I’d have given anything just to sleep. Instead, it’s whoopee until four in the morning.” He shuddered. “A year or two and I’ll have to charge less. The Triad’ll demand a greater squeeze. I’ll grovel for clients. I’ve seen it happen to others, Lovejoy. And been delighted because I was the flavor of the month.”

“Cut out now while you’re ahead.”

He shook his head as if irritated at my stupidity. “There was a bloke called himself Lance Fanshawe. Supposed to have been a Guards officer. High connections back home. They say the women even bid for him on cruise ships—highest bid got him for the evening. Christ, the presents old Lance received! Like a film star. Then age struck.

It only took a year to fall from grace.”

“And you became…?”

“Top log, top dog.” He nodded at Tai Mo Shan, a mountain in the leaden sky. “He did it there. Service revolver. Gentleman to the last.”

“Silly sod,” I said, quickly adding when he glared, “God rest him. Your trouble is you’re obsessed with Ling Ling. Forget her. Settle for some other woman instead.”

He lit another cigarette from the stub. “How often does a man see a perfect woman, Lovejoy? Even God had to search for donkey’s years. All men crave her.”

“Not me, mate.” I felt as sad as he was. “I’d love her, natch. But look at me, for God’s sake. What perfect woman would have a scruff like me? I’m not daft—or ever likely to be that rich. No, Steerforth. You addicts are all the same. You’re pillocks, round the twist. I’m off out of here first chance I get. You’ll stay forever, chasing your dream.

You’d pay all your savings if the Triad’d let you have her once, and it won’t be enough.

You’d have to have her twice. Then forever. You’ll die like a male bee in its flight.”

Another dream that died of size?

He was about to give me the ultimate rejoinder—I wish he had, seeing what happened—but a taxi drew up. He crossed to speak with the occupant, a young undertaker suit who gave Steerforth orders through the window. J.S. beckoned me, pointed to where the big white liner was berthed. I watched him. Amazing. Already he’d straightened, walking buoyantly, smiling. Our clients tonight must be big spenders. See what I mean about addicts? They all come to a bad end. I’ve heard that.

Typhoon Emma struck about one in the morning. I was sleepily saying good night to a pleasant brunette in the vast terminal building, wondering why on earth an attractive rich bird like her wanted to hire a bloke like me. I was pleased she did, though, because she wore a French-Egyptian-motif bangle, 1820 or so, and loved antique jewelry so much we’d done nothing but talk about it. Well, nearly nothing. I forget her name.

“I’m sorry you have to go, er, love,” I was saying. You have to be careful saying things like this, in case she decides to stay and you find yourself battling nightlong pitfalls when you’re at your weakest.

She paused, melting, so I quickly added, “But it’s best you do. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” That proved I was Good Deep Down. We said tender farewells by the exit.

The ship’s duty officer took her arm. “I’ll take the lady from here, sir,” he said. “The typhoon’s on us.” I drew breath to say I’d accompany her, but he whispered, “Piss off, you cheap hustler,” which narked me because I come pretty expensive. He triggered the door, grabbed the bird, and ran at a low crouch into the maddest weather I’d ever seen. The bird went with a squeal.

I peered through the glass at the liner. Its huge bulk was straining massively in its berth. I heard the wind huthering. In the arc lights I saw a tree— small, but entire—

whiz skittering along the wharf. And a rickshaw, simply bowling past. The world in a tumble drier. Hellfire, I thought, as water splashed up the liner’s side. The weather had worsened fast while we were snogging.

My journey to Steerforth’s flat was nightmarish. Even though I clung to walls, hugged doorways and ventilation grilles, I got blown off my feet several times, narrowly not smashing my head in. And the bloody gale began howling—really up-and-down bawling that peaked in a frightening screech. Buffeted and bruised, I saw a car whipped up and lobbed into the harbor. It took me an hour to reach Steerforth’s. Then the rain started, whooshing out of the maniacal sky and slamming me to my knees.

The door broke as I unlocked it, literally slammed back and fractured under the wind’s press. The single bulb swung crazily, imploded its glass over my head. I scrambled upstairs.

Steerforth gave me a warm greeting. “You fucking lunatic!” He shoved the apartment door to. “Have you no sense?”

The long mirror showed me myself: gaunt, soaked, clothes ripped, one shoe missing. A drowned rat. “I didn’t know it’d be like that.”

“Is the grumble safe?”

“Aye. She’s back on board.”

“Well, that’s something.” He eyed me, snickered. “You look worth ten cents an hour, Lovejoy. Here, have a celebration drink—you’ve survived your first typhoon.”

Hong Kong also survived it in a shambles of flood damage, deaths, landslides, broken roads. Buildings had collapsed in Kowloon, killing several people. A Greek freighter trying for the Lamma Channel was missing. Mudslides had engulfed cars near Peak Road, killing two horribly. Electricity was haywire. Water was cut off, nothing but gurgles from taps. Junks had vanished. The winds had roared through the harbor, picking up boats and vehicles like handfuls of gravel. Lighters were cast ashore on Stonecutters. Squatter villages had suffered heavily, shacks slithering down the mountainsides as the downpour gouged out new nullahs and undermined fragile foundations.

The mess gave me two days’ rest. For once my grumbling at Hong Kong’s heat, its commerce, its berserk criminality was silenced as I watched the colony fight back.

It was brilliant, a superb display of organization. Incredibly, everybody wore the same jaunty grins, calling the same Cantonese hilarities. The phone service was restored almost immediately. Queues formed at water standpipes. I too went and stood in line, patiently moving my two gallon cans until I reached the taps. I was so proud, puffing up the stairs hardly spilling a drop. Steerforth galled me, using too much water shaving.

The selfish swine even washed his shoes free of mud, and was too drunk that first day to take a turn in the water queue.

Mud was everywhere. The Post came out with photos of horrendous damage: trees washed down from hills blocking roads, people being dug from rubble. In it all, as the wind and rain lessened, the emergency teams were magnificent. Casualties were rescued from unbelievable plights, buildings were shored, roads cleared, pipelines mended, services miraculously resumed. It was a feat of magic such as I’d never seen.

And throughout Hong Kong chattered, laughed—and kept trade going. Like, in spite of the crisis we each had a couple of clients at nearby hotels, plus one surreptitious effort on a liner.

“Well, Lovejoy,” Steerforth said when all was order, days later. “How d’you think they did?”

“Superlative.” We were on the tiny balcony looking at the world. “Hong Kong’s answered a problem.”

An hour later I phoned Surton and broke the bad news that my firm’s junk had sunk in the Pearl River.

“Yes, the one bringing the few original autograph documents we had of Song Ping—

gone,” I confirmed mournfully into his appalled silence, sighing my most grievous sigh.

“A catastrophe. I’m afraid the problem’s insuperable.”

We ended the conversation differently, he with genuine sorrow, me with a brokenhearted sob and a private smile. I brewed up and returned to sit by the phone.

Ten minutes later it rang. Surton, excited.

“Solution?” I said, carefully sounding baffled and stirring my tea. “Impossible!”

He crowed. “No problem’s insuperable, Lovejoy! Don’t you see? We simply refashion the lost documentation! Remake that as authentically as possible, like the rest!”

“Good heavens!” I gasped, bored out of my skull and thinking for heaven’s sake, get on with it. “You can’t mean… fakery?”

“Certainly not, Lovejoy! Replication. Labeled as such.”

I said piously, “Well, as long as it’s honest…” Label? Over my dead body. I’d have to arrange to get this innocent old saint out of the way as soon as he’d done his stuff, that was for sure.

We talked, each amicably planning our different versions of mayhem.

The phone down, I cheered up. The Surtons were friends, the first I really felt I’d had in Hong Kong. I didn’t count Steerforth—he was too weird, too hooked on Ling Ling. But even the Surtons were bugged. So wasn’t it time to find a real ally, one even the Triad wouldn’t dream of? I smiled at the idea of me and Titch the leper against the world.

Time to take a risk with Ling Ling herself.