The Trafficked

55

Becky gave Mann a kiss on the cheek. ‘Better make it look convincing.’ She reached up on her tiptoes and pretended to whisper in his ear. ‘Text me when you’re done.’

‘Will do, babe. Take care of yourself.’ He winked at her and was about to step away when she caught his arm and pulled him down to her level to whisper in his ear. She started to say ‘Don’t call me…’, but she didn’t get through it all because Mann kissed her in the middle of it. He hadn’t meant to. It had been an instinctive reaction; the second her cheek touched his, his mouth had turned and sought hers. It wasn’t a long kiss but it was the first time they had kissed one another on the lips.

Shit, thought Mann. That’s all I need. She’s married, she’s a work colleague, and if she is the mole, she couldbe about to get me killed. He looked back at her as he walked away. She was smiling in that special sweet, shy way she had. Yep…I’m in trouble…

He left her and made his way back along the beach. The small strip of sand was now crowded with barcaspulled up on the shoreline for the night. There was the sound of dance music banging out from the crammed strip of bars, and the coloured lights from their signs flickered on the water. Mann ignored several catcalls and continued walking until he saw what he was looking for, a bar called Pump It.

Once he got in range, the girls in their red hot-pants and silver boob tubes linked arms with him and led him inside the bar to find a table. It wasn’t a bad place, thought Mann. It would look filthy in the light of day but it did well on this litter-strewn end of paradise. Mann looked around. The clientele were younger than Angeles. This place wasn’t so much for the middle-aged lonely businessman but for the rowdy lads here to dive, sunbathe and have sex. The casual sex tourist-the man who just finds himself paying for it at the end of the night, without realising that it was always going to end like that.

Mann was looking for the owner. He didn’t think he would be difficult to spot and he was right. Fat Harry was holding court at one of the circular tables, papers in front of him, drinking a beer. He had a constant stream of girls coming to pay their respects to their ‘daddy’.

Dance music played whilst a girl in a cage, dressed in a bikini and fur boots, wound her athletic thighs around a pole. Mann found himself a space at the bar that ran around the elevated dance floor and watched the girl. She noticed him; he knew she would. He was dressed a lot smarter than everyone else in the place, who looked like they had come straight off the beach. He smiled at her and she made her way over to him. From the corner of his eye he saw Fat Harry watching as she performed the next three minutes for Mann’s entertainment. When she had finished her number he tucked a large tip inside the rim of her boot. He ordered another drink and sat back on his stool. On his third drink a mamasan came over to him with a tray and a vodka on ice on it. She pointed to Fat Harry and said:

‘Fat Harry say would like you to join him.’

Mann nodded his thanks, picked up his drink and wandered over to Fat Harry’s table.

Mann looked Harry over. His shoulders were broad, his arms large, once muscled, and his neck was thick. He deserved his name now. He had several chins hanging beneath his babyish face and even more massive stomachs bursting the buttons of his plain calico shirt. His face was red, babyish. His silver hair was thinning and swept back by oil or by sweat, Mann couldn’t decide. Harry filled most of the circular seat meant for four people. His head came high above the others around him. He must be at least six three, thought Mann. He reminded him of Jabba the Hutt.

Fat Harry spoke to the girls who were sitting with him, all clad in matching white miniskirts and black strapless tops. They squeaked their goodbyes to ‘daddy’, giggled their girly hellos to Mann, and left to make room for him to sit.

Fat Harry did not stand as Mann approached, and Mann did not expect him to. This was not England or Hong Kong. Etiquette was not top of the list here; con geniality was. And Fat Harry was Mr Congenial. He smiled non-stop. He waved to the party on a neighbouring table. They had a hostess lying on the table and were taking turns drinking vodka shots from her naval. He laughed so enthusiastically that his stomach reverberated.

‘Regulars…’ he said, raising his beer to them. ‘Come back here every year. Nice to see a new face, though. I am the proprietor of this den of feckin’ iniquity. What’s your name, fella?’ Fat Harry’s voice still had a hint of Ulster brawl to it.

‘John, John Black. I must congratulate you-you have a good business here, Harry.’

Fat Harry studied Mann. He obviously liked the cut of Mann’s clothes. He looked at Mann’s wrist to see what make of watch he had. It was one of several that Mann owned-a Pateek Philippe. He was obviously passing Fat Harry’s test. A fellow policeman was always going to keep an eye on small details.

‘You here on business, John?’

Mann shook his head. ‘My wife will kill me if I answer yes to that…I’m here on honeymoon. Why, is this club for sale?’

Fat Harry laughed. ‘I like you already-a straight-talker-a man after my own heart. And no, this club is not for sale, although I could probably point you in the direction of one that is.’

Mann picked up his glass. ‘Cheers to your good health.’

Fat Harry picked up his beer bottle and clicked it against Mann’s glass. ‘And yours.’

‘So, what business are you in, John?’

‘All sorts.’ Mann grinned. ‘This and that. I have a few investments. I own a few language schools in London and Manchester. A couple of massage parlours and a few other things that I’d rather not admit to.’

Fat Harry laughed. ‘Language schools, huh? Who are your main clients?’

‘From Asia, mostly: China, Japan.’

‘What about the girls in your massage parlours?’

‘Well, not surprisingly, we have a fair few Filipinas but mainly Eastern Bloc girls. I recruit them through the school.’

‘Good business, huh?’

‘There will always be girls looking to make money and always men looking to spend it.’

The table next door had moved on to watching the girl perform a sex act with a specially designed ice-cream cone. There were loud appreciative hoots and claps. Fat Harry waited for the antics to be finished before he tried making himself heard again.

‘You don’t have any problem with the girls, they don’t mind working?’

‘A few of them do take a bit of persuading. Some of them owe money for their passage over, they’re working it off-you know the kind of thing, I am sure. The young ones need to be controlled, shown who’s boss.’

Fat Harry’s greedy eyes fixed on Mann’s face. Mann could see that he had taken the bait.

‘How long are you staying here in Puerto Galera, John?’

‘Just a couple of nights. We have friends in Manila; we’ll go there after here. We fly home to London in a week.’

‘Would you be interested in meeting one of my business partners? Bob English? We may have something you’d be interested in, and he’ll be very keen to know more about your UK businesses.’

‘Sure. Why not? I’m always open to offers.’

‘Give me tonight to organise it. I’ll call you in the morning; let you know what I’ve managed to set up.’

Mann hoped that Shrimp had done a good job on his and Becky’s new identities. Fat Harry would be scrutinising it tonight. And they would want Mann dead by the morning if Shrimp hadn’t.