Darling Lovejoy,
I don’t know how to quite do this, if I can look you in the face again. I suppose I shall cope better another time. Mame told me how much you are, Lovejoy, only is it HK or US dollars? I guess ours. In your pocket. I really appreciate your understanding nature.
Love, Lorna
P.S. Our ship leaves the day after tomorrow. X
I thought, what? And dressed, a little achy after my nonstop passion. The crinkle-crinkle sounds I heard were made by a wadge of US dollars in my trouser pocket.
Then I reread Lorna’s note, where it said “how much you are, Lovejoy.” I was a gigolo.
One thing, I didn’t come cheap.
12
« ^ »
YOU bastard, Steerforth. You planned it all along!”
“Look, Lovejoy. Everybody’s for sale.”
Hong Kong isn’t for pavement racers. We moved erratically through the shoppers’
hullabaloo, dodging amongst the curb hawkers. Conversation gets in half a word every yard; probably why the lingo’s monosyllabic and deafening. As we moved, Steerforth’s puce face flicked in and out of vision like in some grainy silent film. If I could have clobbered him without hitting any six Chinese, I’d have given it a try. I was blazing.
“No! You look! It was a setup. Admit it!” I decided against clocking him one, seeing that each police pagoda was inhabited by a vigilant bobby, and a pair of scrapping tourists would stand out somewhat.
“For Chrissakes!” he gave back. He was actually indignant, can you believe. “It’s the best favor I’ve ever done!”
“Another thing, Steerforth.” A horrible suspicion arose. “What were those bloody tickets all about?”
He saw my murderous look and shrugged surrender. “It’s the local rent system. One ticket every ten minutes. Or every second tune.” He misinterpreted my shocked silence and added helpfully, “It’s called chung.”
“Rent? Chung? Who rents what?”
“Prostitutes rent restaurant space. Clients rent a bar girl. Or we rent a table when we’re…”
I clouted him. Because of the crowds I didn’t get a proper swing so it only knocked him sideways. Passing Cantonese laughed, exclaimed, paused. I pushed on and stood glaring unseeing at a pillar covered in Chinese fly-posters, the only static thing in the shambling din. It advertised a surgeon’s skill and price, complete with graphic photographs of a hemorrhoidectomy. Jesus. Rent. Me? How to make fame without really trying.
“Bloody nerve!” I found I’d been pushed by a crowd swirl into a side street. Steerforth grabbed me just as I was about to be swept upwards from the main thoroughfare. And I do mean up, practically vertical. It was the steepest street I had ever seen, steps all the way to God.
“Not that way, Lovejoy.” He yanked me back into the maelstrom, abruptly disturbed.
Curiosity can shelve fury for a while, can’t it? Intrigued, I gazed up the forbidden street.
People were drifting up and down. No vehicles, of course. Tall shorings, balconies with lanterns and greenery, signs, washing on poles stepping aloft into the dark sky. These dim dwellings were older. Curly eaves showed at the top. A temple? And all capped by the looming denser dark spine of the mountain.
“Cramped up there.” I nodded at the laddery street, intrigued by his sudden aversion.
“Come on. Not the Mologai.” Odd. Mologai? Did he have some other scam going among those stacked dwellings? Besides turning destitute antique dealers into gigolos, I mean.
He resumed, “You’re starting to gall me, Lovejoy. It’s bloody hard scraping a living here. Don’t you forget it.”
He was telling me? “Don’t flannel, Steerforth.” We were among an entire pavement of gold and jewelry shops shining bare globes onto the evening shoppers’ parade. I was becoming distracted between righteous anger and my magpie mind. Unsighted by the noisy throng, I nearly fell over a bloke doing acupuncture on an elderly lady before an admiring crowd.
“I picked you from the gutter, Lovejoy. You owe me!” He was even more enraged than I was, and I was close to murder. “I’ve booked you out twice more, you pillock.”
“You’ve what?” I gaped at him. He was a maniac. I’d heard people were driven insane by tropical heat.
“It’s money, you silly bugger. Tonight. We’ve two German ladies at eight, supper. Then two Americans, that sports convention in Mongkok. We have to. Or we don’t eat!”
I’d never even heard of women buying blokes before. It’s usually the other way round.
I was stupefied. I didn’t know whether to clout him or just walk off. But where to? I’d done the starvation hit. “You’re off your frigging head, Steerforth.”
“Lovejoy.” We halted in the press, him grimly serious. “Hong Kong’s pretty. But it’s a fatal attraction.” As he spoke he seemed suddenly haggard. “It’s beauty, exhilaration, all of that. But it feeds on carnage, crime, deals so savage they make playgrounds of other cultures. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times, Lovejoy. You visitors come, Hong Kong’s the loveliest show on earth. Beneath, it’s vicious.”
Understanding drifted into my thick skull. He meant the jade woman. I was suddenly tired by the noise, too many complications. Life’s a battle, yes, but every minute, every single second, to the limit? Time I was off. There was still the Macao ferry. I hauled out Lorna’s money and gave him a rough split. Sundry people saw and exclaimed a long loud “Waaaaiiii!” in delight without breaking step.
“Don’t do it, Lovejoy.” He seemed so sad. “I need a partner with a gimmick. And you need my help.”
“Help? From you?” I was turning to go when a vast black saloon pulled up at the curb.
It nosed aside hawkers, bicycles, people. A fruit peddler’s packing-case stall went over.
Two men got out, suited, lank-haired, tidy. God, so tidy. The boss, a large iron man with a dumpy little pal, looked at me. My heart sank. These were very, very hard men.
“Lovejoy. In, please.” His consonants were almost elided.
“In?” I said foolishly. I glanced back at Steerforth in mute appeal. He only stood there in the light cast from the blinding jewelry shops, engulfed in sorrow.
“Can’t help you now, Lovejoy,” he said. The big man gave a fractional jerk of his head and Steerforth quickly stepped away. Three paces and he was gone.
“Er, listen, lads,” I began, optimistically relying on patter.
The leader said, “In.”
The car’s interior was icy with air-conditioning. I dragged on cold breath like an addict.
One thing, if this kidnap was a ransom job, they were on a loser.
Cars don’t go fast in Hong Kong. They try—how they try—and make a racket, but it’s useless. Despite the jerky crawl and not knowing where or what, I guessed a great deal about my captors during the journey. They were in the know about me. They belonged to an organization, gulp. And they had strict orders, which they were following to the letter. All this I knew when we passed the Digga Dig’s flashing sign. Under the impulse of a twinge of daft nostalgia I drew breath to speak, but the shorter bloke said a few Cantonese monosyllables to his mate and laughed. I stayed silent.
We drove for about twenty minutes, then crossed on the vehicular ferry to Central District. Nearer to the Macao terminus? For a second or two I peered hopefully about but we stayed in the car. During the entire short crossing, one of the goons simply stared at my face. I understood. I wasn’t to try anything. I tried asking where we were going but was head-shaken to silence. After that I simply watched the evening stir on the pavements, vaguely hoping to spot the way back. The flashing shop neons petered out, and we glided more smoothly in darkness torn here and there by tall lights. Villas, houses, garden walls, even trees, ornamental bushes. No police here, no chance of a quick sprint down the road home.