Quarter of an hour before I got him coherent. I upped the fan to such a speed the room nearly took off into China. I got his favorite drink. I played dim—what on earth’s got into you and everything? Two tumblers of whiskey and he was reduced to watching me warily while I swigged my tea catechizing.
“What did Ling Ling say when she let you go, Lovejoy?”
“I told you. Said to come here, keep up the good work, to report in two days at the Flower Drummer.” I’d described the party, our trip to the floating restaurant in Aberdeen Harbor. I’d told him about Johny Chen. I said nothing about having any antiques scheme for the Triad. He had too big a part to play to be trusted.
“Anything about working the tourists with me?”
“Nope. In fact she gave me to Marilyn.”
“She did?” Steerforth nodded, marginally less suspicious when I showed him a phone number beautifully engraved on a gold malachite slice.
“I’ve to ring Marilyn’s number every four hours.”
He was still unconvinced, sly devil. Why is it people never trust me? “Then what’s the question about living hand-to-mouth, Lovejoy?” I said nothing. He went on, “You’ve seen how Hong Kong is. I’m a miracle survivor.” He rose and stared out, turned back.
“How old am I, Lovejoy?”
Good heavens. “Dunno. Thirty?”
“See?” He swigged at his tumbler. “I’m forty. Some days I look thirty, even twenty-eight. Don’t think,” he threatened, “I’ve not had real offers, wealthy birds taking such a shine to me they want marriage, the lot.”
Nodding agreement at this figure sweating in the sunshine slabbing through the window, I warmed to the man. After all, he’d rescued me—from self-interest of course.
But rescue is rescue. And I felt pity for his terror of the Triad, fear of approaching age.
How must he have woken feeling like death warmed up, yet raised his game and go bouncing out, playboy of the Eastern world?
He got another refill and sat staring. “Bastards like you never worry, Lovejoy. Not properly. Too stupid. But learn from women. They know appearances are paramount.
Youth’s everything…”
Narked, I switched off. I quite often listen to women, even when they’re being daft. It’s pretty tiring, but I’m always fair, nearly almost always. I poured myself more tea, wondering why Hong Kong has no biscuits. Humidity too high, probably. They’d get soggy. I’d ask Ling Ling.
“… in the night hours. Sometimes, just lying thinking.” He gave me a glance. “Maybe I’ll start widow hunting soon.” He chuckled. “The Chinese say: ‘Man beware widow—horse thrown rider.’ ”
“How did you start?”
“Jumped ship.” He shrugged. “Ran out of money, but not before I’d got to know the Wan Chai bars. A mate struck lucky. Some Chinese muscle showed me kung fu persuasion, forty percent basic, forty over the top for squeeze.”
“Squeeze? You mean your profit?”
“Squeeze is illicit percentage. The whole place runs on it. Commerce, shipping, retail, wholesale, and you’ve read of our police scandals. At least you know where you are with the Triads. They regulate squeeze down to the last drop of drug and plastic flower.”
I thought, something here. “Do we pay squeeze?”
He stared. “I didn’t believe anyone could be as thick as you. Of course we pay squeeze.
On everything. Rumors to rubbish. Horses to heroin.”
“To Fatty?”
“Naturally. Look carefully. You’d see that street collectors are every ten yards. How do you think I keep the concession at the ocean terminals, at the Digga Dig? Independent, I’d last less than a minute.”
“Answer a couple of questions, Steerforth?” He said nothing. I asked him about the little leper. “He’s everywhere I look. Once or twice I mistook a look-alike, but mostly I’m sure it’s the same bloke.”
“On the cadge. You were an easy touch. Stay around and you’ll lose that vulnerable aura. Then beggars’ll leave you alone.”
“He doesn’t beg. In fact I had to catch him to give him some money.”
He could offer nothing sensible, or wouldn’t. Nor would he be drawn on Dr. Chao, Marilyn, Fatty, the Triad societies. I already knew that it was his obsession with Ling Ling that kept him clinging to the China Coast.
“Do we have any leeway?” It was the most casual question I’d ever asked in my life. My heart was in my mouth. A lot hung on it. He slightly misunderstood.
“Hardly. We’ve two escort jobs booked tonight—we’ll have to take them back to the ship by eleven o’clock.”
“I meant afterwards.”
He seemed pleased at my enthusiasm. “Pick up spare clients? Yes. As long as our percentage goes in.”
“What if I fancy a go on my own?”
Surprised, he said fine. “Got one lined up?”
“Maybe, maybe not. One other thing. About a library.”
Curious but reassured, he told me about the excellent City Hall library, Hong Kong side.
It had good reference sections and quite a lending program. I thought while he went to shower himself ready for the evening.
Antiques, to be faked at the uttermost, must be gigantic. Not in size, I haste to add, but in concept. I mean, if you’re going to risk your life on one throw of the dice, better forge the crown jewels than a Woolworth tiepin. Like, when Konrad Kujau decided on forgery, he really went for broke and produced Hitler’s entire diaries by his own lily-whites and nearly fooled everybody. I approve. Fakes are horses for courses, true, but the rule is “think big.”
That’s why I thought first of George Chinnery. He was the famed Victorian Artist of the China Coast. Even in 1970 you could get his lovely water-colors of Hong Kong and Canton life for fifty pounds. Now the prices are astronomical. Faking a Chinnery might therefore bring fame and fortune, since he’s not well documented. Fake him twice, still okay. And thrice. After that, well, dealers would begin questioning. You can see the dilemma. If Chinnery was more prolific than had been thought, they’d argue, then his works are overvalued. If not, then the newly appearing Chinnerys are possibly fakes, and the legitimate demand goes kaboom. Fakery is self-limiting. Therefore, no. I was downcast at my decision to ditch a scam based on Chinnerys or some similar antiques.
It was tempting, but fear stiffened my willpower. Still, at least I’d started cerebrating in the right direction. This calmed me so much I remembered to phone in to Marilyn’s malachite number on the dot like a parolee.
“Wotcher, Marilyn,” I said. “I’ve been hearing all about your Cantonese superstitions.”
“Indeed?” she said.
“You’re all ghosts and gambling.”
“Mr. Steerforth has a very slanted view of our world, Lovejoy,” she said sweetly. “Thank you for ringing.”
As we left to report for escort duty and collect our clients from the ocean terminal, Steerforth mentioned quite casually that the Typhoon Two signal was up on Stonecutters Island.
“Oh, aye?” I said, and thought nothing of it.
21
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LOVING’S generative in every sense. I catered for a lovely Colombian lady—God, talk about talkative—who between conversations made businesslike love, drenching us both in scent. Her earrings, gold scythes, nearly had my ears off. It was a mess because I couldn’t understand a word and she knew no English. It didn’t stop her talking. During round two I began remembering Montgomery. He’s an old bloke in Suffolk who prints fake old maps—mostly Cotterell’s 1824 editions from Bath—honestly almost as good as the originals. It’s his regular income. In fact he does so well I’m occasionally astonished to come across collectors without a set.