She went back to her room and changed her clothes; the linen slacks and pink Brooks Brothers shirt would create the right impression. She went outside, intending to walk to the hotel, but the sky was clear and the sun was brutal. She didn’t want to get there covered in sweat so she took a taxi, even though the ride would take longer than the walk.
She caught the elevator to the thirty-second floor. The corridor was empty save for the room maid’s cart. Ava stood outside Antonelli’s room for a moment, her ear pressed against the door. She heard faint noises coming from what sounded like a television. She had left one picture in the envelope, on which she had written: Meet me in the lobby downstairs. I’m Chinese, a woman, and I’m wearing a pink shirt.
Ava slid the envelope under the door, rang the doorbell, and then used the nearby exit to run down the stairs. She got out on the thirty-first floor and pushed the elevator button, hoping she’d get to the lobby before him, and hoping even more that he wouldn’t get into the same elevator car as her. It took less than a minute to arrive.
She walked into a lobby that was nearly deserted and chose a chair in the middle of the lounge. Across from it was a couch, with a broad coffee table in between. She ordered an espresso and waited. A few minutes later the elevator doors opened and Antonelli charged into the lobby. He was wearing a Georgia Tech tank top, baggy shorts, and a pair of blue Crocs. His legs were pale and surprisingly smooth. He hadn’t brushed his hair, and the few strands he had left were sticking up in the air. He looked around the lobby; she could see a mixture of anger, urgency, and desperation on his face.
Ava waved at Antonelli and smiled. He headed towards her, the envelope clasped tightly in his hand.
“You, you bitch! You Chinese bitch! You fucking Chinese bitch!” he yelled when he was still ten metres away.
“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the sofa.
He ploughed towards her, his face contorted, and for a second she thought he was going to try something physical with her. She shifted her feet, bracing herself for a countermove. He stopped when he was still a short distance away from her. “You fucking bitch,” he spat.
Even from that distance she could smell breath that was foul from beer and God knows what else. His bared teeth were stained and coated with a yellow film. She guessed he hadn’t taken the time to brush.
He brandished the envelope in front of him. “You fucking Chinese bitch.”
“You’re getting repetitive, and not accomplishing anything. I suggest you sit,” she said.
“You were the one who was here yesterday. I remember you, you bitch. I thought there was something funny about you.”
“Obviously there was.”
He waved the envelope again. “What is this about? What the fuck is this about? I don’t know you. There is no fucking reason for this.”
The server hovered nearby with Ava’s coffee, afraid to come any closer. “You can bring it over now,” Ava said to her, and then turned to Antonelli. “Do you want something?” she asked. “I’m buying.”
“Fuck off.”
“Later. Right now we need to talk.”
“What do you think you’re going to do with this?”
“You are George Antonelli, correct? And you have a partner named Jackson Seto, and the two of you have been stealing money from a client of mine. That’s why I’m here.”
“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do, but really it doesn’t matter one way or another. I have very little interest in you or your hobbies. What I need to do is find Jackson Seto. I want you to help me.”
“I still have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”
She pulled the file Arthon had given her from her purse and placed it on the table. “I know all about you. I know how long you’ve been here, who you’ve worked with, how many scams you and Seto have pulled. I also know about the wife and kids back in Atlanta. Their address and phone numbers are in the file.”
Antonelli sat down and reached for the folder. He opened it and started to read. She waited, watching his face for reaction. His jaw tightened, and he licked spittle from the side of his mouth.
“What the fuck are you trying to do?” he said finally.
“It’s very simple — I need to locate Seto. You know where he is, or at the very least you know how I can contact him. You have two options. You tell me what I want to know, or I’m going to make a hundred copies of that photo — and the five others that I have — and send them to your wife, your kids, your Atlanta neighbours, your parents, any siblings you have, your in-laws, and anyone you’re doing or have ever done business with. My experi-ence is that Americans, particularly Americans in the South, and Baptists at that, are slightly less liberal about matters like this than Thais are.”
He closed his eyes. A good sign, she thought. He was imagining the worst. He was calculating the odds. “How do I know — ”
“You don’t,” she interrupted. “But I am in the habit of keeping my word. Just help me find Seto and the photos will be burned.”
“Fuck.”
“I’m sorry it had to be like this, I really am. If I could have found him any other way this wouldn’t have been necessary,” she said.
“What will you do if you locate him?”
“Get the money back.”
“What if I direct you to him and you can’t get the money back? What will happen to the photos?”
“Just get me to him. Do that and you’re completely off the hook, I promise.”
He chewed a fingernail while he thought. “You got a pen?”
She took out her notebook and Mont Blanc. “Go ahead.”
“I’ll give you his email address. He rarely checks it and normally doesn’t answer directly. I email him and tell him I need to talk, and he phones me. But you can try. You never know.”
“All right.”
“Right now he doesn’t have a North American or Asian phone number that works. You’ll have to call 592-223-7878.”
“What area code is that?”
“Guyana.”
“He’s in Guyana?”
“Obviously.”
“Why Guyana?”
“We used to buy bangamary and sea trout there. We’d ship it to Atlanta, tray-pack, and sell it to the black and Hispanic markets. It was a good business for a while. Jackson has a house there, and a kind of wife, and he knows enough of the right people that he feels safe there. Whenever things get tight, he always fucks off to Guyana.”
“You’re sure I’ll find him there?”
“He was there yesterday.”
“Why does he feel safe there?”
Antonelli smiled. “Guyana is a shithole, filled with people who either helped make it a shithole or people who thrive in shitholes. Even for me — and I’ve seen a lot of shitholes — it’s more shithole than I can stand. And Jackson has surrounded himself with the nastiest bunch of shitholes he could find. As long as he pays them, they’ll do what he wants.”
“What about the police?”
“Most of the people he’s paying are the fucking police.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“Malvern Gardens. I don’t know the number but there are only about ten houses in the subdivision. It’s fucking grand by Georgetown standards, and he’s the only Chinese there.”
“Georgetown is the main city?”
“Yep. A shithole.”
“I get the picture,” she said.
“You think you do,” he said. “Wait till you get there. However bad you think it is, it will be that much worse.”
“If I get there and it turns out that Seto knows I’m coming — ”
“I won’t tell him.”
“I mean it. If he has any clue — ”
“Look, I don’t want those photos in the wrong hands. You know that. You are a hundred percent fucking sure about that, aren’t you? So I’m trusting that you will honour your word. That’s all. Do I think you’re going to be able to ambush Seto and get him to fork over the money? No, I don’t. I don’t think you’ve got a fucking chance in hell. So with that thought in my mind, why would I risk screwing you over? I’ll not say a word to him. Nothing. You go and do whatever the hell you want. You just can’t blame me if it doesn’t work out.”