Mr Nice: an autobiography (44 page)

The largest hotel/shopping complex in Asia is that housing the Hyatt Central Plaza, midway between Bangkok city centre and Don Muang International Airport. The Hyatt is a five-star luxury hotel, the first one encountered between the airport and Bangkok. Its clientele comprised mainly airline pilots relaxing between flights and businessmen on short stays. There was little reason for a hotel guest to make the sometimes inordinately long journey to the city centre. The hotel had first-class restaurants and sports facilities. Endless brand-new shopping malls, all mirrors, escalators, and water fountains, were adjacent. One could get whatever one wanted. Except body massages. The Hyatt had agreed to let Phil open up a body-massage parlour in its basement. To keep up appearances it would also provide straight massages, haircutting, and manicures. About thirty body-massage professionals were to be employed full-time. Customers could charge all services to their hotel bill. The hotel would then pay Phil. The word ‘body massage’ would never appear on the customer’s hotel bill, of course. And it would be ‘blow-dry’ rather than ‘blow-job’. Some wives and expense-footing company bosses might eventually raise their eyebrows at the frequency of grooming and toenail-cutting charges, but much would pass through unnoticed. The customer would even be able to bring his masseuse to his bedroom. The Hyatt would be the first luxury hotel in Bangkok to have a brothel on its premises and hookers on room service. Phil wanted me to come in with him fifty-fifty.

I never really had any desire to be a glorified pimp, but I couldn’t resist it. Telling people I was a travel agent was useful and safe. Telling them I owned a Bangkok massage
parlour was a lot more fun. I could offer a free body-massage membership card to anyone I needed to impress.

‘I’m in. How did you swing it, Phil?’

‘Through that guy I told you about, Lord Moynihan. He owns massage parlours in loads of hotels in the Philippines, including all the Hyatts. I wouldn’t trust him further than I could chuck him, but he’s useful and has got some amazing contacts. He knows everyone in the Philippines, from Marcos down. And he can do what he likes in the airport in Manila.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘Through Jack the Fibber, Jack Warren. Remember his son Barrie, the one who died in 1979?’

‘Is Moynihan a real lord?’

‘Definitely. I checked him out. He’s Lord Moynihan of Leeds. His half-brother is Colin Moynihan, the Minister for Sport in the British Government. He was a pretty controversial member of the House of Lords, taking Spain’s side over the Gibraltar issue. He got busted for some petty fraud, with overtones of murder, and scarpered to Spain. Franco took care of him and made him a Spanish knight or something. Then he set up in the Philippines. He’s as bent as arseholes. Went to the same university you did, Oxford, but he’s a good bit older than you. I told him about you, just said that I knew another crook from Oxford. He wants to meet you. We should go to Manila some day. You’d like it.’

Phil and I caught a Philippine Airlines flight from Bangkok to Manila. The plane doors opened, and Jack the Fibber and Lord Moynihan walked on to the plane. I was impressed. Jack and I hugged each other.

‘Sorry to hear about Barrie, Jack.’

‘Ain’t a day goes by I don’t think about it, Howard. You’re looking good.’

Phil introduced me to Moynihan.

‘Call me Tony. Delighted to meet you, old boy. We’d better get off this plane. Much baggage?’

‘None, Tony, just what we’re carrying.’

‘Oh! I needn’t have brought my porter. Never mind. Shall I take your passports?’

Marching off the plane and in front of long queues of arriving passengers, Moynihan gave our passports to an Immigration Officer, who smiled and stamped them. Immediately outside, surrounded by a small ring of armed police, was Moynihan’s Cadillac stretch-limousine. We all climbed in.

‘You’re welcome to stay with us, of course, but we do have slightly more than our usual quota of house guests. I’ve taken the precaution of booking you into VIP accommodation at the Manila Mandarin in Makati. Phil and Howard, please be my guests for Sunday lunch tomorrow. I’ll send this car round to pick you up at 1 p.m. Jack, I know you have other things to do tomorrow.’

Jack was not one of Moynihan’s house guests. He was also staying in the Manila Mandarin. Phil went off to see his Manila girl-friend. Jack and I went out drinking.

Although Jack was in his late sixties and had suffered the appalling tragedy of his son dying in a Bangkok gutter from a heroin overdose, he had not lost his ability to make anyone weep with laughter with his Australian wit and his incessant mischief. He had tales to tell. He had shared a cell with Mick Jagger when they busted him in the 1960s. He had thieved from most of the world’s top jewellery stores. First we went to Del Pilar, the main night-life area. It was much the same as Bangkok’s Patpong – lots of bikini-clad girls dancing on bars and tabletops – but it was considerably cheaper, and the music was a lot better. The dancing girls’ company could be bought for a pittance paid to the, usually American or Australian, bar owner. The hotels never objected to extra overnight guests. Some of the bars were quite outrageous, in particular one named Blow Job on the Rocks, where, if so minded, one could stick one’s dick into a mouthful of crushed ice.

Wherever he went, Jack would accumulate a gathering of beggar children. He gave them loads of money. Five young
beggars were hanging on to us when Jack suggested going somewhere a bit more off the wall. We all piled into a jeepney, the Philippines’ most popular means of transport for short journeys. Jeepneys are reconstructed from Jeeps left in the Philippines by the US Army after World War II. Their outsides are covered with multicoloured paintwork, hundreds of mirrors, and statuettes of horses. Their insides are Aladdin’s caves of Roman Catholic bric-à-brac and blaring sound equipment.

Our jeepney stopped outside a bar called The Pearly Gates, whose main difference from any other bar in Manila was in the service: it was performed wholly and exclusively by nuns. Nuns showed customers to their tables, took their orders, and served the drinks. Nuns introduced the raunchy entertainment. Jack and I drank beer. The beggars drank Coca-Cola.

The nuns introduced a ladies’ excuse me. Various couples took the floor. A few nuns barged between couples, excused themselves and danced with the bemused male partners. Jack went up to a dancing American couple, tapped the lady on the shoulder, said ‘Excuse me’, and began trying to dance with her partner, who did not find it amusing. A scuffle broke out. A few of the beggars pulled out knives. If they’d kill for anyone, they’d kill for Jack. The scuffle died down.

‘Are these real nuns, Jack?’

‘Often wondered the same myself. There’s one sure way to find out.’

‘What’s that, Jack?’

‘Try to buy a couple of them out for the evening. I’ll go and ask the Mother Superior there behind the bar.’

Jack and the senior nun had a discussion at the bar. Jack paid her some money and returned, all smiles.

‘We got two of them until midnight.’

Back in the jeepney, they certainly seemed like nuns and answered all questions as if they were nuns. They were not
the least bit shy and did not bat an eyelid when I lit up a Thai grass joint I’d smuggled in from Bangkok.

We stopped at a bar named The Hobbit House. Nine of us poured down the miniature stairway. We were warmly greeted by a roomful of midgets. None of the bar staff or entertainers was over five feet high.

‘You going to buy a couple of these out, Jack?’ I said as a joke.

‘That’s an idea. I’ll buy seven of them out. Seven fucking dwarves. I’ll grab me a Snow White before the night’s out.’

After several more drinks in bizarre bars, five Manila street beggars, seven dwarves, two nuns, Jack the Fibber, and I fell out of the jeepney outside the Manila Mandarin. Jack walked to Reception and asked for a table for sixteen to be prepared in the hotel’s gourmet restaurant.

The hotel staff were used to being surprised by requests from Jack. He tipped them fortunes, so they always accommodated his every demand. They weren’t exactly keen on this freaky entourage traipsing through the plush lobby, but they’d put up with it.

Jack ordered too much of everything: lobsters, oysters, roast meats and poultry, and the entire dessert trolley. The nuns and dwarves ate handsomely. The beggar children ate nothing, but put all the uneaten food into plastic bags to take away. Jack paid the huge bill, gave all the waiters enormous tips, escorted the nuns, dwarves, and beggars to the still waiting jeepney, and bid them all goodnight.

Lord Moynihan’s limousine was outside the Manila Mandarin at 1 p.m. the next day. The chauffeur took Phil and me beyond the city limits of Metro Manila to a plush and expansive residential area. We pulled into the driveway of a large house, once the residence of the Peruvian Ambassador. Moynihan greeted us and introduced me to his beautiful Filipina wife, Editha, and their three house guests: Jimmy Newton, a London solicitor; his Australian wife, Helen; and an Australian named Joe Smith. Joe looked like a cross between
Crocodile Dundee and Kirk Douglas. His arms were tattooed, and his eyes laughed. Several servants brought us Pimm’s cocktails. Moynihan took me to his office. We sat at his desk.

‘Howard, what we say in this room remains private, you understand. I know Phil is your good friend, at least, he claims to be, no? But I prefer him not to know the details of all conversations we might have. Understood? I understand a book has been written about you. I would be absolutely thrilled to read it. Do you have a copy?’

I usually carried a few copies with me to flash at impressionable strangers.

‘Yes, Tony, I do,’ I replied. ‘It’s at the Manila Mandarin. I’ll give it to you. Who told you about it?’

‘Your friend, Phil. You see why I’m hesitant to trust him. I find him a little indiscreet. But you’ll give me a copy?’

‘Sure.’

‘Signed?’

‘If you wish.’

‘Excellent. Now Jimmy, whom you just met, is my very best friend. We were at both Stowe and Oxford together. By the way, which school did you attend? Phil was a bit vague when I asked him. He said you went to Oxford but did not know anything else.’

‘I went to a mixed grammar school in South Wales.’

‘In that case, Howard, I presume I’m safe in saying you went on to Jesus College, Oxford, the home of brilliant Welsh minds, no?’

‘No. I went to Balliol.’

‘Really! It’s some considerable time since I’ve had the honour of a Balliol man for lunch. Well, anyway, back to my point. Howard, I won’t beat about the bush. I know you are a man of great charm, intelligence, wealth, and abilities in, shall we say, certain unorthodox trading techniques. I have the strongest intuition we should be able to help each other. Forgive me being blunt, but you have the occasional need for a false passport, no?’

I smiled.

‘Well, Jimmy gets the very best passports. British, naturally. One wouldn’t want to be anything else these days. If you wanted one, it would be very easy to arrange. Would you like me to suggest to him you might like to be his client?’

I hadn’t used a false passport since I was Mr Nice and didn’t feel I actually needed one these days. Still, it could come in handy.

‘Yes, please, Tony. Thanks. Does Joe sell false passports too?’

Moynihan gave one of his characteristic and loud forced laughs.

‘No, no, no. I thought you might be about to ask me about him. Joe Smith was actually the first person ever to smuggle marijuana into Australia. You see, I do know some interesting characters, what! I suspect Joe still smuggles marijuana into Australia. He is also growing it here in the Philippines, using, I think, seeds from Thailand. Would that make some sort of sense?’

It made perfect sense to me. Joe sounded interesting.

‘Now, Howard, he’s been wanting to meet you for some time. We were both delighted when Phil told us he had persuaded you to come here. You have now been introduced to each other. Please feel free to do business with each other. I would be grateful for some sort of commission, of course, but how much, I leave to you.

‘Howard, again I’ll be blunt. I’ve lived here for seventeen years and know everyone who matters in the Philippines. Elizabeth Marcos is a very close friend of mine, as are quite a number of those in power. Whatever you want done here, and I think I do mean whatever, you can rest assured that I am more likely to be able to facilitate it than anyone else. For example, I was able to secure for Joe a large area of land in Mountain Province for his agricultural activities. He says it’s ideal for his purposes. It was easy for me, actually, because
my summer residence is in Baguio, right at the edge of Mountain Province. Manila is far too hot in the summer. If there’s anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate.’

‘Tony, do you have any pull with Philippine Airlines?’

‘Of course. Why?’

‘Well from time to time I’m a travel agent. My company specialises in China. I’ve just come back from Beijing. I came here on Philippine Airlines from Bangkok and noticed that they had just started a service between Manila and Beijing. As Philippine Airlines also fly from Manila to London, we could offer our customers an alternative airline to fly from London to China, with perhaps a couple of days’ stopover in the Philippines.’

‘Well, Howard, I must say it wasn’t the sort of thing I had in mind from you. But, yes, Ramón Cruz, who runs Philippine Airlines, has been a friend of mine for years. I could easily have had him here for lunch today. He’d have come at the drop of a hat. Let me know when you want to see him. Shall I send Joe in to see you? I’ll see how lunch is getting on. We’re having lamb.’