FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE (28 page)

The people below us look like they could be regional council officials out with their families on a family bonding day. They’re practically sitting in the oozing, obnoxious field of night soil.
That’ll teach them to arrive late
, I thought. And I can tell – it’s going to be a family day out they’ll not forget.

Joe cleverly allows plenty of time for drinking and dining before the games. He’s known for the barbecued spare ribs he serves with a secret, and dangerously delicious, sauce. According to Susie, and others in our party, Joe is often asked to reveal the recipe of the secret sauce, but he always refuses – even under threat of his cocaine supply being cut off. That threat came from a boat load of off-duty expat senior officers of the Royal Hong Kong Police. They were under orders from their wives to get the recipe or forget about ‘bedroom Olympics’ for the foreseeable future. I must admit, once I chewed on one of Joe’s spare ribs, I had to agree with the coppers’ wives…the recipe is worth risking it all for. But Joe wouldn’t crumble, the husbands didn’t get the recipe, and Joe’s secret remains a secret.

I went down to the bar with Joe and formally registered our team as ‘Bodacious Bodies’. My party was on their third round of jugs of Carlsberg Lager by the time I returned to the roof. The jugs hold seven pints each, and the girls from Down Under have already skulled five jugs. When I told the team our official name, the Aussies and Kiwis celebrated with another united flash of their bare breasts. Their display is a little less synchronised this time, but no less appreciated by the crowd.

I caught Roger Wynne’s attention and signalled him to follow me to the back of the building. When I went down to register the team name I’d found a spot of flat pampas grass under a copse of banana trees that gives shelter from the blazing sunshine. There’s less of a pong from the night soil, and the spot has great views of the roof-terrace, the mud plots and the boats bobbing in the harbour.

The Mud Olympics haven’t even started, but things are getting rowdy. So I asked Susie to keep an eye on Paul’s little girl before I went down to talk with Roger.

On the scribbled list of events by the bar, I see that Bodacious Bodies is to do battle –on the cross beam, slippery pole and see-saw – against a team called Flankers and Bankers. We haven’t yet reached the field of battle, but I assume they’re rugby players and bankers. And as you’d expect, the B in bankers has been scratched out and replaced by a crudely drawn W.

I looked up towards the roof to see Roger checking that his wife Helen has a drink. He gave her a quick kiss and made his way to where I’m sitting.

———

I made sure Helen has everything she needs, and then I went downstairs to find Finn Flynn. He’s sitting on a three-legged stool throwing green banana leaves on a smoky fire between two concrete blocks; the smoke is to keep the mosquitoes at bay. Finn stood up from his fire, turned, and shook my hand with a firm grip. I think he could’ve squeezed much harder but, unlike so many strong men, he doesn’t need to show off his strength.

He offered me a cold San Miguel, but he’s drinking a bottle of spring water. When I offered him refreshments at the hotel he asked for tea, but I know he isn’t a teetotaller – I’ve just seen him sipping a lager. I suppose he’s just a disciplined, careful man who knows when he’s had enough.

“Roger…may I call you Roger? Mister Wynne seems too formal when faced with the prospect of sliding around together in a field of stinking shite.”

“Yes Finn, feel free…and I’d forgotten we’re supposed to go romping in the shit. Thanks for reminding me.”

“My pleasure Roger!”

For five minutes or so we chatted about this and that and nothing special. I can tell that he has something on his mind, and Finn Flynn strikes me as a man who prefers to come straight out and say what’s on his mind. All the same, I do appreciate his self-restraint for my benefit. But when he got to what he wanted to say, it came right from the hip.

“Roger, you’ve seen me in company with Uncle Sui a couple of times now. He speaks very highly of you. I was intrigued when he told me you faced down the Kray twins when you were working in London. He also said you haven’t let any Triad, including his, get a foot in the door of your hotel here…and they all admire you for it.”

“I was born in Stepney, and I came up the hard way Finn. Don’t be fooled by this accent of mine…I’m cockney through and through. I was fucked if I’d let some East End hoods trample on everything I’d achieved. I got there by humping cases twice my size when I was working my way up the greasy pole of the hotel industry. Back then, I was the youngest concierge in a London five-star hotel. I’d already met Helen, she was working at the Savoy Hotel for
Gaud’s
sake, and we were living together. She is real class see, the genuine thing…and she’d fallen for me, a wide boy from Stepney Marshes. No one was going to knock me off that perch. No one. And, as for the Hong Kong Triads…they’re nothing new to this boy. Remember, London’s full of Triads trying it on with the big hotels, and I’d seen them off long before I’d seen off the Kray boys.”

“Roger, you can’t help being a Brit…it’s not your fault…an accident of birth. But I knew there was something I liked about you the minute we met. You’ve got bollocks my friend, and fair play to you.”

“Finn, I probably shouldn’t say what I’m about to say, but discretion doesn’t come natural like…it’s something I had to learn for the job. One, I’m pretty sure I know who you are, and roughly what you do. Two, I think you’re in the ideal position to help a young man we both know. He’s in a lorryload of trouble.”

“Fair enough, I’ll not insult you by denying what you assume about me. I’m intrigued to know how I can help. Who’s in trouble?”

“It’s Paul, Paul Wills. He’s in trouble with the 14K Triad, and he’s screwing up at work. The cops are watching him.”

“Bollocks. He’s doing bits and pieces for me and some of Uncle Sui’s friends.”

“I didn’t know that, but I can tell you that he’s in up to his neck with the 14K. And I suspect that won’t please Mister Sui Wong-Li one little bit.”

“Let’s not be shy with each other Roger. We both know Uncle Sui’s position in the Sun Yat Sun Triad. What I don’t know is the relationships between rival Triads, and whether Uncle Sui can influence the 14K without losing face…which seems so precious to our Asian friends. In any event, he may see no benefit in involving himself in Paul’s problem.”

“I get what you mean Finn, but the connection to George Han’s Clarrion Group, via young Paul, might interest him.”

“OK. I’ll see what I can do, but Paul Wills must never know about my relationship with Uncle Sui or the Sun Yat Sun. I’ll have to find an intermediary to approach Paul about his problem. Then I’ll tell Uncle Sui about the situation, and I’ll draw his attention to the George Han connection. Now, let’s get back. The Olympics are starting.”

———

I’ll draw his attention
? Jaysus! Why didn’t I just say I’ll tell him? I’ve been hanging around with too many of these banking prats. Now I’m starting to talk like them!

Roger and I walked back up to the roof-terrace, where we could see bodies in assorted stages of undress below. They’re writhing about in mud, swinging on slippery ropes, pillow fighting on poles, flinging mud pies at the spectators and showering each other off with fire hoses.

Our girls from Down Under are contributing an extra spectacle to the Mud Olympics with another display of synchronised breast swinging – their party piece I presume. And they’re chomping at the bit ‘to cream the Flankers and Wankers’ from the foreign exchange banks and the big estate agents.

I went back downstairs and found a pretty tipsy Susie sharing a joint with Joe in his secret cubby-hole behind the ladies’ toilet. Susie declared her joy at seeing me by suggesting that we return to our hired cruiser and christen the double bed in the owner’s cabin. Joe kindly offered us his chaise longue instead, which I declined, but I thanked him for the offer. I asked Susie to meet me up on the roof and left them alone to finish their joint.

Finding Susie smoking dope really pisses me off. I grasp what a hypocrite I am – angered by one person using a soft drug, but content to ship two hundred kilos of heroin across the world to destroy the lives of thousands of weak people. That’s really the contradiction my conscience is wrestling with.

People have broken into smaller groups consisting of those who already know each other, and – like so many expats – those who have discovered a common interest. A couple of the brokers’ straight-laced wives are shooting daggers at the antipodean girls who’ve abandoned their tops and shorts completely and are cavorting in beer-soaked knickers.

The mother of Paul’s child is in a huddle with Helen Wynne, and it sends alarm bells ringing. I was about to interrupt their tête-à-tête when Roger came bounding up the stairs to announce that it’s our team’s turn in the mud arena.

Our antipodean girls are first to pile into the stinking arena; they’re making short work of the wankers. The posh flankers and bankers T-shirts are buried in the mud, and all the wanker girls are as bare breasted as ours now – except for a girl called Maxine from an estate agent. I’m impressed with wide boy Roger, I see now how he saw off the Krays and the Triads. A wanker and a flanker tried to shove him in the shite, and it was no bother on him to floor them in one fell swoop. Four enormous flankers tried to take me on, but I put them down one by one. The Flankers and Wankers left the field with heads hung low, smeared in
merde
, dressed only in torn shorts and knickers.

Team Bodacious Bodies was declared the winner when no one else was prepared to do battle with us. We were awarded a plastic silver trophy and twelve bottles of tequila for our triumph. With everyone’s approval, I presented the plastic trophy to Paul’s daughter and gave the case of tequila to the antipodeans. “Heaps mate!” they all cheered, as they treated us to one last bit of synchronised breast swinging.

Not surprisingly, the antipodeans have been offered lifts backs to Discovery Bay on a variety of yachts and junks…in the company of a great number of excited males. Alas for the men, Susie was talking to the girls and discovered that they’re all dedicated followers of Lesbos – and they take great pleasure winding men up.

On the return boat journey our guests broke into small groups, and the stewards served strong coffee and light snacks. Susie persuaded me to try out the owner’s double bed, and the journey passed in a flurry of tits, thighs and pubic hair.

When we pulled in at Queen’s Pier Susie and I jumped ship and took a taxi back to Citizen Tower. We left everyone who wants to carry on back to the Aberdeen Marina Club on board.

———

Before hitting the bed, again, I need to phone Mac. But I’m not about to trust the call to my Motorola mobile, or even my own land line. I slipped out of the penthouse and went to the telephone kiosk on Tregunter Path. I rang Mac at his BBC news girl’s cottage in Kemptown.

Mac said he’ll be on his way, first thing tomorrow morning. His route will be London to Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport, and from there he’ll head to Schiphol in Amsterdam where he’ll swap boarding cards and passports with his look-alike. His next stop will be Changi Airport in Singapore, then on to Macau, and finally Hong Kong.

I’ve always believed that Mac was raised by Irish wolfhounds; he likes leaving a trail like a dog pissing in the snow. Of course, it’s always a trail that leads nowhere and confuses the shite out of any poor fecker following him.

I don’t think anyone will be following him on this trip, but if he is followed the look-alike should be tailed from Amsterdam. A known Provisional IRA killer turning up in Hong Kong would light a fire under the British spooks in London’s Curzon Street, to say nothing of Army Intelligence crammed into HMS Tamar. It’s just as well that height, colour of eyes, etc. aren’t recorded on passports anymore. There aren’t too many seven footers out there with grey-blue-hazel eyes willing to swap identities with Mac.

With the Frog and Toad boat trip already fading from my thoughts, I made my way home from Tregunter Path. I stripped off my clothes as I climbed the spiral staircase to my bedroom. I’m hoping to feign sleep before Susie wakes and reminds me of my promise to shag her whenever she feels like it – she always feels like it. She woke, and I went through the motions, but my mind isn’t on the task in hand.

———

I wasn’t sure if the safe house in Sussex Gardens was still secure, so I convinced my BBC news girl that we should move back to her Kemptown cottage. It’s within spitting distance of Brighton Marina.

She’d gone out to the corner shop for milk when the phone rang – two rings, stop, four rings, stop, three rings, stop. I answered the next ring. Finn was on the line, and he didn’t need to say a whole lot. From the tone of his voice I could tell that there’s mischief afoot. We used to call it that when there was an explosive device to stick under a car, or a gobshite to be double popped through the back of the head. Does someone need to be popped in Hong Kong? No problem, my pleasure.

Everything’s in place, and I’ll be on the first train to London in the morning. I’ll fly from Heathrow to CDG in Paris, where I’ll catch another plane to Amsterdam. My look-alike will meet me there and trade his passport and boarding cards for mine. I’ll hop the plane for the long flight to Singapore, and then it’s just a matter of one more flight to Macau and getting over to Hong Kong.