The Water Rat of Wanchai (21 page)

“He seems to go to Eckie’s every night. We’ll confront him there. He’s a scrawny little piece of shit — you shouldn’t have any problem putting handcuffs on him and getting him out the door. We’ll take him to his house. If the woman is in the club, she’ll go with us. If she isn’t, we’ll deal with her at the house.”

He didn’t speak again until he stopped the truck at Donald’s Doughnut Shop. She looked around; the neighbourhood was even more rundown than central Georgetown.

“I live over there,” he said, pointing to a small red bungalow at the end of the street. “It’s my mother’s house.”

They got out of the truck and entered the shop, sitting in the booth farthest from the door. The coffee wasn’t instant but she didn’t complain. Her doughnut was virtually oozing fat. She ate it silently.

“Seto owns a piece of Eckie’s,” Patrick said between bites. “That’s how our people got to know him at first. Eckie’s is not completely legal. By that I mean clubs in general aren’t exactly legal, so if you want to operate one you have to make arrangements with the right people.”

“Are there bouncers at the club, or might any of his partners choose to interfere with us?”

“If they know we’re involved, everyone will stay out of the way. No see, no hear, no nothing.”

“Then let’s hope he goes to Eckie’s.”

“If we weren’t involved, how would you — I mean, what do you do in other cases when people aren’t co-operating?”

“There are always options,” she said. “The most important thing is figuring out ahead of time what will work. If I think a direct approach will succeed, then I become direct. If I think there’s going to be resistance, then I’m more discreet, less visible. In a case like Seto’s, if I were acting alone I would use something like chloral hydrate to strengthen my position.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Jesus, I haven’t heard that mentioned in a while.”

“I know, it’s a little old-fashioned. But it’s effective. There’s something about waking up with your hands and feet bound, your eyes masked and mouth covered, that makes people want to be cooperative. It brings an unknown quality; it lets me create a bit of fantasy. Since I have you, that won’t be necessary, but I’ll still tape his eyes and mouth until we get to the house.”

“No problem,” he said.

“Where are you from?” she asked suddenly. “You and the Captain have a similar accent. I can’t place it but I know it isn’t from here.”

“Barbados — we’re both Bajans. My grandmother was his nanny, if you can believe that. He moved here more than thirty years ago and made his name, made his fortune. I was a boy in trouble back home when Gran called the Captain and asked him to take me on. So I came with my mother and my sister. It isn’t Barbados, but we’re doing okay.”

“The Captain is an impressive man,” she said.

“The Captain runs this poor excuse for a country,” he said. “He keeps the animals in check.”

She fought back an urge to comment on the potholes, brown water, and irregular power. “Thank goodness,” she said.

“What are you going to do today?” he asked.

“I have a little shopping to do. Other than that I can’t do very much until the Captain gives me the green light.”

“I know.” Patrick yawned. “I had a late night. I think I’ll go to the gym and get myself revved. You want to come?”

“No, I ran this morning. I’m good.”

“We were talking last night, Bobby and me, about the way you handled those two creeps. They’re handy, both of them, so we couldn’t figure out how you did it. I thought maybe you could show me at the gym.”

“I practise bak mei,” she said. “It isn’t something you teach someone at a gym.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s a Chinese martial art.”

“Like karate, kung fu?“

“Like kung fu but not kung fu. No one makes movies about bak mei.”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s very old, very Chinese — Taoist in fact. It has never caught on in the Western world because it isn’t pretty and it can’t be made into a sport. It’s purely functional, designed to inflict damage. And it can be lethal when applied to the extreme. I went relatively easy on those two.”

“Do you use kicks?”

“Only below the waist.”

“Nice,” he said. “How did you learn this stuff?”

“I was already into martial arts and I was good, good enough that one of the teachers pulled me aside and asked if I had heard of bak mei. I hadn’t. He explained that it was a secret art — in the old days, a forbidden art — and that it was only taught one-on-one: father to son, teacher to student. He asked me if I wanted to learn. When I said I did, he sent me to see Grandmaster Tang. I haven’t stopped learning since.”

“Show me some moves.”

“It isn’t something to be demonstrated.”

“No juking and jiving?”

“Afraid not.”

Patrick, thinking Ava was joking, waited, expecting her to get up and move into a fighting position. When she didn’t, he said, “You aren’t any fun.”

“That’s true enough.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I think I’d just like to go back to the hotel.”

“You aren’t any fun at all.”

“That’s still true.”

An hour later, Ava was in her rattan chair with the James Clavell on her lap. Time would not move fast enough. She read for two hours and then was so restless she couldn’t stay put anymore. She went down to the business centre, signed on, and then thought about Tommy Ordonez. It was one of her rules never to start thinking about the next case before the one she was working on was completed. She had done it twice and both times it had brought bad luck. She hesitated and then thought,
What the hell
. She was at least as curious as she was superstitious.

She googled Tommy Ordonez. He seemed to own half the Philippines. This job was enticing both in size and in terms of the participants. But why had Ordonez gone to Uncle? On any number of levels it didn’t make any sense. Ava wondered what kind of deal Uncle had cut with him, or rather them. The older she got, the more inflexible she found herself becoming. If their rate was thirty percent, what did it matter if they were collecting ten million or a hundred million? The client was out the larger amount, and if she was their last hope, thirty percent was nothing. She loved Uncle and had enormous respect for him, but there were times when he was too accommodating with people who were above him in the power scheme. At some point she would have to talk to him about that. Not now, though.

For maybe the tenth time since she had been given Seto’s account number at Barrett’s Bank, she logged onto the Barrett’s website. She hit the access your account button and punched in the S&A account number. The program asked for the password. As before, she didn’t even attempt to guess at one. She was leery of bank websites. They were sensitive in the extreme; if she entered the wrong password she was afraid it would trigger a reaction, and any reaction would not be to her benefit. She just wanted to confirm that the account was still active, and it was.

She figured the wire would be sent that evening and she would be able to get confirmation to the Captain the next morning. The money might even land in his account that day if she was lucky. If not, she would try to sweet-talk him into letting Patrick and her and whomever else they wanted to involve go after Seto tomorrow night.

Things had gone very well with this project. The money had been almost ridiculously easy to find, and Seto had become a sitting duck once she had located him. The only wrinkle had been the Captain and his crew. But if everything went according to plan, Tam would have most of his money back within twenty-four hours, and she would be on a plane back to Toronto the morning after.

( 25 )

THE WIRE HAD BEEN SENT THE NIGHT BEFORE, AND AVA
had printed two copies of the confirmation. She called the Captain’s office and was put directly through to Robbins.

“Ava, do you have some good news for me?”

“The wire went through last night. I have a copy of the confirmation. Can I bring it to you?”

“Is Patrick there?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been downstairs yet.”

“He should be there. Give it to him and ask him to bring it over to the office.”

“I can bring it there myself.”

“No, my dear, please just give it to Patrick.”

“The money might be deposited into the account today,” she said.

“That would be nice.”

“If it isn’t, I’m hoping you might take the copy of the confirmation at face value and let us deal with Seto tonight.”

“That’s possible,” he said. “I don’t like dragging things out unnecessarily. Let me see the wire and I’ll tell Patrick how we are to proceed.”

“Thank you.”

Patrick was in the lobby reading a newspaper. He smiled when he saw her and held the paper out for her to see. There was a picture of the man whose nose she had crushed. “He claims he was walking along the seawall when he was viciously attacked by a woman with a cricket bat. The paper is urging people to be cautious until the police find the suspect.”

“How stupid is that, to draw attention to himself that way?”

“He has a little life. For this morning at least he is in the spotlight. It happens all the time here. Something atrocious happens and instead of keeping quiet, the victims feel compelled to tell the world, or at least to tell Georgetown.”

“Here,” she said, handing him a hotel envelope. “Could you take this over to the Captain? He’s waiting for it.”

Ava was in the coffee shop working on her second cup of Starbucks instant, which the waitress had agreed to make, when Patrick returned. The office, she figured, had to be in the neighbourhood.

He sat down, a contented look on his face. “The Captain sends his regards. We have the go-ahead for tonight.”

She beamed. Good dim sum wasn’t much more than a day away.

“How about Seto’s friends? What have they been told?”

“The Captain has already had a chat with the one who counts. He’ll make another courtesy call today to let him know it’s going down tonight. The word will get out.”

“Not prematurely?”

“You don’t know the Captain,” said Patrick. “Things get done the way he wants, when he wants — always. You have his word, and I’m here as proof of that. No one is going to warn Seto. No one would dare. The wrath of Captain Robbins is a terrible thing to experience.”

“So how do we proceed?” she asked.

“My people are keeping an eye on Seto. The moment he leaves Malvern Gardens we’ll know.”

“If he doesn’t follow the usual routine?”

“We’ll work something out.”

His casual manner took her aback. She was accustomed to working alone, to sweating every detail, to being thorough to the point of obsessive. Now she had to work with a team over which she had no control, and she had to accept that her plan was subject to the whims of not just Seto.

Patrick sensed her discomfort. “Ava, this is Guyana. At the end of the day, one way or another, you’ll get Seto, because the Captain has said that’s what will happen. If it’s at Eckie’s, great. If it’s somewhere else, what does it matter?”

“What do you want me to do this afternoon?”

“Whatever you want. Go for a swim, go for a run, beat up some locals. I’ll pick you up here at six and we’ll go downtown, park near the restaurant, and wait for Seto.”

Ava decided to go for another run. When she got back to the hotel, she showered and then went downstairs. She had toast and jam in the restaurant and killed some time on the computer, but it was still only four o’clock when she got back to her room. She turned on the television for the first time and watched old reruns of
M*A*S*H
and the
Bob Newhart Show.

Six o’clock came and went without a word from Patrick. She checked and double-checked the kitbag she had packed with the odds and ends she would need for Seto. She also started getting her luggage organized for the trip home.

At six thirty she thought about calling Patrick and then held off, fearful of looking too anxious, like an amateur.

It was almost seven when her cellphone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“He’s on the move, headed for downtown. I’ll pick you up in five minutes. Be outside.”

Patrick was at the entrance by the time she had worked her way downstairs. He looked at the kitbag in her hand and said nothing.

“Ng is with him, and the woman,” he said as they left the hotel.

“The woman is good,” Ava said.

They parked half a block from the restaurant and slumped down in the red Toyota truck. They didn’t have to wait long. The Land Rover rumbled into the street and Ng parked it directly in front of the restaurant and jumped out. Seto took a bit longer and then stood by the back door, holding his hand out for the woman as she descended.

“How can they eat here every night?” Patrick asked.

“It’s a Hong Kong thing,” she said. “People there have incredibly small apartments, and getting outside is part of daily life. The fact that they also love to eat gives them the perfect excuse. There must be more restaurants per capita in Hong Kong than any other place on earth. And when they find a restaurant they like, they keep going to it.”

“I should try this place sometime,” he said.

“There will be two menus: one for Chinese, the other for . . . well, for non-Chinese.”

“In that case I’ll pass.” Patrick looked around. “We can get out of the truck now if you want; they can’t see us from inside. There’s a roti shop over there that isn’t bad. From the window we have a good view of the restaurant.”

As they were about to get out of the truck a black Nissan sedan pulled alongside. The tinted window on the passenger’s side slid down slowly and a black man with grey hair eased his head out towards them.

“Park near Eckie’s,” Patrick said to him. “They should be about an hour in the restaurant. Wait until Seto goes into the club before making a move on Ng. There’s a woman with them. If she goes into the club we’ll look after her. If she doesn’t, you’ll have to get her. Separate her from Ng. We’ll need her with us.”

The man nodded and rolled the window back up.

“They’re a good team — experienced,” he said to her as the Nissan left to position itself near Eckie’s. “The Captain has given you some quality.”