“Gigolo?” I shrugged, gave him a mug to stop that prodding digit. “Some job.”
“Yours any better?” he cracked, which really stung. I wanted to clout him, but my scheme might need him so I smiled my sincerest smile.
“Tooshay. But we’re living hand-to-mouth, right?”
He eyed me. One thing about this nerk, he wasn’t thick. “What’re you up to, Lovejoy?”
“Me?” I tasted the tea, grimaced. Horrible. “Nothing. Honest.” Pause. We looked at each other, him suspicious, me pure innocent. I cleared my throat. “Well… almost nothing.”
“Oh, no, Lovejoy! Oh, bloody no!” He was instantly up, pacing, shouting. He scared me, so many gestures at nothing.
“You’re spilling your tea.”
“Fuck the tea!” He practically marched at me, glaring, a ferocious hot sweaty plum suddenly terrified out of its life. “I frigging know you by now, you crazy burke!”
I was amazed, doing it really well, raised brows and everything, going, “Me? What have I done?” into his apoplexy.
“Done? Done?” he bellowed. “It’s what you’re going to do, you frigging lunatic! You’ll kill us sodding both, that’s what you’ve done!” Syntax to pieces.
He grabbed me, hauled me away from the window in agitation, sank his voice to an urgent croak. “Listen, you fucking maniac. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on in that batty cranium of yours. You’re thinking to outscam the Triad? Oh, no—I’m going to get on that blower and let them know you’re sick as a pig. I’ll admit you to Queen Mary Hospital for the cure—”
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?”
