“Yeah.”
She put ten dollars on the counter. “Open it for me now, please.”
There were forty emails in her main account. She worked her way through them in ascending order. Tam had sent her his bank information and overly enthusiastic good wishes. Her mother wanted her to know that she had had a big night at mah-jong. Uncle hoped she was safe. Her best friend, Mimi, was going to break up with the guy she’d been seeing for the past few weeks.
She logged onto Yahoo and, using her mother’s home address, opened an email account under the name Eatfish12. She then sent an email to Jackson Seto. It said that she worked for a trading company in Toronto that was interested in importing cheap fish, and that she had been told Guyana was a good source. She was currently in Trinidad doing some sourcing but could get over to Georgetown on short notice if he thought there was an opportunity. She added that she had been referred to him by a friend of a friend who knew George Antonelli. She didn’t think there was much chance he would answer. Still, it was worth a shot.
She wandered back into the deserted lobby. The coffee shop was still shuttered. The desk clerk held up ten fingers, so Ava flopped into one of chairs and turned on her cellphone. Uncle had called. She hit the redial button.
“I’m just making sure you are okay,” he said. She knew he was with other people; he never used her name when he was.
“I’ve found him. I mean, I’ve seen him. Now I just have to figure out how to get to him.”
“Difficult?”
“I don’t know yet. I don’t know enough about him or his habits. He has a Vietnamese bodyguard, which is not good. His house is like a mini fortress. And if he is as connected here as Antonelli claims, I can’t count on the authorities — whoever they are — staying out of our business if it gets aggressive.”
“Do you want me to send help?”
“No, let me find out more.”
“Call me every day, then. I’ll worry otherwise.”
When Ava hung up, she noticed that an overweight middle-aged man had joined her. His large gut was accentuated by the tight T-shirt tucked into his jeans. The shirt read, guyana sucks. He had tattoos on both arms: RED DEVILS down one and MANCHESTER U down the other. He walked over to the coffee shop and rattled the closed grate. A young East Indian woman stuck her head out, saw him, and swung it open. Ava followed him in.
The coffee shop was small, but she tried to find a table as far away from him as possible. It didn’t do much good.
“So what in hell are you doing here?” he called over to her.
She wasn’t adept at identifying English accents, but even without the tattoos she could have figured out that he was from northern England and definitely working class. “I’m here on business,” she said, wishing she had a book or a newspaper to hide behind.
To her surprise he got up, walked over to her table, and sat down. “I’m Tom Benson,” he said.
“Ava Lee.”
“So what are you doing in this hellhole?”
“Some business — financial. In and out.”
“I should be so fucking lucky,” he said, pronouncing it more like fooking.
“Really.”
“Been here six fucking months and probably good for another six.”
“And how is that?”
“The power. I’m here to fix it, if it can be fixed.”
“You don’t seem to be having much success, if last night is any indication.”
The waitress came to the table. “Coffee and toast,” he said, “and make sure you use bottled water for the coffee.” He looked at Ava. “Don’t order the eggs or any of the meat. It’s given me at least two bouts of food poisoning. And you have to insist on bottled water or they use that shite from the river. They tried to sneak it by me once, but I went to the fucking kitchen and caught them. Now I pop in and out of the kitchen every so often to keep them honest.”
“I’ll have what he’s having,” Ava said to the waitress.
“I work for Rolls-Royce. They used to be in the diesel generator business, like about a hundred fucking years ago. This city has the last of those generators that are still working. They should have been replaced years ago but no one gives a shite, and even if they did they probably don’t have the money. So the Guyana government went to the U.K. government and said, ‘We have this problem. Could you arrange to send someone over to fix it?’ The U.K. guys went to Rolls-Royce and said, ‘Send someone over. We’ll pay for him.’ So here I am.”
“Six months?”
“Right. The second week I was here, I figured out one of the major problems and told the Power Authority — what a joke they are — they needed to order some parts. They have to be custom made, see. They told me they ordered them from an outfit in the U.S., some high-end tool-and-die operation. I’m still waiting for those fucking parts.”
“So what do you do? I mean, how do you fill your days?”
“At eight thirty they’ll send a car and driver for me. I’ll go to the office, make my long-distance calls back home, fuck around on the Internet, and then around eleven drag my arse into the boss’s office and ask him if the parts have arrived. He’ll say no and I’ll have the driver bring me back to the hotel. I usually sit by the pool drinking beer all afternoon, and then I head into town for dinner. I didn’t have this belly when I got here. I also had a girlfriend back home, and she’s packed me in.”
“So why do you stay?”
“The money mainly. I’m living here for virtually fucking free. All I have to pay for is my beer. Then, of course, there are the girls,” he said, looking to gauge her reaction. When she registered none, he went on. “I mean, for a bloke like me this is heaven when it comes to the girls. At home you practically have to beg before you can get laid. Here I flash a few dollars and, voila, I have my pick of the lot — every night if I want.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Not always. Sometimes it can get dicey.”
“Meaning?”
“This is a rough place, even for someone like me. Have to be careful. I was robbed twice before I figured out it was smart to leave my watch, wallet, room key, and everything but the money I needed for the night here in the hotel. If you’re going out anywhere, you should do the same thing. They’ll fucking come at you for a plastic Timex, never mind a Cartier,” he said, pointing at hers.
“Thanks.”
“No bother.”
Breakfast arrived. He didn’t let the waitress leave until he had sniffed and tasted the coffee.
Ava took a sip of hers. It was instant coffee, Nescafe, she thought. She wondered whether, if she brought her VIA instant in, they’d make that for her.
“Tom, do you know a club called Eckie’s?”
“Sure, it’s my favourite. Better class of girls. Imported beer.”
“Who owns it?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Have you ever seen a Chinese man hanging around the club?”
“A few.”
“This one is tall and skinny, really skinny. His hair is streaked with grey and he’s got a moustache that’s a bit off balance and a pointy, thin face like a rat.”
“Oh fuck, he’s a madman, that one. Drinks like a fucking fish and treats the girls like shite. He tosses money around like crazy too, which gets the girls all excited, but I’ve never seen him actually leave with one or nip into one of Eckie’s back rooms.”
“I thought you said it’s dangerous to have too much money on you.”
“For me, for you, for any other fucking tourist. He’s a local, that lad. I’ve seen the cops come into the club and give us all the fucking evil eye except for him. He has connections, he does.”
