by Mike Coony
The car’s rear door opened. I got another smart salute from the driver before he effortlessly lifted my duffle bag from the boot and gestured me towards the hotel entrance.
Limp-wristed Eddie handled the check-in formalities with one short sentence directed at a carnation-buttonhole-wearing-silver-haired-flunky dressed in tails and morning trousers. “Mister Finn Flynn is an honoured guest of my employer.”
Whatever the import of those ten words, they definitely pressed the right buttons. We were immediately surrounded by more flunkies, some wearing funny pillbox hats and embroidered silk waistcoats, and others in morning suits – minus the flowers in their morning coat lapels.
The silver-haired-important-looking-buttonhole-fellah and Limp-wristed Eddie whisked me up to the Macau Suite. I’ve seen pictures of swanky hotel suites in magazines, but they looked drab compared to the place I’ve just stepped into. Walking backward, Limp-wristed Eddie and the buttonhole-fellah left me standing in the foyer of the suite. I’m that mesmerised by the luxury of the place I barely noticed them leaving.
As I walk down a long corridor the thick carpet is sinking under my size twelve boots. The walls are lined with varnished oil paintings in heavy gilt frames, and exquisite hand-decorated vases and statuettes.
At the end of the corridor there’s an enormous room with back-to-back sofas and ceramic urns as tall as the man who’s just appeared from a concealed side door. The man’s dressed in a butler’s outfit, and he’s sort of bowing to me as he walks quietly into the room.
“Welcome to the Macau Suite Mister Finn Flynn. I will be your butler for the duration of your stay, sir. There are a number of bells like this one, sir,” he announced, holding up a small gold bell. “These are located throughout the suite Mister Finn Flynn. Please ring if you require me anytime, day or night.”
OK, enough is enough! Someone is pulling my leg here. I’m a terrorist on the run, not the president of a banana republic. What’s the score? Where’s the hidden camera, eh?
When I eventually got to the bedroom I was struck dumb in disbelief. I’ve been in people’s homes that are smaller than the bed. All the same, that didn’t stop me doing a swan dive into the middle of the bed.
I stayed right there until the butler entered the room and I heard just the hint of a cough, to let me know he’s there. This man has stealth down to a fine art – another man we could make great use of in and around the narrow back streets of Belfast and Derry.
“Would you like me to run you a relaxing bath, or would you prefer a shower, perhaps, sir?”
I came to my senses and remembered that I’m a socialist Republican, and butlers dancing attention don’t fit with that.
“It’s OK. I’ll look after meself in that department. You go on and take it easy. I can turn on a couple of water taps,” I said.
“Then I shall retire to my room, sir. Please ring if you do require any assistance, any at all, sir.”
Here I am, being a thoughtless shite again. There’s dignity in a man’s work, even if it is servile work. And I’ve just stomped all over a proud man’s dignity. I didn’t ring the bell, and I know I never will, but I went looking for the butler and found him in his pantry.
“Could I ask your name please?”
”It’s Ling, Mister Finn Flynn, sir, William Ling.”
“Right Mister Ling, I’m going to freshen up now. It’s been a long day and I’m not in the best of humours. I’d be obliged if you could organise a large glass of fresh orange juice, please.”
“There will be a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice ready by the time you wish to drink it, sir,” he replied, pointing to a juicer on the counter in his pantry.
“I couldn’t ask for better than that,” I replied, with what I hope isn’t a condescending smile.
7
HONG KONG
The telephone was buzzing while I was in the shower. As soon as I shut the water off Mister Ling tapped on the bathroom door to tell me that my guests are waiting downstairs in the Chinnery lounge. Jaysus, I’m certainly not expecting any guests. I hope these guests don’t wear size twelve shoes, hold identity cards, carry handcuffs and truncheons – or maybe firearms – and have no sense of humour whatsoever.
Feeling a good deal fresher after my shower and orange juice, I headed downstairs and found the Chinnery lounge on the second floor. The discreet lighting, old mahogany wood panels, polished brass and deep leather banquette seating give the bar the look of an ocean liner’s first class salon, or a Whitehall club – not that I’ve been inside either. But I’ve seen enough pictures in magazines and programmes on TV to get the general idea.
There’s no obvious sign of any policemen in the bar, but I see Limp-wristed Eddie in the darkest far corner. He’s sitting alongside an elderly Chinese man and a handsome, suntanned man with curly hair who I take to be Italian, or maybe Israeli. He has that intense look, like he’s on a mission for Mossad or the CIA. As I approached their table Eddie stood up to greet me and beckon a hovering waiter.
“Whiskey and water, please,” I said. The waiter remained motionless, as if he didn’t understand my order.
“The Chinnery only serves single-malt whiskey. You have to tell him which brand you want,” Eddie whispered. The only name I can think of is Glenmorangie, which seems to satisfy the waiting waiter. He stuck his tray under his arm, like a sergeant major’s baton, and stepped sharply to the bar.
The elderly Chinese man introduced himself. “I am Mister Sui Wong-Li, but most westerners prefer to call me Uncle Sui,” he said slowly, in perfect English with a slight American twang. “Please join us for lunch, Finn. The Man Wah serves a fine Peking duck, which I believe you will enjoy. Isn’t that right Gerry?” The aside question was addressed to the curly headed man who hasn’t been introduced, or spoken a single word.
I just want to crawl into bed and sleep. Even so, I know enough about Asian customs to know that first impressions matter to elderly Chinese.
“Thank you, I’d be delighted,” I mumbled.
“Excellent! But before we go upstairs…I am an old man, I need the restroom so often these days,” announced Uncle Sui, rising from his seat with the assistance of the ever-attentive Limp-wristed Eddie.
As soon as they were out of range, Gerry shot out his hand in greeting. He gave me a firm grip, which I sense could’ve been a good deal stronger if he wanted it to be.
“I think Uncle Sui’s just displayed an unusual diplomatic gesture…giving the two gweilos, that’s you and me, the chance to get acquainted. Don’t expect to see that kinda tact on a regular basis, that ain’t his style. Him and me, we’ve got what you might call a working relationship. I do the work and he keeps the money. It ain’t as bad as it sounds. Me and my pal Nico, you’ll get to meet him later, we do good under Uncle’s wing. Here they are, coming back. I’ll fill you in on the fairy later. OK Finn?”
These Oriental shenanigans are too much for my poor addled head. I can’t string a sensible sentence together, and it’s all I can manage just to stay awake. My three days’ partying with the Kurdish fighters I’d befriended are taking their toll. My eyelids are taking on a life of their own…they just want to shut up shop and sleep. Of course, I’m not sure whether this is due to seventy-two hours’ partying Kurdish-warrior-style, jet lag, the astonishment at my accommodation, delight at being eight thousand kilometres away from the police that are chasing me, or my present company. Whatever it is, I can’t rehearse what I’m about to say in my head before opening my mouth – like I normally do. So I just nodded, grinned and said nothing.
I got a closer look at Mister Sui Wong-Li, aka Uncle Sui, in the lift on the way up to the restaurant on the twenty-fourth floor. He’s about five feet eight inches tall with black, expressionless eyes and a military haircut; he’s so thin that his skin stretches tightly over his high cheekbones. He’s wearing a black silk suit with a matching tie and a brilliant white shirt. When he raised his hand to gesture me out of the lift I noticed the nail on his
pinkie finger is long, sharp and varnished.
We were met in the lobby by the restaurant manager, and he escorted us inside. Our table is laid with gold and silver lacquered plates and ivory chopsticks tipped with gold; the starched linen napkins are folded into storks.
The head chef entered the dining room dressed in freshly laundered whites. He approached our table and gave Uncle Sui something between a long nod and a short bow, and he pretty much ignored the rest of us. Before he returned to the kitchen his eyes may’ve hovered for a moment over Eddie, but I couldn’t swear to it.
For a minute or so we sat staring at each other around the table, and not a word was spoken. Feck this for a game of auld soldiers, I thought. At the risk of offending my host, I reached across the table and stuck out my hand to Gerry.
“Finn Flynn, Irishman,” I said, like we’ve not spoken before.
Gerry followed suit and stuck out his hand. “Hi. Gerry Gant, American.”
I glanced over at Uncle Sui just in time to catch a perceptive grin cross his face. Our charade hasn’t fooled him for a moment. I’m pretty sure he knows the affable Gerry wouldn’t have been able to resist saying hi when he feigned needing to piss back in the bar. Still, if they want to play inscrutable pan-Pacific head games, that’s up to them.
Five minutes passed without an order being taken, and then a covey of waiters arrived at the table. They have an assortment of dishes, and a magnum of Cristal Champagne in a gold and silver ice bucket.
“Do you have still Tipperary Water?” I asked the sommelier. A bottle arrived moments later in its own miniature ice bucket.
The Peking duck with wafer-thin pancakes, spring onions and plum sauce was delicious. I ate my fill of duck and drank every drop of my water; I rarely leave anything behind on a plate or in a glass. Uncle Sui, Eddie and Gerry only picked at the food on their plates, and the magnum of Cristal remains untouched.
“Your accommodation, is it suitable? Good?” asked Uncle Sui, while looking directly across the table at me for the first time since we sat down. He didn’t wait for an answer, or maybe it’s that he answered his own question.
“Finn Flynn stays here as my guest. The hotel, they understand this?” This question was addressed to Limp-wristed Eddie, and he answered in a Chinese dialect I’ve never heard before. “English, speak English. Don’t be rude to our guests,” Uncle barked at Eddie, with a withering glare.
“Oh yes, yes, the hotel, they understand,” grovelled Eddie, ignoring Uncle Sui’s rebuking like a whipped puppy dog.
No bill has been presented, but that exchange seems to have concluded our lunch. The manager and head chef reappeared to enquire if we’ve enjoyed our meal…even though they can see the untouched plates of food and the unopened bottle of expensive Champagne still standing in the ice bucket. They didn’t seem to notice that I’d eaten all before me, and drank my water. Uncle Sui permitted a faint, fleeting smile to cross his lips, which appears to have satisfied them.
The restaurant manager accompanied us in the lift down to the lobby. As Uncle Sui walked towards the exit he was discreetly surrounded by six immaculately groomed, athletic-looking young men who appeared out of nowhere. He didn’t look back, and there was no gesture of farewell.
Gerry and I lounged on the comfortable couches that litter the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong. Seeing Uncle Sui leave, I thought to meself: there’s a pleasant old gentleman, possibly lacking a little in the subtleties of European manners, but agreeable enough….
“So Finn, you look bushed pal, but could you stay awake long enough for a little get-together talk? Could you, buddy?” Gerry asked.
“Sorry Gerry. I’m whacked mo chara. Later, OK?”
“Get some shut-eye Finn. Uncle wants me to kinda look out for you, one gweilo to another. You know? We’ll have plenty of time to cover the bases later, but for now, ciao!”
So, he confirmed it…kind of. Gerry’s Italian American, not Israeli.
I have one thing to do before hitting that huge bed – or ollmhór leaba in my adopted mother tongue – upstairs in my suite.…Gary Cooke, an art student I knew back in the Brighton days, has a brother working as a newspaper reporter in Hong Kong. Gary gave me his brother’s home phone number and told me to be sure to ring him. I decided to give it a try, to see if I can rustle up some contacts of my own. I’m a touch wary about the contacts I’ve just met – too much too soon, if you get my meaning. I rang the number but there’s no answer; I suppose he’s out at work.
I slipped between the sheets of my giant bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
8
MACAU
I’m relieved that Finn Flynn wasn’t up for the get-to-know-you powwow I suggested. I have urgent business to attend to in Macau.
A Ruskie cruise ship arrived today for a three-day stopover, and that means suckers. Some of the passengers will be looking for passports and other papers to get them eternally-the-fuck-out-of-Mother Russia, so they can live in some asshole place like Liechtenstein – where no one will ask how come they’re so goddamn rich. I have to get to these idioti before someone else picks them off…seeing as I don’t have a monopoly on hokey passports. I could have if I’d included Uncle Sui in this little sideline, but I didn’t. I’m flying solo on this scam.
I headed straight to the ship from the heliport, climbed the gangway and joined the better-dressed passengers in the Premier Lounge. Before the night was over I bagged myself a couple of university professors, an oilman and two ‘exotic entertainers’…all looking for Irish passports and driver’s licenses.
My Australian competition got to the cruise liner earlier in the day, masquerading as a bespoke tailor. He had more time to rustle up chumps, so I’m sure did even better than me. But unlike me, he’s stuck with the fake US dollars.
With my overnight business on the ship finito, I walked along the bund as far as the Pousada de São Tiago Hotel. It’s a seventeenth century stone fort that’s been converted into a hotel; when I’m in Macau I like to have breakfast on the veranda, overlooking the harbour. The Pousada de São Tiago specialises in my favourite king-sized sardines, which happen to be the cheapest dish on the menu, but I’d happily pay ten times more.
Anyway, I want to enjoy a breakfast that reminds me of better times in the bosom of my family. I ordered king-sized sardines baked in sea salt, served with freshly baked bread and olives. The taste, the smell of the freshly baked bread, the olives – it all takes me right back to when I was a kid at Chesapeake Bay during the long summer vacations. I’d be eating baked crab, clams and mussels boiled in salty water, watching Poppa play pinochle with his younger brother, my Uncle Angelo. Poppa always let Angelo win at the cards.
———
I was in a goddamn hurry when I left the United States. I flew to Macau, which is off the southern coast of the PRC. The whole archipelago is governed by Portugal, under a lease that doesn’t run out until 1999. Till then, it’s a wild town – like Las Vegas and Atlantic City in the old days.
I knew before I got here that I’d hook-up with my buddy Nico. He’d sent me a cockamamie seaside picture postcard, care of my sister’s girlfriend up in Toronto, Canada – so the feds wouldn’t see it before I did. Like always, Nico was hustling a good living out of the casinos, except this time it was a long way away from the good ole US of A.
Nico is Head of Security at the Lisbon Casino and Hotel. That’s a hoot right there – talk about turning the poacher into the gamekeeper! Nico knows more ways to rip-off a casino than Lucky Luciano, and he sure knew a few, as everyone knows now.
Of course, maybe the Chinese casino owners weren’t so stupid in hiring Nico. Chi meglio individuare un shyster che un shyster?…And me. When Nico asked the big boss to give me a job, the guy looked me over for a good ten seconds before he said a word.
“OK, Gerry…it is Gerry, yes? You can be a marker. You know what a marker is?”
“I sure do, and thanks for the chance.”
“We’ll se
e.”
It was the shortest job interview I ever had. No…that was the only job interview I ever had.
Permettetemi di dirvi…it’s a cakewalk picking out the high rollers getting off their shiny-white cruisers, or dropping out of the sky in their private helicopters. And getting them sauced up with free booze…no problema. Like Uncle Angelo always says, rich people love getting something for nothing. Then, when they’re lit up – like good little rich folks – they take the elevator down from the penthouse and walk right into the hotel casino. I get two per cent commission on anything over the first twenty thousand they lose. It’s a living, and it leaves me with free time to work on my own scams.
Nico and me like to make a few quick bucks whenever we can, so we help out gamblers down on their luck. We give them loans against their gold watches, diamond rings, or the keys to their cars parked back at the Sheung Wan Terminal on Hong Kong Island.
One of Nico’s ideas was real simple, and pretty easy money. He picks out the big winners at the casino teller’s window, and then we get them grabbed before they make it back to their hotel, or the ferry, or the heliport. Most of the time these schmucks still have their chips or cash with them, so we just help ourselves and let them on their way…with a warning to stay away from the police.
Sometimes we run into smart gamblers who stash their winnings in a night safe, where it can’t be got at until the bank opens in the morning. Nico rents a place near the casino for when we grab a smart gambler. We only hold the marks in the apartment for as long as we have to, which is until the bank opens. Of course, they have to volunteer to part with their winnings, or our hired help beats the shit out of them just enough to encourage them to volunteer their winnings. Anyway, in these situations we send out for a little something to eat and drink, maybe even play a few games of cards to pass the time – all real civilised. But lucky for us, there aren’t too many smart gamblers.