Hungry Ghost

by Stephen Leather

  Amy spotted him as soon as he walked in. She came over and gave him her tombstone smile. ‘Nice to see you, Tom.’

  She caught him by surprise until he remembered that Tom was the name he’d used the previous night. He was impressed that she’d taken the trouble to remember his name, but then realized that it was part of her job – make the customer feel wanted and important and special and chances are that he’d buy you a drink. Sound commercial sense, nothing else.

  ‘Hiya, Amy. How are you?’

  ‘Happy to see you,’ she said, and linked her arm through his, leading him to the circular bar. It was crowded and there were only two empty seats, one either side of a bulky giant of a man with a crew cut and bulging forearms. Amy touched him lightly on the arm and asked him to move to the right, and he did so with a beaming, drunken smile. Amy guided Howells to one of the seats and sat down next to him. ‘Beer?’ she said.

  Howells nodded. ‘What’s the best local beer?’

  ‘San Mig,’ she said. ‘You want?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll try it.’

  There were two girls dancing, with three sitting on stools chattering. The cadaverous man was there talking to his girlfriend, a sheaf of blue chits in the glass on the bar in front of him. Must be love, thought Howells sourly. Most of the men in the bar were soldiers or sailors, youngsters with cropped hair and pimples, laughing and shouting above the pulse of the music, ogling the girls and heckling each other. American accents everywhere. Amy returned with his drink.

  ‘Get yourself one, Amy,’ he said.

  The girls dancing were Filipina, short and slightly chubby, mahogany skin and black eyes, flirting madly with their adoring audience. The record changed to a Beach Boys number, Surfing USA or something, and with whoops of delight three of the young men jumped on to their stools, waving their arms and swaying from side to side in a pretty good imitation of surfing. The girls stopped dancing and stood there pouting with their hands on their hips. Amy put a plastic tumbler in front of him with a white chit for his beer and a blue one for her hostess drink.

  ‘Sailors,’ she said. ‘Americans.’ As if that explained everything.

  ‘Good business,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said, with surprising venom. ‘Just trouble. They come from PI. No money left.’

  ‘PI?’

  ‘Philippine Islands. Girls there very cheap. When they come here no money left. And they not buy drinks for girls, just themselves. And usually they very impolite.’

  Howells nodded sympathetically. ‘How long are they here for?’

  ‘Four days. I think I try to take holiday tomorrow. I ask mamasan.’

  ‘Probably a good idea. What sort of ship are they on?’

  ‘Submarine. Nuclear submarine. They stay about five miles away and come in on small boat. Stay four days and then go.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘Supposed to be secret, but one of them said they go to Korea. They talk all the time, boasting. See that boy?’ She nodded towards the middle of the three barstool-surfers. ‘He weapons officer. His job is to fire the missiles.’

  He looked to be barely out of his teens, a faceful of freckles and ginger hair, flushed with drink and frowning as he tried to maintain his balance. He whooped and attempted to spin his stool around, his arms windmilling through the air and knocking his two mates over. The three of them tumbled backwards, crashing into the wall behind them and falling into a pile of arms and legs and stools. One of the girls screamed but they were OK, too drunk to hurt themselves with anything less than a fall from an eight-storey building.

  ‘You look fierce,’ said Amy, concern in her voice. ‘What is wrong?’

  Howells forced a smile. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just a hard day, that’s all. Hey, what’s going on outside?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Families burning paper and putting food in the street.’

  ‘Festival,’ she said. ‘Festival of the Hungry Ghosts.’

  Howells looked bemused and Amy laughed. ‘This is the time of the year when the gates to Hell are opened and all the ghosts come back to earth. You must keep them out of your houses, so you feed them in the street. And burn money for them. You must keep them happy so that they bring good luck.’ She lifted her glass and looked at Howells through it. ‘Nice to meet you, Tom,’ she said. Over the other side of the bar the three surfers had climbed back on to their stools and were busy drinking themselves into oblivion.

  The meal had gone well, very well. The pasta had been cooked to perfection, an unusual feat in Hong Kong, the veal was as tender as he’d ever eaten and the bottle of red wine they’d put away had relaxed Dugan completely. The only black spot on the evening had been when the waiter had returned with his Access card and told him that it hadn’t been accepted. Dugan realized he hadn’t paid the last account from the card company. There hadn’t been enough in his bank account to cover it. He handed over his Amex card and smiled apologetically at Petal.

  ‘Let’s split it,’ she said.

  ‘No, it’s OK. It’s just an administrative foul-up, that’s all. And my salary cheque went in a couple of days ago. Don’t worry, I’m solvent.’

  Until the bank took his mortgage payment out, and the management charges for his flat, and the electricity, gas and phone bills all got whipped out by the magic of direct debit. And he’d have to pay something on his credit cards or they’d be repossessed this time, he was sure of it. Shit. At least if he was in the private sector he could go and ask his boss for a raise.

  ‘Well, I insist on you letting me buy you a nightcap,’ she said. ‘How about going back to Hot Gossip?’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Dugan answered, though with just a tinge of regret. He wanted to get back into bed with her as quickly as possible. She looked stunning; tight black velvet trousers and a jacket made of some glossy, gold-coloured material, with padded shoulders and a thin collar that was turned up at the back. She had on open-toed shoes and he noticed for the first time that she’d painted her toenails bright pink. God, she was sexy, even more so by virtue of the fact she seemed so small and vulnerable. Still, if the lady wanted Hot Gossip, that’s what the lady would get.

  They walked through the crowded streets of Tsim Sha Tsui, Dugan taking pride in the fact that Petal turned a lot of heads, Chinese and gweilo. He wanted the whole world to know that she was with him, wanted to label her as spoken for. He made do by holding her hand. It felt small and cool and was lost in his.

  Most of the shops they walked past were for tourists: electric goods, jewellers, high fashion, with a sprinkling of topless bars, but even here families were out in force with their offerings to the ghosts.

  ‘Do your family do this?’ asked Dugan.

  Petal nodded earnestly. ‘Of course. It’s part of our heritage. Even more so on the mainland. I help clean my ancestors’ graves each year, I eat moon cake during the moon festival, I feed the ghosts.’ He still couldn’t get used to the cut-glass accent coming from such an obviously Chinese girl.

  ‘But do you believe in it all?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether I believe it or not. That’s not the point. It’s part of being Chinese. You wouldn’t understand, and I don’t mean that nastily.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m not explaining it very well,’ she said.

  ‘Are your family in Hong Kong?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Manchuria, northern China. What about your parents? Where are they?’

  Dugan noticed the sharp change in subject, as if he’d touched a nerve. It was understandable, though; many Hong Kong Chinese were sensitive about their origins. Most were refugees, or the children of refugees, and the richer families didn’t like anyone taking too close a look at their backgrounds because a great many of the old fortunes were based on opium or drug smuggling.

  ‘They live in a town called Cheadle Hulme, near Manchester.’

  ‘The north of England.’

  ‘That’s right. They have a shop there, a bookshop.’r />
  ‘Are you from a big family?’

  Dugan shook his head. ‘No, just one sister, Jill.’

  They’d reached the entrance to the disco, but went upstairs to the bar. Standing at their usual place were Bellamy and Burr, and Bellamy raised his eyebrows as he saw who Dugan was with.

  ‘Petal,’ he said, stepping forward to meet her. ‘So nice to see you again. It seems like only yesterday …’

  ‘It was only yesterday, Jeff,’ said Colin.

  Bellamy took her elfin hand and kissed it gently. Dugan felt a flash of jealousy but let it pass. Bellamy tried it on with every girl he met. His theory was that the more times you tried, the more often you’d succeed – it was just a matter of statistics.

  ‘How’s Holt?’ asked Dugan.

  ‘He’ll be OK, it’s his pride that hurts more than anything,’ said Burr.

  Dugan put his arm protectively around Petal’s shoulders. She smiled up at him and held him around the waist. Bellamy and Burr looked at each other with mock horror on their faces.

  ‘The boy’s in love,’ gasped Burr.

  ‘Throw a bucket of water over them, somebody,’ yelled Bellamy.

  ‘Christ,’ said Dugan, and he looked up at the ceiling in exasperation.

  Petal seemed to revel in the company of the three men, laughing at Bellamy’s corny jokes and listening with rapt attention to Burr’s stories of police work. Dugan began to show his impatience; he didn’t want to be standing at the bar with just one third of her attention, he wanted one hundred per cent of her, ideally naked and preferably in bed. He kept his arm around her shoulder and occasionally he’d give her an encouraging squeeze, but she made no move to go. The bar was busy, buzzing with its usual night-time mix of off-duty coppers, television starlets, Chinese yuppies and underworld figures. For once Dugan’s eyes weren’t prowling the crowd looking for possible conquests – he’d got all he wanted right under his arm. Petal was all he wanted to look at. It had been a long time since he’d felt like that about a girl.

  ‘But aren’t you frightened, taking on the triads?’ she asked Burr.

  ‘What’s to be frightened about?’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ she hesitated, ‘don’t they try to stop you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But not with violence. They wouldn’t dream of hurting a copper, not a gweilo anyway. The whole force would come down on them like a ton of bricks. They fight each other all the time, hatchets, guns, acid, the works. But it’s always in-house violence, the public hardly ever gets hurt. And they leave the cops alone.’

  Bellamy nodded in agreement. ‘Most of the top triads are OK guys when you meet them socially. Wouldn’t you say so, Dugan?’

  Dugan grinned, a smile with no warmth. Bellamy was a bit tight, but even when sober he took a malicious glee at picking away at people’s sore points, and right now friendships with triads was a definite touchy subject so far as Dugan was concerned.

  ‘Take a look around you,’ said Burr, waving theatrically with his arm. He pointed at a Chinese youth, late twenties, in a snappy blue silk suit, who was eating a steak and talking at the same time to a demure girl in a tight-fitting black dress that left little to the imagination. On the table in front of the man was a mobile telephone.

  Petal raised an eyebrow expectantly. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Triad,’ he said. ‘Danny Lam. Very big in drugs, and I mean big. Danny Boy drives a very pretty little Ferrari, and he’s partial to young Chinese girls – and I mean young. That one he’s with now is twice the age he normally goes for. He gets them hooked on cocaine and when he’s finished with them he hands them over to one of the fishball stalls.’

  Petal wrinkled her nose. ‘The what?’

  ‘You’ve never heard of fishball stalls?’ said Bellamy in disbelief. ‘Underage brothels. Chinese only, gweilos are never allowed in. We raid about five a week, charge the organizers and send the girls back to their parents. A few days later the girls run away again and the bad guys are out on bail. And so it goes on. See that guy over there?’ This time he gestured towards another young man, this one with slicked-back hair and an expensive leather jacket. Under one arm he carried a small Gucci case from which protruded the aerial of a portable telephone. He was laughing with two teenage girls, one either side. Not exactly twins, but close. Petal looked at Bellamy for an explanation.

  ‘Stockbroker,’ he said. ‘One of the best. Drives a Porsche. Now, can you tell them apart? Neither can I. They look the same, they drink in the same bars, they’re members of the same clubs, they eat at the same restaurants. Chances are they even went to the same school.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’ said Dugan, angrily. He felt as if Bellamy was setting him up for something, but he wasn’t sure what.

  ‘The point I’m trying to make to Petal, Patrick my boy, is that triads are no different to any other local businessmen.’

  ‘In fact,’ added Burr, ‘we actually get on quite well with some of them.’

  ‘You’re friends with them?’ said Petal.

  ‘No, not friends,’ said Bellamy. ‘Never friends. But we drink with them. It’s part of the game. They’ll stand and talk with us, part of the macho image, it gives them a boost to be seen drinking with cops. And sometimes they’ll give you info about one of their competitors.’

  ‘Part of the job,’ said Burr.

  ‘Sounds crazy,’ said Petal, slipping into Cantonese.

  ‘The world is crazy,’ replied Burr, also in Chinese. All three of the men were good enough to be able to flit between the two languages without hesitation.

  ‘Don’t your bosses mind you mixing with the guys you’re supposed to be trying to catch?’ asked Petal, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘There’s a line that we don’t cross, Petal. We drink with them, we laugh and joke with them, but that’s as far as it goes,’ said Burr. ‘At the end of the day we’re trying to put them away.’

  ‘Listen to the Lone Ranger,’ laughed Bellamy.

  Dugan felt a fingernail run down his spine, and for a moment he thought it was Petal until he realized that her arm was around his waist. He turned to look over his left shoulder and found himself looking into a pair of green, knowing eyes above a slightly upturned nose and a wide, smiling mouth. The smile grew wider and dimples appeared in both cheeks, and as she tilted her head to one side her long blonde hair rippled.

  ‘How’s it going, brother of mine?’

  ‘Hiya, Jill. Business as usual, nothing changes. You look good.’

  She did, too. The white silk blouse and hip-hugging grey skirt she was wearing had exclusive designer labels and she had several ounces of gold hanging around her neck. The gold Rolex was new, and he didn’t recognize the small pearl earrings. It seemed that every time he saw his sister these days she had something new, either clothes or jewellery. She wore her wealth like a badge of office. With pride.

  She looked at Dugan’s companions. ‘Jeff,’ she said, ‘nice to see you. And you, Colin. Long time no see.’

  They raised their glasses to her in unison.

  ‘The lovely Mrs Ng,’ said Bellamy. ‘Where’s your better half?’

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ said Burr. ‘Here he comes now.’

  A tall, well-built Chinese walked along the bar, confidently, like a male model on a catwalk, shoulders swaying slightly, one hand in the trouser pocket of his grey double-breasted suit, the other outstretched towards the girl. He was about forty years old, his hair short and trimmed around his ears, making his face seem even squarer than it was. He looked like a man who was used to wielding power, a man who expected to be obeyed.

  He took Jill’s hand and smiled, his thin lips pulling back into a smile that would have been cruel if the eyes hadn’t been so warm as he looked at her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t let me go.’ She tilted her chin up and kissed him on the cheek. Behind him were two men with hard eyes and unsmiling faces. They were never far from Simon Ng or his wife. Bodyguards. Ng looked past his wife at Du
gan and nodded.

  ‘Hello Pat,’ he said.

  ‘Simon,’ he replied.

  ‘And Mr Bellamy and Mr Burr. My favourite policemen. Can I buy you gentlemen a drink?’

  The two cops beamed at him, and together drained their glasses. ‘I’ll have a brandy and Coke. A double,’ said Bellamy.

  ‘And I’ll have a malt whisky,’ said Burr. ‘A treble.’ It was a game they’d played many times with the triad leader.

  A barman had followed Ng as he walked along the bar and was waiting patiently for him to order, ignoring several other thirsty customers. Ng ordered drinks for the two cops and a bottle of champagne and the barman moved off in double time. Ng had that effect on most people.

  ‘What can I get you, Pat?’

  Dugan lifted his half-filled glass. ‘I’m OK, Simon, Thanks.’ Ng looked at Petal, and then back to Dugan. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dugan. ‘This is Petal. Petal, this is my sister, Jill, and her husband, Simon.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, there’s someone I have to see,’ said Ng, and he walked over to the table where the blue-suited man was deep in conversation with the girl in the tight black dress. The man practically jumped to his feet and shook hands energetically with Ng, inviting him to sit with them.

  ‘So how long have you known my little brother?’ Jill asked Petal.

  ‘Not so little,’ interrupted Burr.

  ‘I used to change his nappy, he’ll always be my little brother,’ said Jill.

  ‘For God’s sake, you were three years old at the time,’ said Dugan, reddening. Ng was using the man’s portable phone, talking and nodding. The girl was watching one of the television screens and pouting.

  ‘Not long,’ said Petal.

  ‘Don’t worry, he grows on you,’ said Jill.

  ‘Like mould,’ said Bellamy, and Burr spluttered into his whisky.

  Petal smiled at Jill. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said.

  ‘What do you do, Petal?’ asked Jill.