“I was being honest,” said Noah, trying to defend himself.
“Honest is not the word I would have used. Pretentious, prevaricating, prickly, predatory...”
Noah interrupted, “How about precious? Or profound? I was trying to ’pologize.’ Well, if that’s how you feel, I take that back. I rescind my apology. Happy?”
Olivia glowered. “If you were really interested in me, you would put up with whatever I said or did.”
“Who said I was interested in you?”
“Well, if you’re not, why are you wasting my time?” She tramped out.
Noah leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I think she likes me.”
Olivia popped her head back in. “Dream on, Reid.”
Chapter 17
Garret could easily afford a chauffeur, but one of the pleasures of his life was to drive his Bentley Continental Flying Spur. The power, the smoothness, the sheer handcrafted luxury was an escape from the tensions of running a mega law firm. Unless, that is, Olivia was riding with him and he wanted to have a meaningful conversation.
“What is your opinion of Mr. Reid?”
Olivia shrugged and looked the other direction. “Noah? He’s okay.”
Garret bit his lip. “How many times do I have to tell you that okay is not an acceptable response? It’s a...”
“...shortcut for people who want easy answers without thinking.”
“At least your memory is intact.”
“Father...” Olivia only said “father” when she was angry at Garret. “Father, stop trying to set me up.”
“I am not trying to set you up. I hired Noah because he was at the top of his class, he knows the Chinese language and culture and he has a black belt in Hung Gar.”
“Which makes him a clone of you. That’s even worse. He is definitely not my type. Definitely,” said Olivia staring out the window.
“He will be an asset to the firm and, believe it or not, setting him up with you was not even a remote consideration.”
“Stop lying. I am perfectly capable of finding men without you.”
Garret snorted. “Right, I forgot about your track record. Perhaps you prefer the artist I invested fifteen thousand in that dumped you the moment the check cleared? Or how about the waiter who left you for a woman thirty-seven years older than him because she was “more of a woman?” And let’s not forget the fiancé you found in bed with another man? All of them fine upstanding candidates as Mr. Olivia Southam.”
The problem with the truth was that the truth was true and didn’t lie... “I wasn’t serious about any of them.”
“Your mother...”
“Don’t bring Mom into this,” she said in a voice tight with anger.
Garret ignored her. “Your mother entrusted me to look after you. Whether you accept that or not, that is the main responsibility of my life.”
When they arrived at their destination, Macau’s enormous seven-million-square-foot Tiger Palace, Garret drove past the thousand-vehicle parking lot to the front of the building. When you said “Tiger” in this former Portuguese colony, it was automatically understood that you were not talking about one building but an entire hotel, restaurant, residential, shopping and entertainment complex. And, in a land where extravagance was the norm, Tiger was extravagant and impressive, even to the most experienced travelers in the world.
Miles, one of the complex’s valets, whisked to the car. “Good to see you, Mr. Southam.”
“Likewise, Miles.”
“Shall I detail it while you’re here? No charge.”
No charge. That was laughable because the tip would be more than a month’s salary. Garret played the same little ritual every time he came.
“Naturally.”
Miles opened the door for Garret and quickly dashed around the car to open the door for Olivia.
Chapter 18
Mammoth. Monumental. Humungous. Ostentatious. Over the top. These adjectives barely scraped the surface of the Tiger Palace. No expense was spared to make it the most impressive and ostentatious display of human opulence ever exhibited—that is, until the next go around of latest and greatest came into being. No matter, because this was still a shining jewel in Macau’s gambling tiara.
Before you entered the casino’s towering archway entrance, statues of eight imposing Chinese imperial lions and eight ferocious dragons greeted you. Throughout the complex, the number eight was a common theme. Why? Because, in the Chinese language, the number eight rhymes with the Chinese word for prosperity, making it the most coveted number to be associated with.
Eight terra-cotta warrior statues saluted visitors as they entered through the lobby doors, and inside, a dazzling collection of Chinese artifacts greeted them throughout. There were giant, laughing Buddhas made of bronze and porcelain, ornate vases ten feet tall and huge stone carvings of Ming Dynasty emperors. As well as the memorabilia, there was a sprawling enclosed living ecosystem where animals native to China resided, including monkeys, salamanders, badgers and a flock of cranes.
The pièce de resistance, however, was not of Chinese origin at all. The centerpiece was a caged habitat where eight Bengal tigers roamed freely. Gawkers of all nationalities and ages oohed and ahed at the fierce energy of the majestic beasts. Completely illegal, and disguised to the public, was the fact that the animals were injected daily with amphetamines and fed Chinese herbs to boost their energy levels, making them growl and pace ferociously almost constantly.
Directly connected to the lobby was the three-thousand-seat restaurant, the Royal Tiger. Six hundred and forty-seven attendants, chefs, waiters and other service personnel pampered the thousands of daily patrons with the freshest seafood that Hong Kong had to offer. Storage tanks by the kitchen displayed live carp, crab, turtle, frogs and shrimp swimming, blissfully unaware that they would soon be featured on a casino patron’s plate.
A part of the experience was an extraordinary entertainment spectacle. Tonight’s theme was the Artistry of China. Imagine the best of five thousand years of Chinese culture boiled down into a ninety-minute extravaganza, and you would have an inkling of the visual and aural feast that was set before you, including a performance that rivaled Cirque du Soleil with performers recruited from all parts of China.
Garret and Olivia stood near the entrance. To Garret, this seemed old hat, but Olivia was dazzled by a Chinese acrobatic troupe dressed in classical costumes performing acts of astounding agility that combined athletics, magic, dance and grace. One group performed double and triple somersaults through space, landing precariously on partners’ shoulders.
A multicolored lion train a hundred feet long snaked its way through the tables, weaving in and out through the other performers. A set of athletes flew through the air with rhythmic handsprings perfectly coordinated and synchronized but in opposing directions. A daring tightrope artist walked not on the stage, but on the thinnest of ropes hanging directly over the audience. They gasped in awe, anticipation and fear that she would fall on them.
And, on the stage, twenty performers leapt, tumbled and jumped with breathtaking vitality. They performed cartwheels in tandem with other performers, not on the floor but on the hands and feet of acrobats, some who stood on the floor and others who lay on the ground with their feet in the air. Others juggled glass bowls like meteors in the sky. One special woman rode a unicycle. With one leg on a pedal, she used the other leg to lob a dozen dishes onto the top of her head. Pole climbers scurried like squirrels up thin pieces of bamboo and vaulted themselves to other poles, performing somersaults in the air during their brief flights. It was a symphony of strength, artistry, elegance and beauty.
Sadly, for the most part, these efforts went unrecognized as the thousands of patrons were too busy either eating or participating in their own favorite form of gambling poison—slots, tables... whatever.
Not that anybody in management cared. They were too busy making money and, from the huge crowds, it seemed they were making bushels of it.
A
tuxedoed maître d’ named Wing arrived. “Hello, Mr. Southam and...” Wing waited for Garret to make an introduction.
“This is my daughter Olivia, Wing.”
“Good evening, Ms. Olivia.” Wing’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly. Olivia and Garret were used to it, though. Most people assumed that Olivia was Garret’s evening entertainment, and no one suspected she was related to him.
“Of course. Your room is ready.”
“Is Tommy here yet?”
“He’s here somewhere. Always is.”
***
STAMFORD, Connecticut
In one of those ubiquitous self-storage sites that were part of the landscape of every suburb in America, a Honda SUV pulled up at 4 a.m. in the midst of the deserted rows of sheds. It was surprising, but there was a customer parked there already in the next unit with a brand-new, twelve-cylinder charcoal gray Beamer. A very fit-looking man in his forties had his shed open and took out some boxes. He placed them on the ground so he could get to his custom-made French touring bike and bicycle rack.
Queenie, a young Eurasian soccer-mom type, got out of the Honda. She nonchalantly took the boxes from the ground and packed them into her vehicle, wedging them in beside a ton of hockey goalie equipment as the man started trying to hook up the bike rack to his car. He was extra careful, as he wanted to avoid damaging the car’s frozen matte finish.
“Pretty impressive bike. What you gonna do with it?”
“Riding 150 miles for cancer fundraising. Want to sponsor me?”
“Yeah, right,” she chuckled. “Try having two boys play hockey, especially when both want to be goalies. That takes up every spare cent we have.”
A U-Haul cargo van pulled up half a dozen sheds from the SUV. A young driver got out and saw the man struggling with the bike rack.
“Hey, let give you a hand with that. Those things can be a damned pain in the ass to set up.”
“No, man, I’m good.”
“It’s okay. Don’t feel like unloading the damned furniture just yet.”
The unsuspecting young guy started walking toward the BMW. Before he had taken three steps, Queenie turned around and launched three sharp objects at him. One landed in the middle of his forehead, another in his throat, another pierced through to his heart.
As Queenie walked up to him, she pulled off a wig to reveal a head full of black hair with a bald spot that had been colored red. She yanked the three bloody missiles out—they were sharpened beaks of a crane.
The man’s final puzzled words gurgled out. “You’re a crane, lady?”
“No kidding.”
Chapter 19
HONG KONG
Some say gambling is a disease; others say it’s an addiction. For Tommy, it was always just business. Sometimes he won; sometimes he lost, but to him it never mattered because the money was never his. If he won, the winnings went to Chin. If he lost, it went to the house, and the house belonged to Chin. Sometimes the house was a small, private, high-end room like last night. Sometimes, the house was a huge mega-room like the Tiger Palace.
The venue was unimportant because business was in the show, and one thing that Tommy excelled in was showmanship. When he won, he was so excited that his euphoria lit up a room like wildfire and all the other gamblers wanted to jump in the game because things were hot. Tommy would grin from ear to ear and dance a nerdy dance, swinging his bum while waving his arms and bragging how he could outsmart the smartest casinos.
When he lost, he wailed and complained about his luck running out. “The gods have forsaken me.” Or, “Lady Luck has run away.” On occasion, he would faint and a doctor would be called in to revive him.
Now you’d think that many would just turn and run because no one wanted to catch the contagion of unluckiness. Tommy’s act put a different spin on things, though. Instead of fleeing, people actually wanted to join the game. Why? Because Tommy put on a convincing show that his luck had run to someone else. That it was someone else’s turn to hit the jackpot. And like P.T. Barnum once said, “There’s a sucker born every minute.” When Tommy moaned that his luck had disappeared, there were plenty of suckers around wanting to believe that it had left Tommy and come to them. Tommy pleaded with some of the patrons to return fortune back to him. Of course, they never did, and the house won again.
There was something different tonight, though, about Tommy. Yes, he was playing his usual high-stakes game in an exclusive room. Yes, he was still the life of the party. Yes, he still had beautiful women tending to his every pleasure, and yes, he was still his generous self. But there was something about his attitude tonight that had a bit of what the French called fin de siècle, or the end of an era.
He was with a new group of high rollers who wanted to match wits with him and the odds in blackjack. Tonight’s dealer was a bosomy dyed blonde Chinese in a Playboy bunny outfit. Tommy had a ten of hearts showing. He nodded. “Hit me.”
The dealer riffed a card from the shoe—it was a seven of spades.
“Damn.” Tommy flipped his down card—a five of diamonds.
He shook his head as the dealer took his stack of chips. Almost as soon as she took them, he pushed a new stack out onto the line. She dealt the down cards and then the up card to Tommy. It was a seven of hearts. The dealer drew an ace.
Tommy studied the situation and then uncharacteristically intoned softly, “Hit me. Easy.” It was the nine of diamonds. Tommy flipped over a seven of clubs. The new stack was rushed away, fifty grand gone in less than thirty seconds.
“Busted,” said the player next to him.
Tommy shrugged. “Lady Luck’s gone for dinner. Think I’ll go too.”
This time, though, there was no show, no wailing and no transferring of fortune to any of the other players. Mumbling about bad karma under their breath, they left the room. If there was a Hell below, we all gotta go. Tommy walked out, alone and lonely.
Chapter 20
In an empty, darkened stairwell, Duke and Pau—dressed in tight-fitting black clothing, black gloves and black balaclavas that covered their faces—carried black custom-made cases two feet long, sixteen inches high and five inches deep. Their ebony, rubber-soled martial arts shoes guaranteed maximum traction on any surface, as well as minimal noise.
They climbed stealthily, ominously, until they reached the top of the stairs to arrive at a locked door. Pau moved to open the door, but Duke grabbed his hand and shook his head emphatically, “No!”
Pau nodded, and the two opened their cases. Each one contained an unassembled crossbow. Handcrafted with contemporary precision, elements of their roots lay in ancient Chinese warfare—each end of the bow was finished with a carved dragon’s head. These were not the bulkier repeating crossbows, but a smaller version designed for a single shot. It meant they were lighter but, more important, they required expert marksmanship because one attempt was all you got.
They crouched and began assembling the weapons of destruction.
***
Garret, Abby and Olivia were into their third round of drinks—Garret with his preferred neat Glenlivet twenty-one-year-old Archive single malt scotch, and Abby and Olivia with their mojitos made with Trinidad’s Agnostura Old Oak white rum and mint leaves fresh from the Royal Tiger Restaurant’s private garden.
“So when are you planning to get married? Olivia refuses to allow me into her private life, so I have to ask you instead,” chuckled Garret.
“Actually, I am thinking of going gay. Why do you think Olivia and I hang out so much together?” giggled Abby.
Olivia leaned over and kissed her. “You mean you’ve been holding out on me, girlfriend?”
As the girls erupted into a fit of laughter that Garret didn’t find particularly amusing, Tommy entered. All rose to greet him.
“Who am I, the Chinese premier?” joked the corpulent gambler. “I’m just a big mouth with a bigger stomach. Sit. Sit. Sit.”
As they took their places, Olivia said, “Mr. Sung...”
“Wait. Who is Mr. Sung? What happened to Uncle Tommy?”
Olivia began again. “According to my father, this is a business dinner, which means you are now Mr. Sung.”
TS rolls his eyes—whatever.
“Mr. Sung, I’m privileged to be working on your file...”
Abby couldn’t take it anymore. “Dad knows you too well for that BS.”
“And what happened to Irish-American-Asian fusion?” asked Tommy. He sang, “Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling...” He then pretended to tickle the ivories as he smiled at Olivia. “You’re too talented to be a lawyer.”
“Stop it, Tommy.” Garret knocked his knuckles on the table to get attention. “Don’t give her any ideas. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to persuade her to follow me.”
“No wonder you have a rebellious child, Garret. I can’t stand looking at those wretched documents myself.” He grinned. “Anyway, that’s why I have you, Garret. Speaking of which, where is the young man you mentioned? Noah Reid, wasn’t it?”
“Mr. Reid took ill.” Garret’s voice had an edge to it.
“Aha! He copped out on you,” Tommy hooted. “Don’t blame him. About the only thing more boring than Golden Asia is you. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to put up with you both.”
He turned to Olivia. “East Coast USA has turned you into a lady.”
“Watch it, Tommy. She’s not into older men.”
Tommy laughed. “You mean, Garret, you’re not into her with older men.”
Wing entered with a bottle of Dom Perignon. He poured the champagne into glasses and handed them around the table.
“Your father may have convinced you to study law, Olivia, but the truth is, law is boring. Why don’t I offer you a job being Abby’s accompanist? I can get you gigs in every lounge in Asia. Then you can be with your lover all the time.”
The Noah Reid Series: Books 1-3: The Noah Reid Action Thriller Series Boxset Page 11