Unable to contain himself, he stopped the car, killed the engine and burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” George frowned.
“You singing ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ …” Raymond chortled. “Bet you’d have stuck your finger in your ass if I’d asked you. The brakes were fine. I just wanted to make a point. People don’t think straight when faced with death. They’ll believe anything they’re told. They’ll do anything they’re told. That’s why my product’s going to work. And I’m not going to end up in jail.”
George’s mouth fell open. “You … you risked my life, your life, to make a point?” he stammered.
“Wasn’t a risk. I knew what I was doing. And by the way, it’s ‘one for the master, one for the dame,’ not ‘Dane,’” Raymond said.
George’s moon face clenched and turned crimson, the hand on his lap curling into a fist. Raymond turned away, bracing himself for a punch.
“You cunt,” George hissed. He unclasped his seat belt, got out and slammed the door.
9.
LOW VOICES SIMMERED IN THE OAK-PANELED booths of the cigar lounge. Pete Lawler’s face reappeared from a cloud of smoke, lean, tanned and wrinkled before its time, which gave the Englishman the appearance of an aging rock star. His bright blue eyes twinkled as he smiled to a Thai girl at the next table. She smiled back and mouthed, “I’m okay.” As Pete got older, his girlfriends seemed to get younger. This one looked all of thirteen.
A few moments later, his gaze returned to the table, smile extinguished, all business again.
“So, what do you think?” Raymond asked.
The adman frowned thoughtfully. “Not what I was expecting. I usually get briefed to create ad campaigns for beer and shampoo. This is, how should I say … out of left field.”
“For a moment, I thought you were going to say crazy.” Raymond laughed.
“There’s a fine line between crazy and genius.”
“Which am I?”
“We’ll only know in hindsight. Your story about an afterlife economy sounds like complete bollocks. But then so does all the talk of pearly gates and seventy-two virgins. And that’s not stopped people believing in them, has it?”
“That’s exactly what I thought.” Raymond smiled with relief. Finally, someone on the same page.
Pete exhaled, twisting his mouth to blow smoke away from Raymond. “Perhaps we should start by asking the question, why do we believe in bollocks?”
Raymond shrugged. “Because we want to?”
“Precisely. And if there are a billion others believing in the same crap, then that gives us permission to leave our brains at the door. Now here’s the good news: we live in a money-driven world. If you’re telling me I can take it with me to my next life, I want to believe you.”
“Yet you say I need to have the numbers to make it believable. How can I get the numbers if people don’t believe me in the first place?”
“I know, catch-22.” Pete extinguished his cigar and leaned into the light.
“Here’s how it works. There are always people willing to try a new product: the innovators. You know, the type to line up around the block for the latest gadget. They’re going to try it because it’s new and exciting, gets them social currency. Then you have the early adopters, who take their cues from the innovators. These guys in turn inspire the next group in the chain. That’s how ideas spread. Scientists say we’ve descended from apes. They’re wrong. We’ve descended from sheep. Whether you’re selling beer or Afterlife Dollars, it’s the same principle. You need a critical mass to trigger herd behavior. It’s called the tipping point.”
Raymond nodded, envying how smoothly the words seemed to roll off Pete’s tongue. Raymond’s English, like everything else he knew, was self-taught. You could learn the vocabulary from books, but not fluency.
“So how do we get to the tipping point?” he asked.
“There’s no magic formula. Part strategy, part luck. In your case, the strategy is obvious. Do you know why churches are struggling to put bums in seats?”
“Because they’re not cool?”
Pete smiled. “I couldn’t have said it better. Going to church is like hanging out with your grandparents. That’s why we’d rather spend Sunday at the shopping mall, worshipping at the neon altar. Because brands are cool. They give us permission to indulge, have fun, live life. They don’t judge or preach. When you walk out of a mall in Causeway Bay, you don’t feel like crap because you failed to meet an impossible moral standard. If you’re to get anywhere with this, you have to take your cues from the likes of Coke and Nike. Credibility will come from how you present yourself. You’re not a fortune-teller on Temple Street, but the afterlife version of Citibank, selling the dream of every person on this planet: to live happily forever.”
“So, you think it’s possible?”
“Anything’s possible, Ray.” Pete grinned, revealing newly whitened teeth.
Raymond narrowed his eyes. He distrusted Pete’s disingenuous charm as much as he admired it, and wondered if the adman was merely saying what he wanted to hear. In the end, it didn’t matter, Raymond decided. This conversation had given him that little nudge of encouragement to take the first step. And that was what he sorely needed right now.
The meeting concluded with a firm handshake and an agreement to get together again in two weeks’ time to discuss the advertising campaign. Raymond watched Pete weave through the curtain of smoke, arm in arm with his barely legal girlfriend. Raymond remained still and upright in the leather chair, palms resting on his lap as if meditating. A few minutes later, he wrote in his diary:
“BANK OF ETERNITY.”
He leaned back and studied the name, picturing it in glowing neon, emblazoned on the top floors of a skyscraper in Hong Kong Central.
The business would have a unique cost structure, he realized. There’d be no production or manufacturing costs, but his biggest expense would be creating and sustaining a myth, everything from advertising to staff uniforms and the design of the premises. The margins were high, which meant he could potentially earn huge amounts of money in a short span of time. Maybe this madcap idea wasn’t so mad after all.
He raised his arm to get the waiter’s attention just as his phone vibrated on the table. Raymond dropped his hand. Like an animal attuned to danger, he knew who it was without looking at the caller ID. He also knew he couldn’t put it off any longer.
10
IT WAS EARLY EVENING WHEN RAYMOND ARRIVED in Wan Chai. The street was lit by a buffet of neon signs that enticed passersby with the promise of debauchery. Girls in short skirts stood outside bars like window dressing, flashing coquettish smiles. Raymond kept walking.
A few minutes later, a sign appeared around the corner: a graphic of a coconut palm, and the word “Tropicana” glowing in a sleazy shade of pink. A bouncer guarded a purple door, intimidating even from this distance. Raymond’s legs trembled below the knees. He stopped and drew a deep breath.
If he knew, you’d already be dead. Keep cool, and everything will be fine.
Keep cool. Sounded simple. His mind got it, but the problem was making his body understand. He wiped the bead of sweat from his forehead and thrust his hands in his pockets. He was clad in a polo shirt, jeans and boat shoes. Dressed casual, and as he walked toward the bar, he tried to act casual too, as casual as you could be while concealing a fifty-three-million-dollar debt in the vault of your chest.
The bouncer greeted him with a curt nod and held the door open. Raymond went in. The door squeaked behind him before clicking shut, like the jaws of a trap. From the dusk of the street, he was now in a chilly darkness. The decor was inspired by a beach theme as suggested by the sign outside: rustic outdoor tables and stools, fake palms, colored lights strung across the top of the thatched bar, waitresses in grass skirts fawning over a handful of early birds, tragic middle-aged men who contributed handsomely to the establishment’s coffers.
No one took notice of Raymond as he slipp
ed through the premises. He went past the toilets and stopped at a black door. There was no sign on it, but something about it warned unsuspecting patrons to keep away.
Raymond knocked.
“It’s me.”
“Come in.” The voice, a Doberman’s growl, chilling even when muffled. Raymond turned the knob with clammy palms.
The gangster rose behind an untidy steel desk, arms spread, face lit by a wide grin. He was dressed in a red paisley shirt and white pants, the low light shining on his greasy hair. His teeth shone too, like porcelain turrets. They were fake. The set he was born with had been removed by his amateur-dentist father when he was nine years old, punishment for disgracing the family name when he was arrested for stealing.
“Raymond Li. At last. Do you know how restless I get when I don’t hear from you?” he said.
“Sorry, I’ve been traveling. These time zones can be a real pain,” Raymond said with a sigh, casting his mind back to his last jet lag for a bit of method acting.
Wu slanted an eyebrow. “Traveling? Where?”
“Russia, Taiwan, Canada.” Raymond had bought travel guides and read them up, just in case.
“Some holiday.” Wu snorted.
“Not holiday. I was scouting for investment opportunities. Looking for the next big thing, to make you money. So, what did you want to see me for?”
It was the wrong thing to say, Raymond realized the instant the words left his mouth. You never got straight to it with Wu. You meandered. You ambled, went around in circles and non sequiturs.
The gangster narrowed his eyes. He sat down, gesturing for Raymond to do the same. The chair was cold and uncomfortable, just like the rest of the room.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” the gangster asked, drilling Raymond.
“What do you mean?” Raymond said with a dry mouth.
“You look like shit, Raymond Li. What’s wrong with you?” the gangster snapped. “Have you had an AIDS test?”
Raymond laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. “You’re right,” he said, raising his hands. “I haven’t been feeling myself lately.”
“Or maybe it isn’t AIDS. Maybe it’s …” The gangster clicked his fingers twice as he searched for the word. “Psychological,” he said in English. “Maybe you worry too much.”
“Worry about what?”
Wu shrugged. “You tell me.” He leaned back and opened the drawer. Raymond stiffened, expecting to see a meat cleaver. But instead Wu pulled out a packet of Lucky Strikes and a Zippo.
Raymond breathed again. Wu drew out a cigarette from the pack and lit it. The Zippo’s flame cast an orange glow on the scar across his cheek. He looked at the cigarette fondly after exhaling.
“Did you know my first gang was called Lucky Strike?” he said. “A bunch of fifteen-year-olds roaming the Walled City. More balls than brains. I’ve been smoking the same shit for thirty years. Thirty years. That’s loyalty. What do you think of loyalty, Raymond Li? Is it a good thing?”
Raymond smiled nervously. Was this a veiled message or another one of Wu’s stream-of-consciousness meanderings?
“Loyalty is a good thing. But it’s important to reaffirm it from time to time,” Raymond said, wringing his hands under the table.
“I wanted to talk to you about the last statement.”
Raymond swallowed. “What about it?”
“I showed it to my associates in Macau. They said the returns were too good to be true. They couldn’t believe you made so much in a dead market.”
Raymond’s heart stopped.
It’s over. He knows.
He gripped the armrest, bracing himself.
Put me out of my misery.
“Now they want you to invest their money, too. So tell me, would you be interested in taking on their business?”
Raymond pursed his lips, pretending he was giving the matter due consideration. But inside, he was doing cartwheels.
“Of course, it would be an honor to manage their share portfolios.”
Are you out of your mind?
The voice in his head screamed so loud Raymond feared Wu could hear it. But think about this logically, he told himself. His debt was so large that the sum was inconsequential. Whether he owed fifty-three million or five hundred, the penalty was the same. What mattered was he now had the startup capital for the business.
11.
“YOUR TABLE WILL BE READY IN A FEW MINUTES,” the maitre d’, a skinny man in a maroon waistcoat, divulged after checking the clipboard. Raymond nodded and distracted himself by studying the fish tanks near the entrance. Their cascading arrangement reminded him of Hong Kong’s social hierarchy. The small tanks at the bottom, cramped with mollusks and shrimp, were the tenement blocks of Central and Sheung Wan. On the next tier, the crabs, crayfish and scallops in larger tanks represented the more upmarket condominiums in Mid-Levels, where he happened to live.
Above that, of course, the big fish swimming in big tanks. This was Victoria Peak, where the sidewalks adjoining the winding roads had dog latrines. As an eleven-year-old on his first visit to these rarified heights, this was the first thing he’d noticed: a sunken sandpit with tiled edges, almost the same size as his bedroom. Its sight stirred something within him. Call it a sense of perspective. He’d known all along that he hadn’t been a beneficiary of fate’s lottery, but for the first time he realized that there were dogs that were living better than him. Over the years, he held the image of these canine toilets in his mind in the same way people gazed at photos of cars or boats they aspired to own. He might have been born in a shitty hospital in Lok Fu, but he was going to die in a grand villa on the Peak, the land of fabled wealth and dog latrines. That seemed like a distant dream in the context of everything that was happening currently. But in the last few days, he’d made some progress.
He had a business plan and the capital not just to run the business, but also to pay Wu if he desired to cash in a part of his investment. See, that was the great thing about money in the kitty. You could use it to borrow more money. You could move it around, juggle, take from one to pay the other. If the gangster liquidated his entire portfolio, that could get a bit tricky. If everyone wanted their money back at the same time, then it was game over. But the probability of that happening was lower than just Wu wanting it back. And that’s all Raymond had to work with at the moment: probabilities.
“Your table’s ready,” the maitre d’ announced.
He escorted Raymond through the busy restaurant to the VIP section, where one paid handsomely for the privilege of dining in a private room with gaudy chandeliers and purple carpets. Like everywhere else in Hong Kong, the room made the most of a small space. A round table with eight chairs pushed under it, with just about enough space to walk around. There were no windows. An exhaust fan whirred in the top corner of one wall.
As expected, Lim Wei was the first to arrive, his burly frame clad in a creaseless beige shirt and olive pants. He was ex-military and fitted the stereotype neatly with a square jaw, closely cropped hair and rigid bearing. Upon seeing Raymond, the corner of his mouth rose slightly, the closest he got to smiling.
“This is all very fancy,” he said, gesturing to the chandelier.
“Only the best for you,” Raymond said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been awhile.”
“Yes, a long time. The last time we met, I had a shirt on my back.”
“Sorry to hear about your divorce. That’s why I stick to escorts. You pay one way or another. At least this way, there are no lawyers involved.”
“Don’t get me started on lawyers,” Lim Wei grumbled. “Bloodsuckers, all of them. Except my lawyer, of course. The guy practically gave everything away.”
The rant was interrupted by the arrival of a man with boyish good looks. Yau was the polar opposite of Lim Wei: small build, smiley face, long hair. He was dressed in a Liverpool football shirt and baggy jeans, and carried an easy confidence that made him a good salesman.
Lim Wei loo
ked at his watch. “Mmm. Only two minutes late. One of these days you might actually be on time.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Yau said with a snort. “I don’t have a clock up my ass like you, nor do I have Raymond’s ten-thousand-dollar Rolex.”
“That could soon change. The Rolex bit,” Raymond said. “I have an idea that could make us all rich.”
Lim Wei and Yau looked at each other, eyebrows arched. Raymond went to shut the door behind them. The three of them then sat in a close huddle as Raymond outlined his product and business plan. After he finished, the room was filled with a ponderous silence. Lim Wei’s face, as always, was expressionless, and Yau frowned as if in deep thought. Raymond gave them a few moments to digest what he’d said. Then he asked, “So, what do you think?”
“Let me get this straight. Afterlife Dollars don’t really exist?” Yau said.
“Is that a problem?”
“How’re you going to convince people to buy a product that doesn’t exist?”
“You know the story of the emperor’s new clothes? We just need to convince enough people that the emperor has clothes. Let me show you something.”
Raymond took out two sheets of paper from his pocket and unfolded them.
“I briefed an advertising creative director to develop a campaign for the product. This is what he came back with.”
He presented the first ad. Lim Wei and Yau leaned forward at the same time to read it.
“LIFE’S SHORT. BUT AFTERLIFE ISN’T,” read the headline.
“I love this ad,” Raymond said. “It puts things in perspective by reminding people they have a limited window of opportunity to secure their comfort in the afterlife.”
Then he showed them the second ad:
“LIFE INSURANCE IS NO GOOD TO YOU WHEN YOU’RE DEAD.”
“People think preparing for their death means getting life insurance. But that’s really not going to benefit them. So we encourage them to be selfish and think about their next life. A complete paradigm shift,” he said, parroting a buzzword he’d learnt from the adman, Pete.
Dead Money Page 4