“Do they have any idea how you got it, Bart? Smoking?”
Lewis grimaced as if the thought was painful. “Agent Orange. That’s what I reckon.”
“Agent Orange? You mean you got it in Nam?” Lehman sounded horrified.
“I used to use the stuff to keep the perimeter of our firebase clear of vegetation. We used to spray the stuff everywhere, no masks or gloves or nothing. It had no smell, there was no irritation or nothing. No one ever told us it was dangerous.”
“And it gave you cancer?”
“That’s what I think. But it’s damn near impossible to prove. I went to the VA back in Baltimore but they don’t think I stand much chance of getting compensation out of the government. I wasn’t part of any deforestation programme, we just used it now and again as a weedkiller. It’s not as if it says I used Agent Orange on my service record, or anything like that. The only way I’ll get compensation is if I take them to court.”
“Couldn’t you get a lawyer to take on your case on a percentage basis?”
“Oh sure. But it takes time. And time is something I don’t have much of right now.”
Lehman nodded and then suddenly realised the implications of what Lewis was saying. “Oh shit, Bart. How long have you got?”
Lewis shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “Months rather than years. That’s all the doc could say. He gave me painkillers but I try not to take them.”
“Does it hurt?” asked Lehman, instantly regretting the banality of the question.
Lewis grinned. “Yeah, Dan. It hurts. It hurts like fuck. And to answer the other question that’s on your mind: yeah, Tyler knows.”
“And he doesn’t care?”
“What, you think maybe I’ll hold the team back? Worried that you won’t get your money?”
Lehman held up his hands. “Hey, ease up, Bart. That’s not what I meant at all. I just meant that if you’re hurting, maybe you should just be at home. With your family.”
“All the family I’ve got is my ex-wife and kid, and I don’t think she’d be too keen to have me around. We didn’t get on too well when I was healthy and I was damned if I was going to tell her that I was sick. The best way I can help my kid is to go through with Tyler’s plan. It means I’ll be able to put Victor through college, give him something to remember me by than just the rows and the fights I had with his mother. She’s remarried, to a computer programmer in Boston. He’s got money, more than I ever had, but I want to be the one who gives him his start in life, you know? In years to come I want Victor to know that I helped him, that I was his father and that I came through for him. I need this chance, Dan. I need it bad. It’s the only way that I’ll be able to get any money together in the time I’ve got left. I cashed in all my life insurance policies when I got divorced, and there’s no way I can get cover now.”
Lehman nodded. “Okay, I understand,” he said. It was uncanny, he thought, the way in which Tyler seemed to know exactly how to press the right buttons to get people to do exactly what he wanted. Lehman was used to getting a fix on a person’s weakness and then using that weakness as a way of manipulating them; that was why he had been so successful at talking investors into parting with their money. But Tyler was something else. It was one thing to convince an elderly couple in Florida to put their money in platinum futures, quite another to persuade four completely different Vietnam veterans to take part in a robbery in Hong Kong.
“Something else, too. You remember that hospital we went to in Saigon, the one where we saw all those people dying of cancer?”
“Yeah, I remember,” said Lehman.
“Well, I figured I could do something to help them, you know? Do something to right the wrongs we did out there.”
“You’re a hell of an idealist, Bart.”
Lewis grinned. “Yeah, well, dying does that to a man, I guess. Time to stock up a few brownie points before I meet my maker.”
“You believe that?”
Lewis shook his head, suddenly serious. “No, I don’t. Any belief I might have had in God went out of the window in Nam. But I want to do something for them, and this is the only way I can get money. I’m not sure which is the most important reason, helping Victor or giving money to the Vietnamese. I just know that I’ll feel a hell of a lot better. Come on, let’s go back. And don’t tell the guys, okay? I’ll do the job. I’ll give it my best, I promise.”
“Okay, Bart. I won’t say anything.”
The two men went back to the bar. Lewis began to tell a joke as soon as he’d slipped back on to his seat and there was no outward sign of the cancer that was eating him up. He winked at Lehman and Lehman tried to smile back but his heart wasn’t in it.
Neil Coleman drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the Suzuki Jeep and looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. Where was she? Coleman had telephoned Debbie at her office at six o’clock and been told that she’d left for the day. He’d called the Fielding house at six thirty and again at seven thirty and both times the maid had told him she wasn’t at home. At first he’d felt anger that she’d lied to him. She’d quite distinctly told him she’d be busy all week, and yet here she was out on the town. He’d only wanted to call her and tell her how much he was missing her and how sorry he was for nagging her on the phone. He wanted to say he understood that she had to work and that maybe they could go swimming on Sunday afternoon. And what did he find? That she was out enjoying herself. He’d wanted to go looking for her; there were only so many places she could be and most of those would be in Lan Kwai Fong, but then he decided he’d wait for her to drive home. He’d parked at the side of Old Peak Road, turned off his lights and waited. Over the hours the burning anger had subsided, replaced first by bitter resentment and then by indignant curiosity. He’d switched the police radio on and listened to the crackling conversations between the men on the beat and their stations. Most of them were in Cantonese and he could barely understand what they were saying, but every now and again he’d hear another gweilo on the air. It was better than listening to the Canto-pop crap the commercial radio stations put out.
A red and grey taxi, its “For Hire” light off and two girls in the back, growled up the hill. They were both brunettes. Where the hell was she? It wasn’t fair, he thought. All he wanted to do was to take care of Debbie, to settle down with her and build a life together. She had no right to treat him like this. His nails bit into the palms of his hands and he realised he’d been squeezing the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles had gone white. His jaw ached too, as if he’d been biting down too hard and too long. He massaged his chin with his hands and sighed.
In his rearview mirror he saw a red car drive round the bend of the road below and he stiffened. As it drew closer he felt as much as heard the engine, a deep-throated rumble that vibrated the Suzuki. He turned and peered through the driver’s window. He recognised the car as a Ferrari – a sharply sloping hood, the sides pockmarked with air scoops and a wing mounted on the rear deck. It was the sort of car that turned heads, even in Hong Kong which had more Rolls-Royces per mile of road than any other place on earth.
The driver was blonde, the passenger a Chinese. As the car flashed by he saw with a jolt that it was Debbie who was driving. He fumbled with the ignition key, and by the time he’d started the engine and put the Suzuki into gear the Ferrari was already out of sight. Coleman pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor but the four-wheel drive wasn’t built for speed and he couldn’t get it above fifty mph. He bobbed backwards and forwards as he drove, trying in vain to urge the Jeep to go faster.
The road swerved sharply to the right and he felt the Suzuki sway as he took the corner. He had a sick feeling in his stomach and in his mind was a picture of Debbie, her eyes wide, a smile on her lips, her hair tucked behind her ears, her hands light on the wheel. There was passion in her eyes, and his hands tensed as he thought of what happened when she’d driven him up the Peak. How she’d driven down the side road and climbed into the passenger
seat. He felt himself grow hard at the thought of it, and was immediately disgusted with himself. As he approached the side road he slowed but when he drew level with it he could see that it was deserted. Relief washed over him like a tidal wave and he accelerated up the hill.
He cut the engine about a hundred yards before he reached the Fielding house and switched off the lights before coasting to a stop. Through the gates he could see the Ferrari parked in front of the house. The lights of the house were on and the drapes drawn, and in the soft glow that seeped through the material he could see the two figures standing by the car. Debbie was wearing a black miniskirt and a gold halter top and her hair was loose around her shoulders. As Coleman watched she kissed the man on the lips, waved goodbye, and let herself in through the front door.
All Coleman could see of the man was his back: black hair and a well-fitting dark blue suit. If he hadn’t seen him coming up the Peak he wouldn’t have known he was Chinese. He wasn’t as thin as Chinese usually were; he had the shoulders of an Olympic swimmer, broad and muscled. The front door closed and there was a flicker from an upstairs window as if a drape had been disturbed. There was something shadowy at the window, a figure maybe, and the man at the Ferrari had seen it, too, and gave a small wave. The drape fell back into position as whoever was at the window went back into the room. Coleman figured it was probably old man Fielding, checking that his daughter was safely home.
As the Chinese turned to get back into his car, Coleman saw his face clearly for the first time. It was the man that he’d seen with Debbie in Hot Gossip. What was his name? Chung, that was it. Andrew Chung or something. He was a smoothie, that much Coleman remembered. They’d been drinking champagne. What was it they’d said? Yes, he remembered, he was a friend of William Fielding and Debbie had been helping him celebrate, that’s what he’d told Coleman. Another lie, he thought, triumphantly. They’d both lied to him, but he’d been too clever for them. He’d caught them out. A friend of the family? Then why the kiss on the lips? And the sexy outfit? She shouldn’t have lied to him, Coleman thought bitterly. He hated that more than anything else in the world.
The Ferrari rolled forward through the gates and Coleman sat back in his seat so that his head was in the shadows. He took a cheap ballpoint pen from the pocket of his jacket and jotted the registration number of the Ferrari on the palm of his left hand. “I’ll have you, you fucking Chink,” he muttered to himself as the Ferrari roared down the hill like an angry lion.
Tyler arrived at the Eastin Valley Hotel just after three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon and checked into the penthouse suite after arranging a room for Chuck Doherty on the ninth floor. He tipped the bellboy and waited for him to leave before he opened the French windows which led to a small sun-drenched patio. He stood and stretched in the warmth, looking down at the racetrack far below. In the centre of the track he could see a huge colour screen and two black to the indicator boards either side. There were big patches of brown in the middle of the soccer pitches as if the grass there was thirsting for water, while the turf on the racetrack was lush and green. He went back into the bedroom and took a pair of powerful binoculars and scrutinised the course, the deserted multi-tiered grandstand, the nearly empty car parks and the various buildings around. Silent for the moment, he knew that once the horses began running the stands would be full of screaming Chinese, urging on their horses and waving their betting chits in the air while the tote boards flashed the latest betting results and the colour screen showed a live close-up of the action.
He walked into the bedroom, put the binoculars on the desk, and called the four vets one after the other. All were in their rooms except for Lehman and he told them to be ready in reception at half past six, with their passports. He left a message for Lehman and was a little annoyed because he’d made it clear to all of them that they should be ready and waiting all Wednesday afternoon. He made a mental note to speak to Lehman later and then called down to room service and ordered a club sandwich and coffee before running a hot bath.
When he stepped out of the elevator with Doherty, the four men were waiting for him, sitting on the overstuffed sofas in the reception area. All had dressed casually in slacks and short-sleeved shirts, except for Carmody who had on a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt which covered most of his artificial hand. All had slightly bemused looks on their faces because Tyler hadn’t told them where they were going and the fact that they had to bring their passports suggested that they were going on a trip.
The men got to their feet and Tyler nodded his approval. He introduced Doherty to Horvitz and Carmody, without explaining where he’d come from. Both men looked curiously at his shaven head. “Right,” said Tyler. “Fall out.” He led them out the door and along the sidewalk towards the racetrack.
Lehman fell in step beside him as they walked. “Sorry I wasn’t in the room when you called,” he said.
Tyler looked across at him. “No sweat,” he said. He was impressed that Lehman had apologised. It showed professionalism, so Tyler decided not to press it.
“It’s the racetrack, isn’t it?” asked Lehman. “We’re gonna hit the track, right?”
“Maybe,” said Tyler. “For the moment we’re just a group of good old boys out on the town. We’ll get down to specifics later.”
Lehman smiled, satisfied that he was right.
Wong Nai Chung Road, which circled the racecourse, was packed with cars and taxis and the sidewalks were thronged with pedestrians, many of them carrying Chinese newspapers. The sky was beginning to darken and the harsh white floodlights gave the racetrack a cold, clinical look. They joined the crowds but were soon split up as they were jostled and pushed by impatient racegoers rushing towards the turnstiles which led to the public stands. Tyler stood head and shoulders over most of the crowd so the rest could easily follow him as he made his way along the side of the grandstand towards the members’ entrance. Three security guards were slumped by the turnstiles languidly checking that those who went through had the correct badge dangling on their chests. Pouring through were well-dressed Chinese in dark suits, elegant Chinese women in their best dresses and jewellery, and well-to-do expats. But there were scruffier racegoers too, indistinguishable from those in the mob who had been pushing through into the public stands. There were two ticket offices, one on the left away from which stretched a long queue, and one on the right, which was clear. Tyler waited until the vets had gathered around him.
“Right, gentlemen. This is Happy Valley racetrack. Consider this rest and recreation, nothing more. We’re here to enjoy ourselves, place some bets, hopefully win a few dollars. I plan a full briefing back at the hotel at 2300 hours, so at this stage I just want you to have a look around and get a feel for the place. If you show your passport to the gentleman at the counter there and give him fifty dollars he’ll issue you with a members’ enclosure badge which will give you access to most of the grandstand. If you’ll follow me up to the second floor I’ll show you how the betting works.”
One by one the men handed over their passports and cash, attached their badges, and pushed through the turn-stiles. Fast-moving escalators were whisking racegoers up to the higher levels and the men followed Tyler up to the second floor. The escalator took them to a large hallway. To the left were full-length windows beyond which they could see the brightly illuminated racetrack and to the right were cashiers’ desks behind security glass screens which stretched the full length of the hall. Behind the screens sat young men and women in wine-coloured pullovers and cream shirts taking bets from the racegoers. The system seemed fast and efficient. Gamblers were taking small cards from dispensers, marking their bets by what appeared to be a series of small pen strokes and handing them to the cashiers. The cards were stamped and returned.
The men stood together while Tyler walked over to one of the ticket dispensers and came back with a handful of cards. All were the same size but had different coloured stripes along one side. “Okay,” said Tyler, “these are the betting cards
. You fill them out and give them and your stakes to one of the guys at the counter. They run the card through a computer terminal which records the bet and prints the details on the back of the card.”
The men nodded. “Seems simple enough,” said Carmody.
“It is,” said Tyler. “But most people go for exotic combinations, and they’re a bit more complicated. I’ll give you a quick rundown, but don’t worry if you don’t remember it all. The guys behind the counter will help you and there’s an information desk too.” Tyler looked at his watch. “The first race starts at seven forty-five,” he said. “Let’s buy some programmes and get down to it.”
They each took a handful of tickets and a programme and walked out of the air-conditioned betting hall and into the seating areas, rows and rows of plastic bucket seats facing the floodlit track. They filed along to a section of empty seats and sat down.
“Bart, why don’t you get us all some beers?” Tyler said. It was more of a command than a question, and Lewis didn’t hesitate. He disappeared back up the steps while the rest of them studied the programme. It contained everything but the name of the winning mount – there was a full rundown on the form and the stakes won by each horse, a description including its breeding history, its placing so far during the season, and the weight of the rider. It took a while to figure out what all the information was, but the Jockey Club had even included a guide on how to read the programme. It was almost an idiot’s guide to betting, which made Tyler all the more certain that there was no way of coming out ahead. The Jockey Club effectively had the system rigged through its tote system so that it couldn’t lose, deducting its own commission and government betting duty before dividing the rest of the betting turnover among the winning tickets. The more that was bet, the more they paid out, and the more their commission grew. The club’s percentages added up to about three billion HK dollars a year. The only winner in Hong Kong racing was the Jockey Club; everything else was just redistribution of wealth.
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 29