THE KING OF MACAU (The Jack Shepherd International Crime Novels)

by Needham, Jake

“Because Pansy is the most vulnerable. She scares easiest because the slightest hint of a triad connection to her would blow her personally right out of the water. I figured she might even be scared enough to hire somebody from outside to track down the source of the funds. So I floated your name and lied my ass off about how smart and reliable you are.”

  “I’m sure you did a hell of a sales job.”

  “Well…to tell you the absolute truth, it turned out to be easier than I thought. She’d already heard of you. Said you had a great reputation as a troubleshooter. She had to be thinking of somebody else, obviously, but I saw no point in correcting her.”

  Pansy Ho had heard of me? Said I had a great reputation as a troubleshooter? Even I was pretty impressed by that, but to Pete I only nodded matter-of-factly. Of course Pansy had heard of me, I wanted my expression to say. How could she not have?

  “And you went through all of that…why? To save the FBI having to pay me?”

  “Don’t be stupid. I did it for the cover. You think I’d want everybody to know you’ve been hired by the US government to track down the source of a flood of money through Macau? Why would the FBI need some half-assed lawyer hiding out in Hong Kong for something like that?”

  “But you do.”

  “Well…ah, yeah. We do.”

  “I’m flattered, Peter, but—”

  “Look, man. Think about it. It’s beautiful. All Pansy knows is that I tipped her about millions of dollars being laundered through MGM every month, so she hires you to get to the bottom of it. That gives you inside access to MGM so you can shut off the dirty money before anyone finds out about it. What she doesn’t know is that some other casinos have exactly the same problem. If she thought her competitors were involved, too, she would never give you the kind of access you’re going to get. Beautiful, huh? Fucking beautiful.”

  Oh, yeah, beautiful. Fucking beautiful.

  PETE DIDN’T SPEAK AGAIN until we were almost directly in front of Government House.

  “Then today,” he said, “Pansy calls and tells me you’ve refused to take the goddamned job. You know what she asked me? She wanted to know if I could recommend anyone else.”

  “And could you?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “In other words, you couldn’t.”

  “I got on an airplane, came straight to Macau, got a couple of our local lads to track you down, and here I am starving my ass off and begging you to take the goddamned job. Does that answer your question?”

  “I’m flattered, Pete.”

  “You sure as shit ought to be. Look, Jack, I know you’re the best at this kind of thing so I need you. You happy now? Want me to say it again? You’re the best! I need you! How’s that?”

  “My God, Pete, you must really need me if you’re willing to debase yourself like that.”

  “Tell me you’ll take the goddamned job and I’ll figure it was worth it.”

  I stood looking at the front of Government House, a two-story Mediterranean structure the color of over-ripe raspberries. With its white shutters and white balustrades, it looked like a very large cake of some very peculiar flavor.

  “Let me make absolutely certain I understand what you’re saying here, Pete. You want me to let Pansy pay me to track down the source of this mystery money and tell the FBI where it’s coming from. Is that right?”

  Pete nodded.

  “You don’t think it would be unethical of me to give you information my client had paid for?”

  Pete turned his head and gave me such a look of total amazement that I laughed right out loud.

  “Okay,” he said after a moment, “if it bothers you so much, think about it this way. You’re an American citizen. If you happen on evidence of a crime under American law, you are ethically bound to report it to the appropriate American law enforcement authorities.” Pete tapped himself in the chest with his forefinger. “That would be me.”

  “And would I happen on evidence of a crime under American law by looking into this money laundering at the MGM Macau?”

  Pete pursed his lips and made a thinking face. “It’s…possible.”

  THE SIMPLE TRUTH OF it was that Macau held an undeniable appeal for me. I had always been attracted to weirdness, and Macau is a free fire zone of weirdness. In a world floundering through the swamps of correctness, regulation, and regimentation, Macau is an outlaw. How can you not love that?

  Macau for a couple of weeks? Working for a beautiful billionairess? Picking up some big money and being given license to dig into the financial records of one of the biggest casinos in the world?

  “You promise me, Pete, this isn’t triad money?”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  I just looked at him.

  “Okay, Jack, I take your point, I do. But I’m not lying now. It is not fucking triad money.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I…know. You have my word on it.”

  “What is it you’re not telling me, Pete?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Jack, there’s a ton of shit I’m not telling you. I’m not completely stupid.”

  “But you’re telling me the truth about the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not triad?”

  “Not triad. Scout’s honor.”

  I PRETENDED TO PONDER for a little longer, but that was mostly for show. I couldn’t have Pete thinking I was a pushover, could I?

  Later, when I looked back and asked myself how I had gotten into all this, I could take no comfort in ambiguity. I couldn’t explain it away as coincidence or bad luck. I couldn’t say it was all unforeseen or, even better, someone else’s fault. It had happened right at that moment, and I had done it to myself. Everything that came afterward began when I agreed to do what Pete was asking me to do. Everything started the very second I spoke the words that Pete had flown all the way from Bangkok to hear.

  “Okay, Pete,” I said, “I’ll take the goddamned job.”

  In spite of my misgivings, I have to admit I felt a slight buzz of anticipation the moment I caved in. There was stuff to figure out, secrets to learn, shit to fix. Perhaps even a few tacos with a good-looking billionairess thrown into the deal.

  This, I told myself, just might work out okay after all.

  EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING AFTER breakfast I called Gerald Brady to tell him I would take the job. Brady wasn’t in, so I left a message that we needed to talk about the specific terms of MGM’s proposal. After that I went into the bathroom to shower and dress and, of course, the goddamned phone rang the moment I finished soaping up. I leaned out of the shower and grabbed the receiver of an extension helpfully mounted on a wall within reach.

  “What?” I snapped.

  There was a brief silence. Then: “Professor Shepherd?”

  The voice was female, deferential, and slightly tentative. The woman sounded so nice that I immediately felt like a jerk for the way I had answered the telephone.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be rude, but I’m in the shower.”

  The woman’s tone may have initially been deferential, but she didn’t acknowledge my apology and it didn’t appear to bother her all that much that she had called when I was in the shower because she didn’t acknowledge that either.

  “Please hold for Ms. Ho,” she intoned crisply, and there was a click.

  I stood there, half in the shower and half out, dripping on the bathroom floor and listening to hold music that sounded like an accordion band playing the greatest hits of Barry Manilow. Where did telephone manufacturers get this stuff?

  “Good morning, Jack.”

  Pansy Ho’s voice cut off my cascade of internal rants before I could get too worked up.

  “I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient time,” she said.

  “No, not at all. I just finished breakfast.”

  I’m such a pussy when it comes to good-looking women I even embarrass myself sometimes. I wonder if I would have res
ponded the same way if Pansy Ho were short, fat, ugly, and poor. Actually I know the answer to that, and it isn’t pretty.

  “I understand you’ve decided to help us, Jack. I wanted to tell you how very pleased I am. Very pleased.”

  “It sounds like word travels fast around here. I haven’t even talked to Brady. I only left a message.”

  “It’s a small town and, to be completely honest, Gerald’s office was told to notify me immediately if they heard from you. I hadn’t given up. I was still hoping something might make you change your mind.”

  For a split second, I thought Pansy was about to ask me what it was that had changed my mind, and I didn’t have a clue what I was going to tell her. But she didn’t ask.

  “I’m looking forward to having you around, Jack.”

  I was getting a creepy feeling I was being manipulated, but I wasn’t completely sure to what end. If it was Pansy using her feminine wiles to get me to take the job…well, maybe that wasn’t too bad. Yeah, okay, I am a pussy. I admit it. All right?

  “Why don’t you come down to my office right now and we’ll get everything worked out?”

  “I had assumed I was going to be working with Gerald.”

  “Oh…”

  Pansy trailed off for a moment, which gave me the opportunity to kick myself. Hard.

  “…that’s okay, too, if you would rather.”

  I was being manipulated. Now I was sure of it. But I didn’t actually mind all that much.

  “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,” I said.

  WORKING OUT MY DEAL with Pansy was painless. She asked me what my billing rate was. I told her I billed a thousand United States dollars an hour plus expenses, and if I had to bring in any people to help me their fees would be on top of that. She said fine. I was a hell of a negotiator, wasn’t I?

  To be honest, quoting a rate like that always embarrasses me a little. I understand people aren’t actually buying my time. They’re buying my knowledge and my experience. I also realize the amount of money usually at stake when people ask for my advice makes my charges seem like a rounding error. Still, it feels pretty ridiculous to me, really, that anybody’s advice can possibly be worth a thousand dollars an hour. I can’t imagine what my father would say if he were still alive and found out his son was charging clients that kind of money for, mostly, talking. He would no doubt see it as an out and out scam. Sometimes even I thought it was.

  “I’ll fill Gerald in on our arrangement, Jack. How soon will you be available?”

  “I’m available now. I can devote at least the next few days exclusively to you.”

  I thought that had a nicely ambiguous ring to it, and I liked it that Pansy smiled after I said it.

  “I may need to go back to Hong Kong for a bit next week,” I added, “but we ought to have made a good start by that time. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even have your problem solved.”

  “In a few days?”

  I spread my hands. “Hey, everybody tells you I’m good, don’t they?”

  “What do you need to get started?” Pansy laughed. “Some office space?”

  “That’s not necessary. I can work in the suite. But I want to start by studying the daily casino cash management and currency inventory reports. Can you get them for me going back…say, ninety days?”

  “I’ll have them delivered to your suite by the end of today.”

  A few minutes of pleasant conversation followed after that, and Pansy and I both nodded politely through all the detailed talk of casino operations and cash flows. Each of us was trying to hit the socially acceptable level of flirtation without stumbling into wretched excess. That’s not nearly as easy as it sounds.

  Pansy was walking me to the door when my telephone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It said HENRI’S RESTAURANT, which was when I remembered that I had agreed to talk to Raymond’s friend with the immigration problem. Raymond was calling to set up the meeting.

  How do I get myself into these things?

  AFTER I LEFT PANSY’S office, I found a quiet spot beyond the elevators and called Raymond back.

  “This is Henri’s, the best loved restaurant in Macau.”

  “This is Jack Shepherd, the best loved lawyer in Hong Kong.”

  “No such thing. Nobody loves a lawyer. Not in Hong Kong, not anywhere.”

  “There’s got to be one somewhere. I think it’s me.”

  Raymond didn’t laugh. Sometimes I wondered what sort of sense of humor Chinese guys had. Were there Chinese comedians? Had to be, I guess. Could there be a Chinese knockoff of Monty Python out there somewhere? That I would only believe if I saw it with my own eyes.

  “Your meeting’s at noon,” Raymond said.

  I glanced at my watch. “You buying us lunch at Henri’s?”

  “No, not here. Do you know the Ah-Ma Temple?”

  Of course I knew the Ah-Ma Temple. Every tourist who had ever visited Macau knew the Ah-Ma Temple. A Taoist complex built on the side of Barra Hill in the fifteenth century, it faced the inner harbor from the southeast corner of the Macau Peninsula. I had walked past it yesterday as I was wandering through the old city, but the mobs of Chinese tourists around the place had made the thought of going inside pretty unattractive. Besides, I had never seen myself as much of a temple kind of guy.

  “Get serious, Raymond. You want me to meet this guy at a temple?”

  “It’s not what I want, it’s what he wants.”

  “Well, it’s not what I want. Tell this fellow to come here to the MGM and—”

  “Stop!’

  I stopped. I didn’t ever remember hearing Raymond speak so sharply to anyone before, let alone to me, and now that he had I wasn’t sure how to react.

  “Look, Jack, I’m sorry, but you’ve got to do this the way my friend wants to do it. It’s important. You have to trust me on that. When you meet him, you’ll understand why.”

  “Wow, I love a mystery.”

  “Just shut the fuck up, will you? Be at the Ah-Ma Temple at noon. Go in through the main gate between the stone lions and climb the stairs to the Hall of Benevolence.”

  “The Hall of Benevolence? You’re shitting me.”

  “It’s Ming Dynasty. Supposed to be five or six hundred years old. It’s the third or maybe the fourth building up the hill.”

  “You disappoint me, Raymond. You’re not sure which building is the Hall of Benevolence? I though you people really knew your temples.”

  “I’m a Catholic. Dominus vobiscum, baby. I know from nothing about all this Taoist mumbo jumbo.”

  “How will I find this friend of yours when I get there?”

  “You won’t have to find him. He’ll find you.”

  “You think I should wear a red carnation or something like that?

  “Get serious, white boy. You’re conspicuous enough around here already. Don’t need no red carnation.”

  “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Just call him Freddy.”

  “Freddy?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Which I’m certain is his real name. I know a lot of Chinese guys named Freddy.”

  “Did I say he was Chinese?”

  “Well, no, come to think of it, you didn’t. But if you play the odds in Macau—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jack. Get your butt over to the Ah-Ma Temple at noon, meet the guy, and listen to his story. You can call him Barbra Streisand, for all I care. He won’t care either.”

  “Wait a minute, Raymond, this really does seem a little—”

  But I was talking to myself. Raymond had hung up.

  I LEFT THE MGM about an hour later and found a taxi right away. Since Macau isn’t a very big place, by eleven-thirty I was standing in the little square in front of Barra Hill looking up at the pavilions of the Ah-Ma temple on the rocky hillside. I was early, so I sat down on one of the wooden benches shaded by willow trees that were scattered around the sides of the square. I thought it might not hurt to w
atch the world for a while before I climbed up to the temple. I didn’t know what I was looking for, of course, but I figured looking was a good idea anyway.

  The area in front of the temple is called Barra Square, although it really isn’t much of a square. It’s only a big open space between a wide roadway that runs along the inner harbor and the small hill where the buildings of the temple are wedged into the rock. Bordered on two sides by small Mediterranean-style buildings painted in shades of pink, green, and yellow, the square itself is paved in tiny cream and black mosaic tiles. Right at its center is a five-sided green kiosk selling cheesy souvenirs and packaged ice creams that looks like it was stolen from a Paris Metro station.

  The whole area was thronged with Chinese tour groups huddled around guides holding aloft small colored pennants, and the people in each cluster were wearing tags color-coded to match their group’s pennant. The whole thing looked as rigidly organized as a national day celebration in North Korea.

  After watching the crowds for a while without seeing anything unusual, I walked over to the kiosk and bought a chocolate-covered ice cream bar. When I returned to my bench, I watched them some more while I ate it, but what was I actually looking for? I didn’t have a clue. Even if there were surveillance around Raymond’s mysterious friend, I wouldn’t have spotted it unless everybody involved was wearing a red hat with a rotating beacon on top.

  But why would he be under surveillance anyway? Surely the guy wasn’t that important. Regardless of what Raymond said, I would still bet he only turned out to be some poor schmo who had gambled away money he had embezzled from a state-owned company in China and was looking for an alternative to going home and getting shot. Who could blame him for that?

  After fifteen minutes, the ice cream was gone and so was my patience. I tossed the stick and wrapper into a trash barrel and walked across the square to the temple’s elaborate entry gate. It was crowned with dramatically upturned tile ridges and decorated with dozens of colorful ceramic animals I couldn’t quite put a name to. I felt like I was entering Disneyland. Which, in a manner of speaking, it turned out I was.

  The first pavilion up the steps was the First Palace of the Holy Mountain. Dedicated to Tian Hou, the goddess of seafarers, it is a rectangular granite structure with high gabled walls and an extravagantly upturned roof covered in green glazed tiles. Chinese tourists clogged the doorway, pushing and shoving each other to get inside. It was a good thing the rendezvous hadn’t been planned for the First Palace of the Holy Mountain. I would never have been able to fight my way inside through the mob of Chinese seeking divine delivery of fortune and prosperity.