The Doll Brokers

by Hal Ross

  “So far, the likes of you are just fine.”

  He dropped his hand. She already missed his touch. “About Patrick…”

  “If he hurt that woman, there’s no saving him, Ann.”

  “Your mother—”

  “We have to get home to her.”

  Yes, she thought, they did. “What about Charles Ling? We can’t forget about him.”

  He pushed fingers into his hair. “You’re right. If we don’t find him, then our chance of putting out the doll will be lost. Our only other option would be to go home and fly back here in a couple of days.”

  “That would be a waste.” She looked at her watch. “Nine-thirty. We can probably wrap this up by mid-afternoon.”

  He went over to the desk by the window and picked up the hotel phone. “Let me see when we can get a flight out of here.”

  It took him a while, but he finally connected to the airline and got the information. “There’s an available flight at 6:30,” he said.

  “Get us on it,” Ann urged.

  He made the arrangements and turned to her, handing her back her cell phone. “Where are our lists?”

  Ann got them out of her briefcase as she dropped the cell phone inside. “What time do you want to meet back here?”

  “I think we can safely give ourselves until one o’clock.” He paused. “Ann, it’s with the utmost regret that I say this, but I think under the circumstances, we need to skip the hot tub this afternoon.”

  Her gaze jumped to his. “A woman does what a woman has to do.”

  One corner of his mouth tried to smile. “You’re incredible.”

  “Tell me that after I dismember your brother.”

  He looked away. Then his eyes came back to her. “Maybe you were right about him.”

  She could see how difficult it was for Jonathan to admit this to himself, let alone her. She didn’t want him to hurt. Yes, she had grown to actually despise Patrick—really hate him for his weak, conniving ways. “He’s got Morhardt genes,” she said finally. “There has to be something redeemable in him, somewhere.”

  “Maybe.” Jonathan kissed her once, quickly, then they headed out of the room.

  “One o’clock,” he said before setting off on his own. “No matter where you are or what you’re doing, you cease and desist and come back to home base.”

  “Right on, Captain.” Ann half saluted, trying to appear playful. But when she was sure he was gone, she paused and admitted to herself that maybe it was time to give up. Yes, Felicia wanted this doll project to proceed, and more than anything she wanted it for her. But at what cost? More money would be needed for Patrick’s lawyer. Another million five would have to go to Ling, if they ever found him. At what point would it be too much?

  A lot was working against them. Her mind spiraled back to what she had thought was the worst point in this odyssey, her previous version of rock bottom—the meeting at Kmart with Tom Carlisle. She couldn’t do this anymore.

  She took a deep breath. No. She would continue, she thought. She would see it through. She would find a way to do it. For Felicia, and—by association—for Jonathan. Prioritize, she told herself. Find Ling. That came first.

  The cab ride took her west on a few side streets, then north on Nathan Road. In all her trips to Hong Kong, Ann had never ventured much past Mong Kok which, she now reminded herself, was actually a misnomer. The true name in Cantonese was Wong Kok but the sign painter many years ago was rumored to be dyslexic and replaced the ‘W’ with an ‘M’ in error. Despite herself, Ann smiled. Only in Hong Kong would this sort of thing be allowed to stand.

  The cab turned east on Prince Edward Road and drove past Yuen Po Street, home of the Bird Market where, despite fears of virulent strains of flu running rampant among fowl, people still gathered in droves to admire the hundreds of songbirds. Ann remembered coming here once, but that had been many years before, when the flu was something you caught from a person, not a bird.

  Just approaching Kowloon City, she became cognizant of a noticeable change. The touristy things she was familiar with—the jewelry and electronic shops, the fast food joints and pastry stores—now gave way to apartment building after apartment building, some in disrepair, stacked one next to the other.

  The cab turned on a small side-street and came to a halt a hundred feet or so from the corner. Ann gave the driver seventy Hong Kong, the equivalent of nine American dollars, which reminded her that taxis were one of the few bargains left in the city.

  She stood for a moment on the sidewalk, experiencing a strange sense that she was indeed a gwilo, a foreigner in unfamiliar terrain, and that she was being noticed.

  She unfolded the piece of paper she held in her hand, meaning to verify the address, when suddenly, something impossibly hard hit her in the back of the skull. She cried out and pitched forward, losing her grip on her briefcase. It hit the sidewalk and skidded. As she went down, she felt her knees scrape the concrete. Then her chin connected with enough force to make her see stars.

  She rolled out of pure instinct. Every day of her life since she’d been fourteen years old she considered all of the things she could have done, should have done, to fight off Mad Dog. Now, all those well-rehearsed alternatives came to her in a flash. She slid onto her back, brought her legs up close to her chest, and kicked out hard. Blindly.

  He was Chinese. He stood above her in some kind of fighter’s stance. Without thinking, she repeated the gesture, gathering her knees close, shooting her feet at him with more power than before, aiming straight for his groin.

  He screamed out in Cantonese, doubled over, staggered back. But there was another man standing by. Another? No, no, no, she couldn’t fight two of them!

  She felt part of her mind sinking down. Going wild, feral. And she roared a sound of pure rage. Her legs pumped and her fists flew as the second man leaned over, trying to grab her. She caught a glimpse of a gun at his belt. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—let him get a grip on it. She kept screaming and kicking. Somebody, please see this, hear this, she thought.

  The first man had now recovered and hit her in the face. Something red then white mushroomed in her vision before Ann’s teeth found the flesh of his hand. She bit down with everything she had.

  She continued flailing her arms and legs, until she realized she was just swiping at air. The men were gone. An arm in a short blue sleeve reached to help her up. She bit hard on that hand, too, and heard the sound of pain and surprise. Ann scrambled away, crouching at a safe distance.

  She was sobbing, shaking. The stranger was saying something she didn’t understand.

  “I don’t speak Chinese,” she choked.

  The man moved toward her, holding his hands out to show he only wanted to help. Ann mewled low in her throat. She noticed her briefcase on the pavement where it had fallen. She shot to her feet, swayed, then lunged and grabbed for it, almost losing her balance. “I’m okay,” she said to the man. “I’m okay.” Then she turned and ran.

  CHAPTER 47

  She limped to a stop at the first corner she came to, her breath still coming in jagged gasps. She’d lost a shoe and thought about going back for it. No. She needed to keep moving ahead. Away from them. She hurried off, no destination in mind.

  Who were they? She wondered.

  She removed her other shoe and tossed it into the street. By the time she reached a small Chinese restaurant her stockings had shredded. Her steps finally faltered and she veered inside, past the tables to a restroom in the back.

  Closing the door, she leaned her weight against it, her cheek pressed to the cool wood. When she stopped shaking, she straightened and looked around. She was alone. She locked herself in, let her legs give out, and sank to the floor. She fumbled with the latches on her briefcase. She needed her cell phone—had to call Jonathan.

  Ann shoved the briefcase abruptly to the floor. No. She couldn’t—wouldn’t run to him like a kicked puppy. She’d been through worse before. Alone. She’d always saved hers
elf.

  She had to figure out what to do. Why had it happened? A random mugging? No, they’d had a gun. So what? Muggers use guns, you idiot. Ann shook her head in disgust and her brain throbbed with pain. She rested her forehead on her drawn-up knees, willing the hurt away.

  Still, it could not have been a random attack. They had not taken her briefcase. Their plan had been to drag her off somewhere. And somehow she knew, if they had succeeded, she would not have survived.

  Why? Was this part of Chow’s bizarre plot to ruin Hart Toy and the Morhardts—to kill her?

  None of this made sense. None of it. Why would Chow destroy the company that had been the source of his livelihood for so long? Did a million and a half dollars warrant the risk? Yes, she supposed it did, especially here in Hong Kong, where money was worshiped like a religion.

  But why would Chow choose to disappear now? Why not allow things to move along and collect as much money from Hart Toy as possible, including the additional percentages? Why settle for the first million-five?

  Unless … Patrick was somehow involved? The accusations against him were serious. Could he actually have beaten up an innocent woman, battering her nearly to death? Where was the connection? What, if anything, did Patrick have to do with any of this?

  Ann was stymied; she couldn’t get an angle on it.

  They would have to locate Chow, she thought. Once the authorities get their hands on him, the pieces of the puzzle would come together.

  Someone knocked.

  Ann groaned as she stood unsteadily and pressed her palms against the door. “Just a minute,” she called. Her throat was raw.

  She limped to the mirror. Her hair was wild. A bruise was growing under her left eye. She pressed her fingers to the back of her head where she’d first been hit. There was a noticeable lump.

  Of course, it was impossible for her to go on to the people on her list. She was a mess. It was a miracle she’d gotten through the restaurant without being stopped.

  She cleaned up at the sink as best she could, stuffing the paper towels into the trash bin. When she opened the door to exit, there was no one on the other side.

  Ann made her way out, keeping her head down to hide her battered face. She had to get back to the hotel and do whatever damage control she could: change her clothes and apply sufficient makeup.

  Thinking ahead grounded her, gave her something on which to focus.

  She began to walk, unsure of the correct direction. At the first corner she came to, she looked around, then crossed the street. There was no sign of the men who had accosted her.

  Finally, a taxi appeared. She slid into the back seat and gave the driver the name of her hotel. Fifteen minutes later, she was just entering her room when her cell phone went off.

  “Mr. Morhardt, please,” Captain Tang said.

  “Hello, Captain,” she greeted him, having recognized his voice. “Mr. Morhardt is busy right now. May I help you?”

  “Yes, Ms. Lesage. I have wonderful news. I found Charles Ling. He is with me now. He can be at your hotel within the hour.”

  Her mind sizzled. Could she have heard right? This was too good to be true. “Did you say you—uh—found him? The Charles Ling we are looking for? The inventor of our baby doll?”

  “Yes, yes, the very same.”

  Quickly, she looked at her watch. The crystal was broken, but it seemed to be keeping time. Not wanting to take a chance, she said, “Let’s see, it is now 11:48. Correct?”

  “That is correct, Ms. Lesage.”

  “Okay, then. One hour from now should be fine.”

  She no sooner disconnected then a well of emotion burst inside of her. This was good news. No—great news! Move, move, move.

  The spray of the shower hurt and she had to force herself to withstand the pain. She clenched her fingers into fists and extended her arms upwards. Her curses were camouflaged by the roar of the water.

  By the time she stepped out of the shower, her sole objective was to find a way to conceal the damage, especially the bruises on her face.

  Pancake, rouge, lipstick; she tried it all, going so far as to apply an extra layer of each. She was careful with her choice of dress, finally picking a simple Yves St. Laurent number in lime green that suited the color of her hair.

  When she heard an abrupt rap on the door, she sighed. This would be Jonathan, she was sure. She turned her face away as he strolled past her into the room.

  “And how was your—” he started to ask. He broke off and stared at her. “Jesus. What happened to you?”

  So much for makeup, Ann thought.

  He came at her fast, reached a tender hand to her swollen cheek. “Who did this to you, Ann?” His voice was pained.

  She let him hold her, but something shattered in her head. Whatever it was that had kept her moving after the attack, now broke into a million small pieces and rained down inside her. It happened with a sound like a pop behind her eyes, within her ears—something only she could hear. And she felt herself coming apart.

  He finally peeled back, held her at arms length. “What happened? Please tell me.”

  Despite her resolve, she began to cry.

  He’d only seen her cry once before, when she’d gotten misty-eyed during their trip to the American retailers. But this was gulping, shuddering. She couldn’t seem to get her breath. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Come on now. Easy does it.”

  Even while she buried her face in his neck, her hands started pummeling his shoulders. “I needed you!”

  The knot in his gut twisted. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

  “No! I needed you!” But her fists slowed in their pace.

  “I should have been there.”

  “No, you should not have been there!” She yanked away from him. “And I shouldn’t have run for you!”

  “You couldn’t have run for me, Ann. We were far apart.”

  “Would you stop being so reasonable and just get this?”

  “Ann, darling—I’m not sure what it is I’m supposed to be getting.”

  “I was going to call you!” she shouted. “The first thing I thought to do was call you!”

  Ah, he thought. The independence thing again. It wasn’t just sex that made her panicky, he realized. It was more a matter of this … needing.

  “I’m here now,” he said.

  She couldn’t tell him how happy she was to see him. At least, not yet. But she did allow herself to soften a bit. She began to give him the details of the attack. She kept it as simple and as abbreviated as possible, purposely leaving out the part about the gun. Before she could finish, however, the hotel phone rang.

  “Ms. Lesage?” a stranger’s voice asked.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Ling.” Broken accent. “Charles Ling.”

  “Yes. We were expecting you. Is Captain Tang with you?”

  “No. He no come. So sorry.”

  In a way, Ann was relieved. “Well, could you join us in my room, please?” She gave him the room number.

  By the time she disconnected, Jonathan was curious. “Who was that?”

  She shrugged. “Sorry. I should have told you. Captain Tang found Charles Ling. He’s on his way up to see us now.”

  “He is? That’s fabulous, Ann.”

  As if on cue, there was a knock on the door and Jonathan went to answer it. A moment later, Charles Ling shyly stepped into Ann’s room. Like many tall men, he seemed to hunch a little, as though trying to minimize the impact he had on his environment. He was gangly and nervous. Around forty-five, Ann would guess. In spite of his height—or maybe because of it—everything else about him seemed small: his features, his hands, his feet. Only his brown eyes loomed unnaturally large, the effect of black-framed glasses.

  Ann and Jonathan took seats on the small sofa, allowing their guest to have the only chair in the room, a hardback model that was positioned next to the desk.

  “Do you know Edmund Chow?” Ann asked without preamb
le.

  “Yes, he is one of three people I showed my latest invention to,” Ling said. But Ann realized these were not quite the words he was using. His English was fractured. As he spoke she automatically adjusted the grammar in her head, knowing if she didn’t she would lose the meaning of whatever it was he was trying to tell them.

  “But other people showed no interest,” he continued. “Only Mr. Chow. I asked him to sign the agreement. He told me it wasn’t necessary.” The man’s voice broke, genuine grief causing his face to spasm. “He took my one-of-a-kind sample. And I haven’t heard from him since.”

  Ann could see how upset the man was. “Who is Mae Sing Creations?” she asked.

  Ling made an odd gargling sound, then blanched.

  “What is it?” Ann said.

  “That is my wife.”

  “Mae Sing Creations?” A headache swelled inside her skull as she tried to assimilate it.

  “It is my wife’s name. We have no creations, other than our children.” He gave a weak smile.

  Ann looked from the man to Jonathan, and back again. “How do we know you are the creator of Baby Talk N Glow? I mean, what proof do you have?”

  Ling frowned. “Baby what?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ann said. “I should explain. That is the name we have chosen for the doll.”

  The man’s smile didn’t exactly expand but his countenance transformed. Where there had been anxiety and hesitation was now resolve. From his jacket pocket he removed a four-page legal document, written in Chinese and stamped by some Hong Kong authority.

  “This is proof of the copyright,” Ling said. “You are welcome to show it to your lawyer.”

  Ann passed the document to Jonathan who gave it a perfunctory glance. It could have been Greek, for all he knew. Looking for more familiar ground, he turned to Ling and asked the man to tell them about himself.

  Ling’s look revealed his bewilderment.

  “Where were you born?” Jonathan began again. “Where did you go to school? How did you become, of all things, a doll inventor?”