All Blood is Red Read online

  Jeannie gave him a peck on the cheek and went out to the kitchen, and he heard her start the tap running. “This place is disgusting, Donnie. It smells bad.” She was trying to annoy him, poking at him to get a rise.

  He ignored her and turned the TV on. Still on the movie channel. This time Arnie was running through some trees but Don wasn’t sure whether it was Commando or Predator. Half an hour later, after aspirin, a shower and a shave, he was feeling better. He rubbed the towel over himself and dressed: black trousers, white shirt. Smart enough for any job, casual enough to not stand out in a crowd.

  Arnie was setting spiked traps in the jungle. Don picked up the packet of fags off the coffee table and slipped them in his shirt pocket. “I’ve gotta go out for a bit.”

  “No you don’t. You’ve been neglecting me.” She grabbed his hand, tried to hold it against herself. He pushed her off.

  “Sorry babe, gotta go see a man about a job.”

  She threw a cushion after him as he took his little digital camera from a drawer in the TV unit. “You rotten bastard. I might not be here when you get back, one of these days.”

  He picked up his keys and walked out through the front door. She’d be here.

  “You dirty, dumb bastard.”

  6

  He took the lift down to the underground parking lot. He was still a bit fuzzy, but the aspirin were kicking in as he pulled out on to the shitty little side street that held his apartment. Oxford Heights, the building was called. A bit ambitious. There were plenty of closed up shops in the neighbourhood, their shutters covered with peeling advertisements for clubs and shows.

  There is Kowloon City the city, and inside that is Kowloon City the district. That was where he lived. It could be a nice place but Don didn’t live in the nice part. He was a street away from To Kwa Wan where the buildings literally crumbled with age. Turn the wrong direction out his front door and you had to watch your head. Turn the other way you had to watch your wallet.

  It wasn’t the worst area. Far from it. At least it was lively. Reminded him of East London, sometimes. Poor, dirty, pretty rough around the edges, but with a certain sense of pride and identity. And if this was the East End, then he was headed to the equivalent of Knightsbridge, up the hill on the Island, where all the rich bastards lived.

  He tried to remember the night before. They’d sank a few beers in the Keller, then Jonny’s new mate Michael had shown up. Some bar that played shitty hip-hop far too loud, but made up for it with tequila shots that were far too cheap. Drinking-games with tequila were a bad idea. Then some club. A blurry memory of dancing with Jeannie.

  Prince Edward Road West. Princess Margaret Road toward the tunnel. You’d never know the British had been here. Traffic wasn’t so bad on the highway and he was through the tunnel and on the Island. Soon the insurance companies, the banking offices, the government buildings were behind him as his car climbed the hill, to the higher-end apartments of Happy Valley and the big private houses behind. Up a long, twisting country lane, Fong’s house was on a levelled-off snatch of land, cleared of trees and surrounded by a stone wall topped by cast iron railings painted green.

  He slowed for a good look as he went past the gate. A short gravel driveway held two cars, a red roadster and what looked like a silver Audi. The gardens were small but well tended. The lawn twisted around the house and the shape of the hill, with some classy topiary, short palms and who knows what plants dotted about. The rear garden was lined with big firs, and then the densely wooded hillside climbed steeply into the National Park. It wasn’t quite the most exclusive part of the island, but it was only thirty-seconds away by high-powered Italian sports car.

  The house itself was two stories, painted white with black trim, Greek columns and so forth. It had steps leading up to the main door and big bow windows across the front. Don didn’t even dream of being able to afford that, and certainly not in Hong Kong. He parked his shabby black Corolla in a passing spot up round the bend and got out to take a better look. He was about thirty yards from the front windows but well-hidden by the wall, which came up to his chest. No signs of life coming from the house. The second car was a Merc, not an Audi. S-Class. Quite conservative, tasteful, in an area where every other house had a Ferrari or a Maserati sat out front. The roadster was one of the new MGs, a very nice car, red as a cherry. Don didn’t know eff all about cars but that’s what he would take for his money. If he had any.

  Nothing much was happening so he sat back in his own shitty car and edged it forward to the curve of the road so that he could see if anyone came out the gate. Had to be careful, subtle. He’d never played detective before, but didn’t mind it if all jobs paid like this one. If it went on for a week he could pay some rent and a fair chunk of the money he owed.

  His big, boxer’s hands rested on the steering wheel. Nothing subtle about them. He’d broken every finger in his left hand over the years. It showed in the crooked angles and swollen joints. Snapped his little finger punching a brick wall while he was still in school. Then others at various times, fighting inside the ring or out. Didn’t really matter anymore. It was an ugly hand. They both were. Five years now since he’d been in the ring.

  He started boxing in sixth-form college, not that many people would believe it. The education that is, not the boxing. Turned pro later, reached the top of a few cards on the London circuit, saved up his money.

  That was when he looked after himself, of course. Didn’t drink so much, didn’t smoke so much, lived pretty clean. He had bowed out of the ring and come to Hong Kong with thirty grand in his pocket to invest in a boxing gym, with an old friend from the East End. Next thing he knew the friend and the money had fucked off to America. Now he was bouncing for Mickey, and taking bottles over the head.

  He hadn’t been able to work at the club since that night. Not after the police came by asking questions, with the kid still in hospital. Mickey told him to take a few weeks off, lay low, slipped a few thousand Hong Kong Dollars into his pocket. That was two weeks ago, and this job couldn’t have come at a better time. He had rent to pay, and a lot of money owed. He was starting to look over his shoulder whenever he left his apartment.

  What a fucking life.

  He wound the window down and took his cigarettes from his shirt pocket. The sun was hot today, but there was a bit of a breeze that rolled the smoke around inside the car. Probably about time he cut down. Hadn’t smoked half as much when he was boxing. Two or three a day, maybe? A few more when he didn’t have any fights coming up, plus the cigars when he was in the mood. Or when he won.

  Don heard a sound from the house, a door closing, so he stepped out the car, flicked his cigarette into the gutter, peered through the railings. A woman was walking down the steps from the house. She was Chinese, tall in her heels, beautiful as they come. Her elegant black and cream dress floated in the light breeze, a classy matching hat in one hand. Her long black hair bounced around her shoulders like TV ads, and her lips were as red as the MG. So this was the trophy wife? Her stilettos crunched sharply on the gravel. Don watched her climb into the roadster, the gate sliding open. She pulled out of the driveway, turned off down the hill away from where he stood. The gate slid shut again. No sign of Alexander Fong, so he might as well relax. He climbed back into the car, still picturing her in his mind.

  Maybe that was where the money was going. A woman like that? Hell, she could be the ruin of any man.

  7

  Don sat in his car and the sun climbed higher. Eleven o’clock became twelve, then one. He turned on the radio. Classical. Relaxing for a while, then boring. He changed station. Cantonese, some kind of interview. Some shitty pop. Sports, but he didn’t know what because it was all in Cantonese, maybe baseball. Finally an English station, but they were talking local politics. He turned the radio off and lit another cigarette.

  Two o’clock. Should’ve brought some lunch. Didn’t detectives do this in pairs? So that they always had someone to fetch doughnuts and coffe
e? Well, Don wasn’t a cop, and didn’t have a partner. He could call someone in, Jonny maybe, but then he’d have to split the money. Maybe this job didn’t pay so well after all. Pretty soon he’d need to eat, and piss. And he had to go to the hospital for his stitches.

  He jumped when his phone rang, a tinny Robbie Williams song blasting out. Jeannie. He rejected the call, put the phone on silent and tossed it in the passenger seat, next to his little Panasonic camera. That was from Tokyo, too. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually used it. Should’ve taken some shots of the wife, but he hadn’t thought to pick it up. He slipped the camera into his trouser pocket so he wouldn’t forget it next time. The phone buzzed silently on the empty seat, Jeannie again. He sighed.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I told you, I’m doing a job.”

  “What job?”

  “Just a job, for a friend of Mickey.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Not yet. I have to go to the hospital.”

  “Well I’m working in an hour. I’ll see you later?”

  “Okay, sure. See you later.”

  He hung up. What to do about Jeannie? She could be fun to hang around with, but they’d seen too much of each other. Not like in the beginning. When it was fresh it was a party. Nothing but good times, bars and clubs, and in bed. But neither of them could be bothered anymore. You can’t party forever, and then real life catches up, nothing seems to sparkle like it did. So it goes. It was the same for her, he supposed. Maybe it was time to make an effort again. He ran his hand over his bicep. Getting soft. It was time for a lot of things.

  He got out the car and lit a cigarette, stood in the Saturday afternoon sunlight, watching the leaves ripple in the early autumn breeze coming down off the hill. Nothing much happening around here.

  Fuck it.

  8

  It was a different nurse. This one was young, looked like a student, but with a dull face and bad skin. She didn’t say anything as she snipped at the stitches with a tiny pair of scissors. The other one, the one who had put them in, had been chatty. She had flirted with him the whole time, making little comments, leaning in with her breasts in front of his face. Then she was talking Cantonese to the other nurse and they giggled. He didn’t remember her name, although he had meant to try. He was useless when it came to names, addresses, telephone numbers. Maybe it was the boxing? Years of getting punched in the face can do things to a guy.

  The cut was courtesy of some cunt with a bottle at the club he worked in. Don had put the guy on the floor with one swing, reached up to feel his head and seen his hand covered in sticky red as the guy stood up again. The fucker took half a dozen solid hits up against the wall. Don had lost it that night. It didn’t happen often, but he’d really lost it. Andy had to pull him away as he put the boot in. Then Andy dragged the poor dumb bastard outside by his ankles to leave him in the gutter for the ambulance.

  “All done, Mr Jacobs.”

  Don thanked the nurse then back down to the main desk, paid in cash from Sun Wen-Long’s envelope. Outside, he made sure to grab some coffee and doughnuts before going back to the house. That was traditional wasn’t it, when you were on a stakeout? That was what the movies made out anyway, so he’d play along.

  It was five o’clock when he reached the house, so he’d only missed a couple of hours. He slowed down again as he passed the iron-barred gate.

  Shit.

  The Merc was missing. He thumped the steering wheel and slowly drew up onto the corner of the road again. Well, he had no idea where Fong had gone, assuming that was Fong’s car, so either he sat around waiting or went home. He felt guilty for slipping off. After all he was being paid for this. So he decided to sit in his car for a bit and see what happened. And if nothing happened? Well he’d deal with that later.

  Thirty minutes passed and Don was leaning against a wall when he heard a car coming up the hill. Half a dozen had gone by but this one stopped in the middle of the road and he turned round and dropped his cigarette as the gate started sliding open.

  It was her.

  The red MG pulled in to the driveway. Don took his camera from his trousers and started snapping away. Mrs Fong climbed out of the car, still in the same outfit, still carrying the hat. She was a vision all right. He made sure to get plenty of pictures, watching the shape of the dress clinging to her body. She climbed the steps to the house, turned to watch the gates clang shut. Then she was gone, the front door slamming behind her.

  He slipped back into the car, started looking through the photos he had taken. Under the knee-length dress you could tell her legs were long. In good shape, too. Her calves were nicely rounded, not too skinny. He zoomed in on her face. Big eyes, high cheekbones, those full red lips. She was classy, with a string of black pearls around her long neck. She looked like a movie star. Perhaps she was, for all that he knew. Fong was a lucky bastard. Don supposed that was how it happened, if you had the money.

  Ten minutes later and Don heard the gates again. He got out the car and snapped Alexander Fong as he parked the Merc and disappeared inside the house, wearing a casual shirt and beige trousers with a big, shiny watch on his wrist. He was as handsome in real life as in the photo. More.

  Don put the camera back in his pocket, watched the stillness of the house for a minute, but nothing happened. He sat back in the car and pulled out a doughnut. Better not miss anything else today. This was what he was being paid for, after all.

  9

  Don didn’t hear them come out the house and start the car, nor the gates slide open. He’d been too busy singing along to the Rolling Stones CD he found tucked into the pocket on the back of the passenger seat. He caught the front end of the Mercedes as it turned to go down the hill.

  Start the car, spin it round, edge along, not too fast or he’d get too close. The sun had dropped and the road was dark until they hit streetlights at the bottom of the hill. They turned left. More traffic on that road so he could follow without being noticed.

  When I’m watching my TV…

  The Merc, three cars ahead and stopped at the lights. He could see the shadow of two figures sat in front. Fong was driving, the wife in the passenger seat. He could tell by the outlines, the hairstyles, the difference in height.

  And a man comes on to tell me…

  Across the junction, then next left and heading for Central.

  How white my shirts could be…

  Don had to fight to keep a proper distance. Sometimes he was right up the arse of the Merc, and other times too many cars cut between them so that he was five or six places back.

  But he cannot be a man because he does not smoke

  The same cigarettes as me.

  I can’t get no…

  He turned off the CD and concentrated on driving. If he could just avoid screwing up again. Maybe he should have brought a notebook, to take down the time? Seven-forty, said the clock on the dashboard. But he knew that it was at least twenty minutes fast, maybe more. His hand wandered up to the scar on his head. Now the stitches were out, maybe it was time for a haircut. He liked to keep it short.

  Queen’s Road was packed. Evening shoppers filled the crossings as they bustled from store to store, headed up narrow side streets filled with clothes stalls, cafes and bars. The Fongs’ car drove straight through to the quieter western end of Queen’s and then they were leaving the busy streets behind on the dark, wide main road that skirted the Peak. Not many other cars around here so Don hung back a bit. He’d see if they turned off anywhere.

  They took a right toward the dark water. He still didn’t want to get too close, even when the road started threading sharply downhill, snaking around so that he lost sight of them behind the curves. They were on the west side of the island with fewer buildings, mostly small apartment complexes with views over the water, and then a left onto what may have passed for a high street around here.

  Finally, the Fongs’ car pulled into the fron
t lot of a restaurant. Don slowed down as he passed. It was a big old house that had been renovated. Cavinattos, said the sign. Pretty fucking expensive by the look of it. The Merc was reversing into a parking space on the gravel out front. One side of the road was an unbroken line of parked cars so Don stopped the Corolla on double yellows. He sprinted across to the other side of the street and ducked behind a car where he could see the front of the restaurant.

  Alexander Fong’s head appeared above the Merc, and then his wife stepped out. He’d been right about those legs. She was wearing a mini-dress, very short and plum coloured, with her hair piled up. The only thing that beat those silky legs was the graceful curve of her long, bare neck. A thick silver chain on her slim wrist was the only jewellery that Don could see and she carried a small black clutch. He took out his camera and started snapping as the maitre d’ greeted them at the door. Then they were gone. Don retreated to shift his car before the cops came along.

  He grabbed a cheap coffee and cup noodles at a 7-11. There was a parking space thirty yards down from the Italian place. He sat there in the dark hoping nobody would ask what he was doing.

  It is the evening of the day…

  Don still had a couple of small doughnuts left, so he ate them with the coffee. The restaurants around here were out of his pocket. They were for people like Fong, who had big houses on the hill or a boat down in the harbour. He sniffed at his shirt. It had been a long day, and he didn’t think he smelled too good after spending a few hours sat in the car.