All Blood is Red Page 5

  Laughter burst from his chest. Christ. Jesus effing Christ. He’d been in some scrapes before, done a lot of strange things, but he’d never-fucking-ever done anything like that. He grabbed the camera, eager to see the pictures.

  The first one was a blur. Next, the back of Fong’s head over the boy’s lap, skinny, hairless thighs sticking out the side as the camera pointed down through the car window. Then Fong’s head came up, shot by shot, mouth still open. The flash caught perfectly off a string of spittle from Fong’s lip to the boy’s shiny penis, wet with saliva and poking thinly from its black wiry thicket of pubic hair. As the camera came back it caught in slow-motion the boy’s hand still inside Fong’s trousers, the boy looking straight at the camera, his eyes half closed against the blinding light. Finally the car, the door opening with the boy’s long black hair flicking about, and the boy running off with one hand across his face and one hand holding his trousers up to his waist.

  Don heaved a sigh of relief that it was over. He laughed at the kid, caught with his pants down like a Carry On film. Then he went back to the perfect picture. The perfect, incriminating shot of Fong’s mouth coming up off the boy’s dick. He looked at it a while. He didn’t know how it made him feel so he turned off the camera, put it back on the coffee table. He took a big drag on his cigarette and flicked the ash. He didn’t mind gay guys. He’d known several in London, of course. Even a few here in Hong Kong. But he’d never seen them doing it.

  Well, whatever. That was their business. He sipped at his scotch again, staring at the camera. Whatever they did to each other was nothing to do with him, but this must have been what Mr Sun was after. That sly old bastard must’ve known about this the whole time, wanted some evidence to hold over his partner’s head. Even the story about the money might not be true. Don felt a bit guilty for Alexander Fong. Still, he had done his work and he was well out of it. That was their problem to work through, not his.

  He downed his scotch and filled the glass again, this time going to the kitchen to grab a couple of cubes of ice. A shot like that must be worth a fair bit to Mr Sun. A real money shot. He could drop it off tomorrow and see exactly what it would fetch. He thought about Mrs Lam. Julia Lam, former actress. Did she know about this? How could she, and stay married to the guy? Poor woman. No wonder they didn’t have any kids. With a wife like that, he’s chasing rent boys to give them their crack money. What a waste.

  The phone in his pocket buzzed, breaking the stillness in the apartment and startling him. Somehow he expected it to be Mr Sun, or Alexander Fong, or even the wife. It was Jeannie.

  “Hello babe.”

  “Hi Don. You at home?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I just got in.”

  “My shift is finished.”

  “Okay, great.”

  She copied him, trying to do his accent, “’Okay, great.’ Well shall I come round or what?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course. Come on round babe. Did you eat?”

  “Christ, you’re dopey tonight. No I didn’t, and I’m fucking starving. Shall I pick up a pizza on the way?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll see you in a bit, babe.” He hung up. She was right, he was being dopey. Time to snap out of it. He looked back at the camera on the coffee table, trying not to think about that picture, the spit hanging from Fong’s mouth, the shiny wet little dick sprouting from its bush. Couldn’t leave it out for Jeannie to find.

  He picked it up and slid it back into the drawer in the TV unit, and turned the TV on. The sudden noise startled him again, as the picture lit up to a gunfight in a warehouse. Some Hong Kong action movie. It would keep him occupied till Jeannie got here.

  18

  The park was easy to find. It was half way up the hill behind the Star Ferry Piers on Hong Kong Island, five minutes’ walk from the antique store. Just a small square with a few trees, iron railing around the outside, and two paths that crossed in the centre, marking their X on the grass. The leaves were already mostly yellow, and quite a few of them littered the ground, shifting around in the breeze. The trees would be bare in another six weeks or so. The sun was hot, but a number of clouds interrupted it as they skittled high across the sky. Don sat on a bench and waited, smoking and watching the few cars that bothered to come around the quiet backstreets.

  This place was probably packed at lunchtime with office workers, but not at this time of the morning. Sparrows hopped, claimed any crumbs and spilled food they might have missed from the day before, then shot back into the branches. Over the low buildings Don could see the tops of the huge skyscrapers of Central.

  There was serious money being made in there, in the banks and insurance companies, shifting stocks around the world. People sat in offices pressing buttons, and suddenly they were up or down a couple of million. That wasn’t Don’s world, he didn’t understand it. He understood the guys that worked down the docks, or drove cabs and trucks. Building things, using your muscles, making things, loading and unloading it, moving it around and selling it. That was how money was made, with work and sweat and real things, objects with weight that you could feel in your hand. That was the world he knew about.

  He’d certainly sweated for his money, much good it had done him. But at least he’d earned, had that satisfaction. His dad ran a shop selling white goods. Every day his dad sweated, heaving refrigerators and washing machines about. Half his friends had ended up labouring, or else they were in the army, and Don was just about the only one who’d done his A-levels. Still ended up bouncing the clubs when he wasn’t in the ring. Or working in the rain with the road gangs, his fingers unable to feel the tool in his hand. At least it never got that cold out here, but he wasn’t in any better position, now that he wasn’t fighting anymore. Late thirties, and maybe it was time to start thinking about a future.

  He thought about the past instead. A few of his friends had been born into a little more money than Don’s family had going spare. He remembered when several took a trip to America with their school. They got their hands on the latest Nikes over there, half the price they were in the UK, met Nigel Benn in the airport coming back.

  That was before Don was into boxing, so he was more impressed with the new trainers than the fact they’d been signed by the Dark Destroyer himself. He was even less impressed a couple of weeks later when Benn got his head knocked off by Eubank, and he’d laughed as his mates scrubbed off the faded signatures.

  Whatever happened to those guys anyway? Don didn’t know.

  He saw Mr Sun approaching from thirty yards away. Beige trousers, leather patches on the elbows of his corduroy jacket, a natty bow tie. The image of an aging professor. From a distance you would think he was seventy with his hunched over shuffle. It was only when he came closer, scattering the nervous sparrows along the path and sitting on the bench next to Don, that you could see the aging was premature. A life of dust and darkness, books and ancient objects.

  “Good morning, Mr Sun.”

  Mr Sun nodded, “Mr Jacobs. I presume you have something of interest for me.”

  Don pulled the digital camera from his pocket, turned it on and passed it over. Mr Sun pulled his fragile tortoiseshell glasses from his jacket and flicked through the images silently. No reaction crossed his face. He might as well have been looking at photos of a statue.

  “I guess this is the sort of thing you were after?”

  “Well my, that certainly didn’t take you very long, did it?”

  Don said nothing, but watched long, bony fingers remove the memory card from the camera and slip it into his pocket.

  “You’ve done a good job, Mr Jacobs, a very good job indeed.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a plain brown envelope.

  “I’ve already paid you for your time. Here is a little bonus. I believe our business is complete.” The antique dealer stood up slowly. “Good day to you.”

  So that was it? It was that easy? Don felt the envelope. It was pretty fat, much thicker than the first one he had been given. He call
ed after Mr Sun, “If you ever need another job doing… I mean if you need anything similar…”

  Mr Sun stopped and turned back towards Don. “I know where to find you, Mr Jacobs. But I shan’t.” He started walking off again.

  Crazy old coot, Don thought to himself. So that really was it, all done and dusted. ‘Our business is complete,’ as Mr Sun had said. He walked back to his car and sat counting the money in the envelope. Would’ve been useful if the job went on a bit longer, but here was fifteen thousand Hong Kong. He owed sixty-five thousand to Charlie Wang, five grand in old money. This would be a good start at paying it back, but his old job couldn’t return soon enough. He threw the envelope and the camera in the glove compartment, thinking how he’d have to buy a new memory card for it, idly running a finger up and down the scar on his head.

  That was when he realised. All his shots of Julia Lam were on that card he’d given Mr Sun. He didn’t have a single photo of her left. He pictured her in his mind, in the plum dress that showed her legs down to sharp heels that had crunched in the gravel. The slim curve of her neck, naked to the evening breeze. Her firm, bright red lips. Well, it was probably for the best. Time to forget about her. She was history.

  Don passed back through the tunnel, through TST and Waterloo, to the backstreets of the Kowloon City district. It was barely eleven on a Monday morning and the housewife shoppers were getting started on their week of filling the dirty streets, bags in each hand, heads cowed under the grey apartment blocks and concrete shopping centres that towered over everything. But the sun was shining intermittently through the clouds, and Don felt pretty good with a fat envelope waiting to take some of the pressure off.

  In the half-empty underground garage of his building he parked up and grabbed the money from the glove box, flicked through it again, then shoved the envelope in his pocket.

  As he stepped from the Corolla and slammed the door shut with an echoing clang, he heard another car door in the concrete space. As he turned toward the sound he saw them. The brothers Wang. They were headed straight for him.

  19

  The taller one was dressed in a white suit, with a white vest underneath. Been watching too many movies, mate, thought Don. The slightly shorter one, though still six foot, was more traditionally dressed for his line of work: jeans, black t-shirt, leather jacket, heavy black biker boots. Both had shaved heads and a reputation for violence. He didn’t know their names, nobody bothered with that. They were just the Brothers and they went everywhere together. You didn’t speak to them if you could help it. If you had to speak to them you were in a bad place. They were hard as fucking nails and they enjoyed their work.

  Don knew how to handle himself but he didn’t have much of a chance against both these bastards at once. He kept his back tight to the car and called out. “Hey guys, I was just about to call your Uncle.”

  The taller one spoke as they came up a little too close for comfort, crowding Don. He kept an eye on their hands. “No need for that now, is there? We found you already.”

  “Yeah well, like I said, I was gonna call. Just finished a job.” Don hardly got to finish the sentence as the shorter brother’s fist cracked into his ribs. His legs started to buckle, and then the taller one slammed a knee into his plexus and the wind exploded from his lungs. He tried not to go down. The shorter one stepped in front of him and slammed him back against the car, holding onto Don’s shirt. Don saw the brass knuckles on his hand. No poncey gold bling for these guys, they knew their business. Brass didn’t get bent out of shape.

  The taller one spoke again. Seemed like he did all the talking. “A bit late for that, don’t you think? You’re a month overdue.”

  Don struggled for breath. “Had a bit of bother at the club. Maybe you heard.”

  “I. Don’t. Care.”

  The shorter brother’s head hit Don’s face hard, and then the brass knuckles in the stomach. Now his legs started to give and the brother shoved him down onto the oily floor of the parking lot.

  “I don’t give a shit about your troubles, because I am your troubles. You are late with the money. What are you gonna do about it?”

  The short one started rifling Don’s pockets and took out the envelope. He tossed it to his brother who flicked through the notes. “Well, now. What do we have here?”

  “I told you, I just finished a fucking job.” Don looked up to see blood on the short brother’s forehead. He wiped his hand across his nose. Yeah, it was his.

  “You had all this money, and you didn’t tell old Uncle Wang?”

  “I just got paid this morning.” Don struggled to his feet, leaning against the car. The short brother stayed close in his face. Don shoved him away to get a little room for himself. “I was just about to telephone your fucking Uncle.”

  That was probably a mistake. Both looked at him sharply when he said that. The tall one held up the envelope, his eyes not leaving Don’s for a second. “How much in here?”

  “Fifteen grand.”

  “It’s a start. But the clock is ticking and the interest is piling up, Donnie boy. Tick-tock, you still owe sixty-five thousand.”

  They both kept their eyes on him tight, waiting for a wrong word. This time Don kept his mouth shut.

  “Good. I’m glad we understand each other. It doesn’t do for boys like you to be running around with Uncle’s money. Looks bad. But I like you, Donnie boy, so you got three weeks.” They walked off back to the Beamer, leaving Don leaning against his own car and wiping the blood from his nose.

  20

  Up in his apartment Don wet a towel to wipe off the blood. The bruise on his ribs was going to be bad.

  “Shit! Just fucking shit, Don! What happened to you? Used to be able to take a punch. I know it’s been a few years, but fucking shit Don.”

  He threw the bloodied towel into the washing machine and stripped off the clothes, grimy from the garage floor.

  “Pair of fucking cunts. Three fucking weeks? How am I meant to get money like that in three fucking weeks?” He wouldn’t make half that if he bounced every night for Mickey. That paid two thousand a shift, three or four times a week, with the occasional bonus when business was good. Enough to live comfortable – no tax, no pension – but that was about it. Mickey could fix him an extra couple of nights somewhere, but still.

  What a fucking muppet. He was up the creek now. And what a right couple of cunts those brothers were. Well, he’d keep an eye out for them. He wasn’t likely to forget something like this. Yeah, he’d keep an eye out for them alright, and one day he’d catch one of them on his own…

  “Yeah, well. Better do it the day before you leave Hong Kong. Uncle fucking cocksucker Wang has more where these bastards came from. One fucking day…”

  He remembered the times he’d hit the floor in the ring. He remembered how it felt to have his nose in the sweat and the dirt and the blood of the canvas, the roar of the crowd a distant hiss a million miles away. But you knew, straight away, that you could carry on. You had to believe it every time, or you were finished. You knew you’d be back up on your feet in a second, ready to go. That’s how he felt now. He wasn’t ready to give in, he was ready to stand back up and fight.

  21

  A few days later he got the call from Mickey Hong. The kid was long out of hospital, heat was off, time to get back to work. Don spent the early part of the evening down the gym, doing a bit of training himself and watching the sparring of some local lads who had fights coming up. A couple of them looked in good shape, real aggression coming through when they hit the sandbags, bit of speed around the ring. Probably worth a punt. The gym itself wasn’t much. It didn’t need to be. A big cold space with breezeblock walls and a concrete floor, weights in one corner, a few sandbags and speedballs around the edge, a ring in the centre.

  Don found out exactly what shape he was in when he started his training, and it took a good few minutes to get going with the rope. He was getting heavy, and slow. Feet didn’t move like they used to. Hi
s timing was out, and when he hit the heavy bag it wasn’t long before he was feeling it in his shoulders. Still, good to be back in the familiar smell of old sweat and liniment.

  He’d spent half his life in places like this, cold concrete, the grunts of boxers, shouts of trainers. The one square ring wiped down with the same dirty mop every time. The smell filled his nose, got into every pore, but it felt good.

  Before he left he watched one of the youngsters spar. Wu Ming-Hao. Wu was the next big thing in Hong Kong, he had a good record and good technique. Don had won money on him before. He had two big fights coming up soon that could push him several notches closer to challenging for a belt. Don admired the kid’s movement, the way he controlled the space. Strong legs, quick feet, an awesome right and he was learning when to use it, not throwing it out too early. Bulked up a lot, too, since his last fight. Wu was welterweight now, but there was talk he could move up a class. He certainly punched above his weight.

  Don grabbed some pizza at a little place across from the gym and drove to the club for about ten-thirty. Andy was already on the door but there was no sign of Mickey when Don went in to throw his jacket in the back room. He was wearing the uniform, a black polo shirt with ‘Security’ emblazoned on the back. HEAVEN was Mickey’s biggest club. A couple of the others were swankier, but this was the money-maker. It was essentially a small warehouse, with a long bar at one end and DJ rigs and speaker stacks at the other. A string of big name DJs pumped out heavy house until about six AM on the weekend.

  The crowd were mostly loved up on pills and the biggest seller at the bar was the overpriced bottles of water, but entry was steep. It was the premier dance venue in Kowloon, and always pretty packed. Usually there wouldn’t be any trouble, but there were always a few drunks who’d catch a taxi out about one or two in the morning, thinking they still had it in them to go all night. They were the ones to watch, like the kid he’d put in hospital. Most nights it was no bother. Mickey had a deal with a local drug dealer, exclusive rights and keep trouble off, so he and Andy just had to shepherd the kids inside and make sure everyone paid, enjoying the lines of girls wearing less than some people wear to the beach.