FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE (27 page)

“So, you should understand my knowledge of your organisation back in Ireland, Finn. We are aware that they have assisted a Welsh man who has been buying Class B drugs in Thailand, and shipping them in musical equipment to California through a DEA undercover operative. The Welsh man has also been sending tonnes of Pakistani hashish to Europe via Ireland. This is with the assistance of the IRA, even though they claim the man acts without their knowledge or agreement. You and I both know, Finn Flynn, that without the agreement of your leaders, he would be prevented from operating in Ireland.”

I swallowed a large mouthful of wine and poked at the lobster shell on the plate before me. I’m playing for time…time I expect I don’t have. Uncle Sui wants an answer to his earlier question about the heroin. Whether it was a question or a warning is no matter, I have a pretty good idea what my answer better be.

The waiter returned to clear our plates and deliver the desserts. Before swallowing the last spoonful of my crème brûlée, I agreed to hold off on the heroin shipment for six months. That seems to satisfy Uncle Sui…for the time being anyway.

Unlike the arrangement in the Mandarin Oriental, the bill is presented here. Uncle Sui took three thousand-dollar notes from his wallet and dropped them on the waiter’s silver tray.

———

The piercing clang of a brass bell warned me just in time, saving me from walking under the steel wheels of a Victorian tram. The driver’s a cheerful cove; he saluted me with his can of Red Bull tonic drink and yelled something in Cantonese, which I think I recognise as ‘crazy
gweilo
!’

Feeling a bit shaken by the near miss, I stepped well back on the pavement and let a few taxi cabs pass. I dashed across Queen’s Road to safety, taking refuge amidst the chattering Filipinos in Statue Square. Speaking their native Tagalog, they sound like a flock of song birds preparing to take off on an annual migration.

Johnny Sparrow comes to mind as I rest on the plinth of the Cenotaph. Johnny Sparrow is related to Britain’s Queen Mother through the Bowes family of Scotland, and this family tie has given him access to the banking and political elite – and a glorious young wife. It’s almost three thirty p.m., and Johnny will soon be on his way from Jardine Fleming Merchant Bank to tiffin at the Hong Kong Club. A man of regular habits formed during his fagging days at Marlborough College – the fancy public school in Wiltshire, England – Johnny can be relied upon never to miss tiffin. Of course, the only constituents of Johnny’s tiffin are large measures of single malt Scotch whiskey.

And what about my own alcohol intake during lunch? Uncle Sui knows that I drink very little, yet he ordered me a very expensive bottle of French wine. My near miss with the tram could be attributed to the wine, and agreeing to defer the heroin shipment was probably down to the drink as well…as much as any other reason.

I see Johnny emerging from his chauffeur-driven limousine, never mind that the offices of Jardine Fleming are only a stone’s throw from the Hong Kong Club. As I took the couple of steps to the entrance of the club I couldn’t miss Johnny’s refrain. “Flynn, dear boy, do come along in for a touch of tiffin…and perchance a snort or two.”

Johnny enjoys using a Dickensian turn of phrase by way of the British Raj. And you can expect him to quote his hero, Mister Micawber, at the drop of a hat. He regaled me with a few lines as we walked into the club: “‘My dear young friend…I am older than you; a man of some experience in life, and – and of some experience, in short, in difficulties, generally speaking. At present, and until something turns up (which I am, I may say, hourly expecting), I have nothing to bestow but advice….’”

Despite Johnny’s protests we didn’t go to the Members’ Bar, but made our way downstairs to the Bowling Alley Bar. I insisted on a pot of Victoria blend tea, rather than malt whiskey, which in Johnny’s case is a ‘whisky’, due again to his Scottish ancestry. Only the Americans have adopted the Irish habit of inserting an ‘e’ in whiskey. I don’t know why we do it. Perhaps it makes it easier for the tongue to roll around when you’ve drunk more whisk-e-e-e-y than you should. Besides, we blame the Chinese – they invented the drink.

HONG KONG and LANTAU ISLAND

I left Johnny
Sparrow in the Hong Kong Club around seven forty-five p.m., walked across to Queen’s Road and hailed a taxi. Outside the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank I spot a boating party heading towards Queen’s Pier. They’re carrying the usual cooler packs and bags full of snacks and nibbles – to sustain them until they reach the restaurants on Lamma Island, Cheung Chau, or wherever they’re heading.

Seeing them makes me realise that it’s about time I organise a boat party. If I’m going to play the Hong Kong game according to the rules, I should repay everyone for all the boat parties I’ve been to…and all those I tagged along to with mutual friends.

I stepped out of the lift and into the foyer of the penthouse; according to the Rolex Submariner watch I recently treated meself to, it’s two minutes past eight. Feeling that all is well with the world, I skipped up the stairs to the lounge and found Susie sitting naked at the baby grand piano, playing Chopin with two fingers, naturally.

“Good evening my dear…do please continue,” I suggested, in my best 1920s’ movie idol accent. “I think I’ll join you…if you don’t mind, my dear,” I said, while slipping off my blazer and kicking off my shoes.

Susie abandoned her pianoforte recital before I managed to step out of my trousers. With a leap that would put any member of the corps de ballet to shame, she’s away from the piano. She loosened my favourite Hermes tie, and stripped me of my Sam the Tailor Sea Island cotton shirt. When I was naked, she led me to the roof and into the bubbling Jacuzzi.

Afterwards – relaxing on the double divan sun lounger that arrived only yesterday from Lane Crawford in Causeway Bay – I told Susie that I want to organise a boat party. I explained that I want to combine it with entering a team in the Frog and Toad Mud Olympics I’ve heard so much about.

Our party planning was going along fine, and she nodded at every name I suggested for the guest list…until I came to Paul Wills. When I told her to invite Paul she just lost the plot and began to giggle uncontrollably. She can’t make me understand what she’s saying.

“Susie, come on love, what’s so funny?” I finally had to ask her.

“You can’t be serious…it’s more than I can bear…the thought of dapper Paul Wills sliding about in a field of stinking, slimy night soil in his Dunhill shorts and his Ralph Lauren Polo shirt! It’s more than the mind can comprehend…that’s all Finn, my dear sweetie, that’s all….Apart from which, I think it’s a super, terrific idea. I might have some suggestions of my own for the guest list…but can we forget about it for the moment and slip back into that lovely bubbly Jacuzzi, can we?” she said, between fits of giggles.

———

I took a taxi to the Aberdeen Marina Club and accompanied my first dozen guests on to the motor cruiser for the boat party. They’re a mix of couples I’ve met in Plume’s and people I’ve met while I was a guest at one party or another. We boarded the yacht from the floating jetty and, with drinks in hand, set out for Central.

Susie’s waiting at Queen’s Pier with the remainder of the party, including Paul Wills and his two mystery guests. I’m delighted to see that Roger Wynne, the head concierge from the Island Shangri-La, and his gorgeous wife Helen are amongst those waiting to board the cruiser. Roger was a last-minute addition to the group. Apart from seeing him at the Island Shangri-La, and a couple of quick hellos and goodbyes in Pomeroy’s Wine Bar in Pacific Place, we’ve never really met socially. But anyone who’s stood up to the Kray twins is my kind of man, and I want the chance to get to know him better.

When everyone was on board I gave the coxswain the thumbs up, and he gunned the twin engines of the Bertram triple-decker cruiser. We shot through Victoria Harbour in the direction of the South China Sea, with Kowloon on our starboard side and Green Island off to port.

Intrigued to know who Paul’s little mystery guest is, I climbed up to the top deck and knelt down beside her. She has shiny black hair tied in a pony-tail, a Minnie Mouse T-shirt, flowery shorts, and the face of an angel.

“Now, tell me sweetie, where did you spring from?”

“My daddy and mummy brought me. There they are, down there,” she whispered, pointing towards Paul Wills. He’s with a stunning Asian girl I think could be Malay or Singaporean. But the look of pride on Paul’s face when he looked up at his daughter guarantees that, whatever the story is, I won’t be using it to get one over on him…seeing that the girl he’s with isn’t his wife.

Paul sprang up the steps to the top deck; he’s dressed just as Susie predicted, but with the addition of white Gucci deck shoes. He cuddled his daughter as she pointed out the ships we’d been looking at. He told her that the Russian cargo ship is spying on the American aircraft carrier, and the Chinese junk with all the antennae on its cabin roof is watching both of them.

Paul tried to tell me about the situation with his daughter and her mother.

“It’s none of my business Paul. And don’t worry, I’ll ask Susie to say nothing to your wife,” I said, as I waved away his attempts at an explanation.

“Thanks Finn.”

“By the way, your daughter is terrific, and her mother’s a stunner. But tell me this…have you any news of the investigations into insider trading?”

“Yes Finn, I do…it’s not good news. Sorry, but it looks like the stockbroker you’re using is cooperating with the Securities and Commodities investigations. Having said that, I can’t be sure if your trades are included in the investigations.”

“Thanks for letting me know Paul. But no need to panic…I’ll have a word and sort it out. OK?”

Now I understand the full meaning of Uncle Sui’s warning. It looks like an effeminate stockbroker needs to learn a lesson, and I know the very man to teach it to him. I decided there and then to call Mac when we get back. He has to get on a flight to Hong Kong before the broker makes the mistake of mentioning my name to the investigators – which, I pray, he hasn’t done already.

Some of the guests are gathered around Susie on the main deck. I notice that she’s changed into an emerald-green bikini. I like to think that the choice of colour is for my benefit – to signal that she’s with me now – or maybe it’s just because the colour suits her.

As we passed between Peng Chau and Lantau I spotted a group of girls on the sea end of the Discovery Bay pier on Lantau Island. They’re waving towels at us, and yelling what I think is ‘Frog and Toad’.

I told the coxswain to steer towards them. As we motored over to the girls they removed their tops to egg us on. Even our Chinese crew – who are not usually attracted by white girls’ big bare breasts – pointed out the impromptu performance. The girls are Australians and New Zealanders, and they want a lift to the Frog and Toad.

“Right girls! We’ll take you to the Frog and Toad on the condition that you join our Mud Olympics team!” I yelled from the deck of the cruiser.

“No prob ya pommy bastard!”

“We’ll give it a burl!”

They climbed aboard the boat and we cruised around the next headland to the Frog and Toad. Fortunately for us, no one told the girls that they could’ve walked there in twenty minutes.

When we got to Nim Shue Wan Bay it was already awash with junks, sampans, yachts and gin palaces like the cruiser I hired. Our coxswain told me that the water around the rickety Frog and Toad jetty is too shallow to moor and offload my guests. We can use the two speedboats on board to ferry sixteen people to the jetty, and the coxswain suggested that if I promise the boat boys on some of the moored junks a case of cold Tsingtao beer they’ll ferry the remainder of my guests. He was right, and they did.

The owner of the Frog and Toad is a fellah called Joe. He’s a Chinese cannabis-smoking, spirit-drinking, coke-snorting hippie – one hell of a man by all accounts. He transformed an old village house into the Frog and Toad Bar and Restaurant twelve years ago.

To get to the Frog and Toad you follow a narrow path that Joe built whilst under the influence of LSD. The path wends its way through plots of pak choi and other Chinese vegetables. And the vegetable plots are liberally covered in foul-smelling night soil – courtesy of the villagers’ chamber pots.

As we neared the bar we could hear rock music belting out from speakers mounted in banana trees. Most of the vegetables from the plots closest to the bar have already been harvested, as this is the area set aside for the Mud Olympics. Water hoses trailing into the plots are transforming the already muddy arena into a quagmire of slithering, oozing, foul-smelling sludge. The games aren’t due to start until sometime later in the afternoon when, presumably, everyone will be too pissed to worry about sliding around in a disgusting field of
merde
. I personally think the French word is better than shite.

Our party made its way on to the roof of the Frog and Toad, where more speakers are piled on stacks of beer crates. Joe has tables and seating set up for twenty-five, and from nowhere he produced another trestle table and eight plastic chairs to accommodate our antipodean guests – who are now treating everyone to synchronised flashes of their breasts.