The Disciple of Las Vegas (2 page)

The morning sun glistened on the South China Sea as the plane descended onto the man-made island that was Hong Kong's airport.

She found Uncle at the rear of the Wing lounge, reclining in a Balzac armchair. He wasn't any taller than Ava and was nearly as lean. From a distance he looked almost like a child swallowed up in the chair. He was more than seventy, she knew, but his skin was still smooth, with only the faintest traces of lines around his eyes and on his forehead. His close-cropped black hair was streaked with just a touch of grey. Uncle was dressed as usual in a simple black suit and a crisp white shirt buttoned to the collar. His monochromatic style was part convenience, part camouflage. It made him easy to overlook — just an elegantly dressed old man, except to those who knew.

Uncle had been Ava's partner and mentor for more than ten years. They recovered bad debts for a living. Ava was a forensic accountant with degrees from York University, in Toronto, and Babson College, just outside of Boston. Before joining forces with Uncle, Ava had worked for a prestigious Toronto firm, but she had found the bureaucracy that came with working in a large corporation stifling. She had left and set up her own small business, catering mainly to her mother's friends. When one of her clients was stiffed by a Chinese importer, Ava decided to collect the debt herself. In the process she met Uncle, who was chasing the same importer for a different customer. When their combined efforts proved successful, Uncle had suggested that Ava partner with him.

Uncle's reputation brought a wide range of clients to the table. What he lacked was Ava's accounting skills and the softer touch she could bring to the recovery process. Their customers were typically Asian, normally desperate, and often irrational by the time they signed up with Ava and Uncle. Their businesses were at stake, their families were being threatened by economic ruin, and they had already exhausted all the conventional methods of retrieving stolen funds. Uncle's mantra was “People always do the right thing for the wrong reason.” Ava had become particularly adept at finding the wrong reason that would convince her targets to do the right thing, which in their case was return the money to its rightful owner. Ava and Uncle took thirty percent of everything they recovered.

When she spotted Uncle in the lounge, she glanced around to see if Sonny was with him. There was no sign of Uncle's driver-cum-bodyguard. He was as big as Ava and Uncle put together, and more vicious than anyone she had ever known. He had travelled with them in the past, most often to China, where a show of strength was never misplaced. Ava assumed that Uncle wasn't expecting to need protection in the Philippines.

She quietly approached his chair. His eyes were closed, and she thought he was sleeping until he said, “Ava, is that you?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“I thought so. I could smell that Annick Goutal perfume you like so much,” he said, his eyes opening and a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You look beautiful, as always.”

“Thank you.”

“But the clothes —” he said, motioning to her black Giordano T-shirt and Adidas track pants. “You need to change. They are going to meet us at the airport and take us directly to Ordonez's office.”

“I figured as much. I have everything I need here,” she said, picking up her Shanghai Tang “Double Happiness” bag. “I'll take a shower and put on something suitable.”

Ava walked into the lounge's private change rooms. She showered quickly, put on a fresh bra and panties and a pink Brooks Brothers shirt with a modified Italian collar, then debated whether to wear a skirt or slacks. She didn't know anything about Ordonez or Chang other than what she had read online in Guyana. To be on the safe side she opted for the trousers. A conservative look would never be seriously misinterpreted by powerful men.

She brushed her hair back and fixed it with her favourite ivory chignon pin. Then she applied some mascara and a touch of red lipstick. The last thing she did was slip her Cartier Tank Française watch onto her wrist. It had cost a small fortune, but she'd never regretted purchasing it. She loved its look and thought it established the perfect balance between serious and successful.

As she walked from the ladies' room back across the lounge, she could feel all eyes turn in her direction. Her pace was measured, never hurried, and she held herself erect, confident of her time and place.

Uncle was standing near his chair, in conversation with a man who looked about his age but was six inches taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier. His head was completely bald and he had a large, round face with jowls that trembled when he spoke. He wore a Burberry plaid shirt and slacks that rode too high over his belly. She could see a diamond-encrusted Rolex on his wrist, an enormous jade and diamond ring on his wedding-band finger, and a ruby ring on his pinkie. The contrast between the two men couldn't have been more striking. Yet as she watched them, she could see that the larger man was trying to make an impression on Uncle. She could read his desire to please in his body language, his rapid speech. Uncle was just listening, nodding every so often.

When he saw her, Uncle dismissed the man with a little wave of his hand and walked directly over to Ava. The man seemed startled to see her. Then he stared, his face impassive.

“I feel like some noodles,” Uncle said, touching her elbow to guide her towards the restaurant.

They both ordered noodles with har gow, traditional shrimp dumplings. There was a delicious aroma in the air that Ava couldn't identify. “Snow pea tips fried in garlic,” Uncle said when she asked. “It is too early to eat them. They attack my bowels.”

As usual, he ate far more quickly than she did. She always wondered if his table manners were an indication of his true internal state, a contrast to the calm, placid exterior he showed to the world. “Who was that man you were talking to?” she asked when he had finished eating.

The question seemed to catch him off guard, and he closed his eyes briefly before answering. “He worked for me in Fanling years ago. Now he runs Mong Kok,” he said. Before she could ask more, the boarding call came for the flight and Uncle slid out of his chair.

They walked to the gate and found long, disorganized lines of diminutive Filipino women carrying as much baggage as airline rules would allow. “It is that time of year,” Uncle said. “Flights to Asia and to Manila are cheap, so all the domestics and nannies travel home now.”

Ava knew the ritual. She and Marian had had a Filipina
yaya
, or nanny, until they went to Havergal College for high school. Every two or three years Yaya would buy a couple of
balikbayans
— boxes the size of small coffins — and load them with T-shirts, running shoes, and canned goods to carry back with her to the Philippines.

“How many are there in Hong Kong these days?” she asked.

“More than a hundred thousand, I think. On Sundays they go to Central or Victoria Park or to the Hong Kong Cultural Centre to socialize. I do not think Lourdes has missed a Sunday in ten years.”

“Amazing women.”

Uncle stared at the knot of people crowding around the boarding gate. “The Philippines would collapse economically without them. I read that there are about eight million overseas workers, and they remit money every month. If that is not the country's largest source of income, I do not know what is.”

Uncle and Ava strolled past the lineup of people waiting impatiently to board the plane and showed their passports and first-class tickets to the Cathay Pacific attendant. When they boarded the plane, they were greeted by two attractive young flight attendants in cherry-red uniforms, who directed them to their seats. As Uncle settled into his, Ava noted that his feet just skimmed the floor.

As soon as the plane reached its flying altitude, Uncle eased his seat back. But before he could close his eyes, Ava asked, “Uncle, is Tommy Ordonez from Wuhan?”

“Not everyone we do business with is from Wuhan,” he said with a small smile. “He is from Qingdao.”

“And Ordonez is not his family name.”

“No, his real name is Chew Guang. He took the Filipino name after he started doing serious business in the islands. He is what they call a Chinoy, a Chinese using a Filipino name.”

Ava wasn't surprised by the name change. All across Asia, in countries such as Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, and the Philippines, economies were often controlled by resident Chinese. It created resentment among the indigenous populations, and in times of turbulence the Chinese were often targets of physical violence and looting. Changing their names was one way of trying to blend in, to disguise themselves from the xenophobes.

“Was he born in Qingdao?” Ava asked. She knew that Chinese people say they are from a particular city or province even if three generations removed.

“Yes, the eldest child in a family that includes two brothers and a sister. His father was an assistant brewmaster at the Tsing Tao brewery, and Chew apprenticed there when he was a young teenager. He was obviously smart and a very hard worker, because by the time he turned twenty-two he had been dispatched to the Philippines as an assistant brewmaster in his own right.”

“How long before he went out on his own?”

“About three years. He started at a small brewery with a brand he called Philippine Gold. The beer was not of the best quality but it was cheap, and cheap worked. Within five years Chew Guang had the number-one beer in the islands. It was around this time that he changed his name to Tommy Ordonez and began — with help from the local Chinese, most of whom also had Filipino names — to expand and diversify. Chang Wang joined him then.”

“And why did Chang keep his name?”

“He has no public visibility. He is the man behind the scenes, an operator, the key advisor, the one who helps Ordonez plot his business strategies and follow through on execution. He is a good man to have as a friend, and a monster when he is an enemy.”

“Apparently Ordonez's brothers kept their family name as well.”

“There was no reason for them not to. They live in places where it does not matter. Philip, the one in Canada — the one who has the problems — is the youngest. The other one, David, lives in Hong Kong and is the point man for the Chinese market. He finds homes for their cheap booze and cigarettes.”

“From what I've read, the business isn't just beer and cigarettes.”

“Not anymore. They own banks, trucking and cold storage operations, and the largest ocean freight business in the Philippines. But it is the beer and cigarettes that underpin it all. In China they have moved from exports to manufacturing, and that is where I helped — getting them the approvals to build cigarette factories and distilleries.”

“There is no home for those products in Canada.”

“Of course not. Canada, from what Chang told me, is a source of goods and raw materials that they can sell into Asian markets. They own two jade mines, a host of ginseng farms, and a quasi-legal abalone fishing operation, and they have bought thousands of acres of timber rights. They also own a trading operation that ships scrap metal, chicken feet, cheap cellphones, and a variety of chemicals to China. The Chews are not fussy about what they buy and sell.”

“But the problem they have involves real estate.”

“It does. They have been building up a real estate portfolio, mostly in and around Vancouver, where Philip lives. Mainly apartment buildings, shopping centres, that kind of thing.”

“It sounds like a very big business,” Ava said.

Uncle shrugged. “Ordonez is worth at least five billion U.S. dollars, but he and Chang still run the company as if it were a two-man show. They do not trust anyone other than themselves. Even Ordonez's two brothers have limited authority, and now with their problems in Canada, that is not likely to change anytime soon. I asked Chang how they manage to keep on top of everything, and he laughed and said, ‘Fear.' Ordonez is known inside the business as the Knife. Chang is the Sledgehammer.”

“Nice.”

“There is nothing nice about either of them,” Uncle said, closing his eyes. “But most businesses are not built by nice people. You need a combination of greed, drive, brains, and paranoia. Between them, Chang and Ordonez have those bases covered.”

A tall Filipino man in a grey suit was standing just past the gangway at Manila's Ninoy Aquino International Airport, holding a sign that read mr. chow. Standing next to him was a senior Customs official.

Uncle identified himself. The man in the grey suit nodded and introduced himself as Joseph Moreno.

“We'll take you through Customs,” Moreno said. “Do you have checked bags?”

“Yes,” Uncle said.

“We'll have them cleared and brought to the hotel. Mr. Ordonez wants you to come directly to the office.”

They skirted the long, ragged Customs lines. Ava noticed the airport's shiny tile floors, paint peeling off the walls, and a row of flowers in pots, a few of which had cracked and were spilling dirt from their bases. The Filipinos stood quietly, waiting patiently in line, while the Western tourists and businesspeople were sweating, red-faced, and visibly agitated by the almost casual disorganization.

The senior official who had met them at the gate led them to an empty Customs booth. He climbed in, turned on the computer, and held out his hand for their passports. Ava heard murmurs of angry disapproval from the Westerners waiting in line. It had probably taken them an hour to get where they were, and she knew it was making them crazy to see her and Uncle short-circuit the system so casually.
Welcome to the Philippines
, she thought. There were few countries in the world where connections mattered so much.

When they walked out of the airport, they were led to a parking garage on the other side of the roadway, where a black Bentley was purring right beside the exit door. The air was hot and heavy and smelled of diesel fumes. Ava was glad they wouldn't have to linger outside for any length of time.

Moreno opened the back door for Ava and Uncle. “We're only about fifteen minutes from the office, if traffic cooperates,” he said. Ava's experiences with Manila traffic told her that fifteen minutes would more likely be thirty — and that was if they were lucky.

As they pulled out of the parking garage they merged with a chaotic crush of cars, buses, motorbikes, bicycles, jeepneys, and pedestrians, all jockeying for space with little regard for rules of the road. Manila's sixteen million people needed to get from point A to point B, and the jeepneys — bright, garishly painted old American military Jeeps converted into small buses that could carry more than thirty people at once — just made it worse. They wove haphazardly from one side of the road to the other, often stopping in the middle of traffic as passengers struggled to get in and out.

The Bentley's driver was being understandably cautious. He was handling $300,000 worth of car — more money than he could expect to make in a lifetime.

“It's not too bad right now,” Moreno said. “The rush hour — well, we call it crash hour — has been over for a while.”

As they travelled towards Makati, the financial capital of the Philippines, the city landscape changed. Ava watched low-rise apartment buildings, small storefronts, and sidewalks jammed with vendor stalls and pedestrians give way to the city centre's bank towers, office buildings, Western-style shopping centres, and upscale hotels. The only street vendors there had spread their goods on the pavement and were selling their wares with one eye out for the police.

They passed the Ayala Centre, a massive commercial complex in the very heart of Metro Manila. Ava was remembering wandering its fifty or so hectares on previous visits when they pulled up in front of the Ayala Tower, an impressive V-shaped skyscraper sheathed almost entirely in glass. Moreno leapt out of the front seat and opened the back door for Uncle and Ava.

Outside the soundproofed Bentley they were confronted by the jarring sounds of traffic and a miasma of smoke that smelled of gasoline and ozone pollution. “Let's hurry inside,” Moreno said.

There were two guards at the tower entrance, and each held an Uzi across his chest. Ava wasn't surprised. Manila was an armed camp. Every bank branch, every major commercial retailer, every office tower had security stationed at the door. Moreno led them past the guards and into the lobby. Ava veered towards the bank of elevators, only to be redirected. “Mr. Ordonez has a private entrance,” he said.

They were led to a small alcove with a single elevator manned by another guard with another Uzi. They rode the elevator to the top floor, where the door opened onto a semicircular reception area with oak floors covered by a scattering of old and expensive Persian rugs. To Ava's left were two maroon leather couches flanked by easy chairs and anchored by a long rosewood coffee table covered with magazines. To the right was a matching rosewood dining table that held a set of crystal glasses and a crystal decanter filled with water. Groups of eclectic original paintings hung on every wall.

Straight ahead was a young Filipino woman sitting behind a desk. She had a long, lean face and jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail; she was wearing a sleeveless white blouse with a plunging neckline. There were two doors on her right and one on her left, guarded by a giant of a man in a black suit. He stood quietly, his eyes never leaving them. His weapon wasn't visible but Ava had no doubt he was carrying one.

“Welcome,” the young woman said. “I hope the trip from the airport wasn't too difficult.”

“It was fine,” Moreno responded.

“Please, have a seat. I'll let Mr. Ordonez know you've arrived.” She stood and walked to the door to the left. The guard opened it for her and she disappeared inside. Ava and Uncle had barely settled onto one of the couches when she re-emerged alone. “You'll be meeting in the boardroom,” she said, motioning to the double doors on the right, and then opened them for Ava and Uncle.

The boardroom had the same oak floors as the reception area, but the soft, rich carpets and rosewood tables were replaced by ultra-modern leather and stainless steel chairs and a sleek glass-topped table. On the walls, a series of Chinese paintings depicting fountains, forests, and dragons made for a strange contrast to the slick, minimalist feel of the furnishings.

A distinguished-looking Chinese man, not much taller than Uncle, walked through a narrow side door almost as soon as they had sat down. He was wearing a red Polo golf shirt and a pair of black Hugo Boss jeans. He was small but sturdy, and his bald head shone in the light. “My friend,” the man said, holding out his arms in Uncle's direction.

Uncle and Ava both stood to greet him. The two men hugged, whispering words in each other's ears. As they separated, the man nodded at Ava.

“Ava, this is Mr. Chang Wang,” Uncle said.

Chang stared at her, his eyes moving up and down as if doing an appraisal. “Mr. Chang,” she said.

“I have heard very good things about you from Chow Tung,” Chang said, motioning for them to sit. Ava was surprised by his use of Uncle's given name. She hadn't met many people who were familiar enough with him to address him that way. “But it wasn't nice of you to keep us waiting so long,” he said, in a playful tone that still conveyed some displeasure.

Before she could reply, the double doors swung open and Tommy Ordonez strode into the boardroom. He was close to six feet tall but slouched as he walked, his head down as if there were loose change to be found on the floor. She took in the rest of him, and her disappointment grew. He was wearing a casual yellow shirt and blue jeans and a Patek Philippe watch, and his fingernails were cracked and chewed down to nubs. He wore his black hair unfashionably long, flopping over his ears and hanging down well past his shirt collar. It was a huge contrast to the image he projected to the public. In the photos she had seen online, he was always wearing a three-piece suit and had a refined, distant look about him.

Everyone stood and Chang made the introductions. Ordonez gazed fondly at Uncle and then swung his attention to Ava, examining her from head to toe. “I wasn't told you were such a pretty young woman. I expected someone more like a bookkeeper.” Ava was startled by Ordonez's voice. The words seemed forced from his mouth, as if an iron vise were gripping his larynx.

She glanced quickly at Uncle. His expression betrayed no reaction. Then she looked back at Ordonez, studying his face. It was certainly Chinese, the eyes smaller than the photos portrayed, the irises pitch-black and intense, but the whites were shot through with crimson patches of broken blood vessels. His face was round, his nose bulbous, his lips thick. High on his left cheek and partially covered by his unruly mop was a large black mole from which sprouted a single long, curly hair. It was a Chinese superstition to let such hairs grow — they were thought to bring good luck.

“I'm not sure what a bookkeeper should look like,” Ava said.

Ordonez seemed surprised and shot a look at Chang.

“Let's sit,” Chang said.

They took opposite sides of the boardroom table, Ordonez and Chang sitting with their backs to the window so the light shone directly on Uncle and Ava.

“This is a terrible mess,” Ordonez said to Uncle. “I'm grateful that you're going to help us get to the bottom of things.”

“Until we know exactly what happened, we cannot be sure how much help we can be,” Uncle said.

“I have faith in you. When we met all those years ago, I never thought I would actually need to engage your services — or be able to.”

Uncle dipped his head to acknowledge the compliment. “And I am honoured to meet you again. This is a remarkable enterprise you have built.”

Ordonez took a deep breath. “Thank you. We have worked hard, my brothers and I and Wang, to bring it this far. There haven't been many setbacks, although, as you can imagine, there are always challenges in the Philippines, always some politician who wants to nationalize us, always another who wants us investigated for bribing his colleagues — though that kind usually disappears as soon as we add him to the payroll. All in all, it has been good.”

Ordonez's attention was focused entirely on Uncle. Ava was used to that. Chinese men of Ordonez and Chang's background and position treated most women as window dressing. It irritated her, but she would never embarrass Uncle by overreacting. She waited until they had finished their little dance of compliments before inserting herself into the conversation.

“Excuse me, but is Philip Chew going to be with us?”

Ordonez gave her another sharp glance and then turned to stare at Chang.

“I'm sorry for asking, but since your problem seems to stem from the Canadian operation that Mr. Chew runs, I just assumed he would be here.”

“Philip is ill. He can't travel,” Chang said.

“He's in Vancouver?”

Ordonez glared at Chang.

“This isn't the time to talk about Philip,” Chang said. “The records and the files are here, not in Vancouver. That should be a good enough place to start. Louis Marx, who is the comptroller for our Canadian business, is one floor below, in the boardroom there. He's been briefed and will give you all the assistance you need.”

“How much money are we discussing?” Ava asked.

“Just over fifty million dollars,” Chang said.

“Can you explain to me how you found out about the missing funds?”

“Marx can tell you,” Ordonez snapped.

Ava glanced quickly at Uncle, whose steady gaze was on Ordonez. “I don't mean to be rude,” Ava said quietly, “but I would like to get an overview from you before I meet with Mr. Marx. He may have a vested interest.”

“Ava makes a good point,” Uncle said.

Chang looked pained. “It's a swindle, plain and simple. Our Vancouver office thought it was investing in a golf course and residential complex in Kelowna — you do know where Kelowna is?”

“I do,” Ava said.

“They worked through a supposed local developer named Jim Cousins. The plan was for him to purchase various tracts of land and to start clearing it and putting infrastructure into place. He fronted the first two million. Our Vancouver office sent him the balance on a purchase-by-purchase basis,” Chang said.

“He bought the land first?”

“Yes.”

“Then sold it to you?”

“Yes. Marx has all the paperwork downstairs.”

“So what happened?”

“There is no land.”

“And no fucking Jim Cousins,” Ordonez hissed. He was sitting stiffly upright and his eyes were still on Uncle. She could feel him bristling under her gaze.

“How did you find out?” she asked.

“Deloitte is our outside accounting firm,” Chang said. “They do an annual audit. This time they were particularly thorough.”

“In what way?”

“They sent someone from their Kelowna office to the local land registry to confirm that we had title to the property.”

“And you didn't?”

“No. Deloitte informed us that the land that we were supposed to be developing was actually owned by a whole bunch of people who had never heard of us or Jim Cousins.”

“But didn't you have copies of the bills of sale, title transfers? Weren't the purchases papered from your end?”

“Forgeries.”

“Wonderful,” she said.

“That's a poor choice of word,” Ordonez said, his eyes finally meeting hers.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“This man Marx,” Uncle cut in, “he is completely knowledgeable?”

“As much as can be expected,” Chang said. “Philip was the primary contact for Cousins. Everything flowed through Philip.”

“And I can't speak with him?” Ava said.

“Ms. Lee,” Chang said, “please, no more discussion about Philip. He is ill.”

“We can talk by phone, email.”

Ordonez interrupted. “My brother has had what my sister-in-law insists is something like a nervous breakdown. She says he isn't up to talking to anyone about anything.”

She heard scorn, verging on disgust, in his tone. Ava guessed that Ordonez was someone for whom mental illness either betrayed a character flaw or was merely an excuse for failure. “That is regrettable,” she said. “Have you spoken to him at all?”