THE KING OF MACAU (The Jack Shepherd International Crime Novels) (35 page)

“And how did she find out?”

“Well, her father…”

Abruptly Pete stopped talking. He looked at me, he looked at Archie, and then he looked down at the broken boxes scattered underneath the plane.

“Oh hell,” he said.

And then he started laughing right along with us.

THE END

It is a tricky business
for a novelist to combine real people and places with imaginary ones, so I want to make this absolutely clear: THE KING OF MACAU is a work of fiction. Although some of its characters are based on people who actually exist, those characters do and say things here that, as far as I know, none of those people have ever done or said in real life. Most of the places described here are real, too, but those places have never actually witnessed any of the events that occur in this narrative.

I make this stuff up, folks. I hope it all feels real to you, I really do; but it isn’t. That’s the simple truth of it.

• • •

I want to express my thanks to Peter Caprez, the general manager of the JW Marriott in Bangkok, and all the staff in the Marriott’s executive lounge there for giving me a place to hide from the world’s nosiest and most frustrating city while this book was finding its feet. The endless cups of good coffee and the wonderful food that kept miraculously appearing from somewhere were just a bonus. The real treasure was being made to feel so protected by Pat and all the ladies of the executive lounge. Without your help, I doubt this book would ever have been written.

I am also deeply in the debt of the many people who helped me get to know Macau well enough to make it the basis for this book. The people I am referring to here can be divided into two quite distinct groups. There are those who would no doubt be pleased to see themselves mentioned, and there are those who most decidedly would not.

The people in the first group include: Quentin Gore-Rowe, David Wong, Brady Hiscox, Normandy Madden, Ruben Tuck, and Yves Duron. An equal number of people are in the second group, and all of you can stop holding your breath now because I am not going to tell anyone who you are.

Then there are some other people I need to thank, too. Julia Gibbs, Eric Rosenkranz, Rob Carnell, and Pintuporn Needham did the tedious work of proofreading successive drafts of the manuscript until it was finally fit to show its face in public.

I owe you all. Without your help and your support, THE KING OF MACAU might have turned out to be THE QUEEN OF CLEVELAND.

THE KING OF MACAU is dedicated
to the memory of Ray Ransome,
who left us much, much too soon.

The book that introduced Jack Shepherd

LEARN MORE

LAUNDRY MAN

IT BEGAN EXACTLY THE
way the end of the world will begin. With a telephone call at two o’clock in the morning.

“Jack Shepherd,” I croaked.

“Hey, Jack, old buddy. How you been?”

It was a man’s voice, one I didn’t recognize. I sat up and cleared my throat.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“I’m sorry to call in the middle of the night,” the man said, ignoring my question, “but this can’t wait. I’m really in deep shit here.”

I was still struggling to place the voice so I said nothing.

“I need your help, Jack. I figure I got about a week here before somebody cuts off my nuts and feeds them to the ducks.”

“I’m not going to start guessing,” I said. “Who is this?”

“Oh, man, that’s so sad. You mean to tell me you even don’t recognize your old law partner’s voice?”

“I’ve had a lot of—”

“This is Barry Gale.”

That stopped me cold.

“Surprised, huh?” the man chuckled.

“Who are you?” I repeated.

“I just told you who I am, Jack. This is Barry Gale.”

I hit the disconnect button and tossed my cell phone back on the nightstand.

WHEN IT RANG
again, I silently cursed myself for forgetting to turn the damned thing off.

I sat up and retrieved the phone and this time I looked at the number on the screen before I answered. All it said was unavailable. I thought fleetingly of just hitting the power button, but I didn’t. Later, of course, I would wish I had.

“It’s not nice to hang up on old friends, Jack.”

“We’re not old friends.”

“Sure we are.”

“Look, pal, Barry Gale’s dead. I know it and I’m sure you know it. So unless you’re Mickey the Medium with a message from the other side, you can cut the crap. What do you want?”

“What makes you think I’m dead?” the man asked.

“Barry made a pretty flashy exit. It got a fair amount of attention.”

“You talking about the body they found in that swimming pool in Dallas?”

That was exactly what I was talking about. I said nothing.

“As I remember, and I’m pretty sure I
do
remember, that body had been in the water nearly a week before anybody found it so they couldn’t get fingerprints. Also I hear the guy’s face was too badly smashed up to recognize. Nobody thought it was worth bothering with DNA, and the ID was made from dental records.”

“So what? The dental records matched Barry’s, didn’t they?”

“Of course they did. They would, wouldn’t they?”

“Are you trying to tell me the body in the swimming pool in Dallas wasn’t Barry Gale’s?”

“Not likely, Jack. Not likely at all. Particularly not as we’re talking to each other on the telephone other right now.”

I tried it another way.

“Look, buddy, I’m a reasonably approachable guy. Why don’t you just tell me who you are and what you want and then I can go back to sleep?”

There was a brief silence and then the man started talking again in a tired voice.

“Your name is Jonathan William Shepherd, but your father started calling you Jack when you were a kid to keep your mother from calling you Johnny and it stuck. You graduated from Georgetown Law School and you’re admitted to the bar in the District of Columbia and in New York. Stassen & Hardy recruited you right out of law school and it’s the only place you ever practiced law. You and I made partner the same year.”

I said nothing. The man apparently didn’t care.

“Your home address was 1701 Great Falls Road. It was a big white house out in Potomac, Maryland. Regrettably your happy home dissolved when your wife, the lovely Laura, took up with that proctologist out in Virginia. Dr. Butthole, you called him. How am I doing?”

“Very impressive,” I said.

“I’m an impressive guy.”

“Is that it?” I asked. “You recite a few things you’ve found out about me somewhere and now I’m supposed to believe you’re Barry Gale risen from the dead?”

“Hell, Jack, I could go on all night. How about this? Your office at Stassen & Hardy was about as far away from the reception area as it was possible for you to get and still be in the same building with the rest of us. You had a big glass table that you used for a desk. Goddamn, Jack, I’m sure you were the only lawyer in the world with a glass desk. It was like you were trying to look purer than the rest of us. Was that it, Jack? Was that what the glass desk was all about? And, oh yeah, you had that big yellow couch with the deep cushions where you took naps in the afternoon.”

“Look, I still don’t know what this is all about, but—”

“We had a part-time receptionist, a little Vietnamese girl who was going to law school somewhere and worked as the relief girl on weekends. Remember? You fucked her right on that yellow couch one Saturday afternoon and then you admitted it to me a couple of weeks later after you’d sucked up an extra martini one night at the bar in the Mayflower Hotel. You seemed to be all cut up with guilt over it and said you hadn’t told anyone else. Had you told anyone else, Jack?”

In the silence I could hear the guy breathing and I was sure he could hear me, too, except I was probably breathing a lot louder.

Because he was right.

I hadn’t told anyone else.

The man went on before I could figure out what to say.

“You like living in Bangkok, Jack? I hear you’re a teacher now. In some business school. That right?”

“Yes. I teach at Chulalongkorn University.”

“No more lawyering? No more of that big-time stuff we used to do?”

“I don’t practice law anymore if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Not particularly. I still do a little consulting sometimes.”

“Consulting, huh? Is that right?” The man barked an abrupt laugh. “You want to consult with me, Jack?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Still a fucking hard-on, are you?”

“I just don’t particularly like being the butt of some clown’s crappy little joke.”

“Oh, this is no joke, Jack. I wish to Christ it was, but it isn’t.”

I said nothing.

“Do you know that place called Took Lae Dee?” the man eventually asked. “The little food counter up in the front of the all-night Foodland on Sukhumvit Road?”

“Yeah. I know where it is.”

“Meet me there tomorrow, around midnight. Just grab a stool and I’ll find you.”

“Midnight?”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“Yeah, that’s a problem for me. What makes you think I’d even consider coming to some damned supermarket at midnight just because a wacko pretending to be a dead guy calls me up and tells me to? I don’t know how you found out all those things about me, but if you think that’s enough—”

The man started laughing.

“Oh, it’s more than enough, Jack.”

He laughed some more. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance and I listened to it without saying anything else.

“I know you, my friend. You’d never pass up a chance to hear a story like this. Never. Especially not when it’s coming from a guy who’s gone to all the trouble I have to make himself dead.”

And with that, the man hung up.

LAUNDRY MAN

I TOSSED AND TURNED
for a while after that, but I knew I wasn’t going back to sleep anytime soon. Eventually I gave up trying altogether and I went into my study and took a Montecristo out of the humidor on my desk. I pulled open the sliding door and walked out on the balcony.

Generally Bangkok’s foreign residents went to considerable lengths to avoid breathing the city’s air until it had been thoroughly dried, adequately chilled, and comprehensively decontaminated. Not only was the stuff hot and soggy, usually it smelled spoiled and a little sour, like it had been breathed by way too many people already. But this was January, the middle of winter in Thailand, and the southernmost edge of a large dome of Siberian air had slipped down from China and momentarily broken Bangkok’s muggy heat. The air had turned pleasingly cool, even sweet, and it was richly thickened with the syrupy fragrances of frangipani, jasmine, and gardenias.

I cut and lit my cigar and I stood there smoking and looking out over the city for a long time.

When people in Washington first began to hear that I was leaving to live in Bangkok and teach at Chulalongkorn University, a few of them jumped to the conclusion I was making a point of some kind, abandoning the land of my birth for reasons that were probably political and no doubt wacky. Others who heard what I was doing—and I noticed this group seemed to be composed mainly of women—attributed my change of address to middle-aged male angst fueled by overly moist fantasies of slim, submissive Thai women serving me brightly colored tropical drinks with little umbrellas in them. Most people, of course, fell into neither of those categories. Most people just assumed that I had lost my damned mind.

Part of the problem was that the whole idea of living in a foreign country was just so strange to most Americans, particularly since very few of them had ever seriously entertained the thought, however fleetingly, themselves. After all, everyone wanted to come to America, didn’t they? Half the population of the earth was fighting to live in Orange County and work in a 7-Eleven, wasn’t it? Why in God’s name would an American even
think
of living anywhere else?

Before I had made the big jump, back in what now felt to me like another life, Barry Gale and I had both been partners in a large and well-connected Washington law firm. The firm was huge and, in spite of our common occupation, I had run across him only occasionally. Truth be told, I could remember very little at all about Barry Gale.

Except, really, for one thing.

Barry Gale had been both the outside legal counsel and a member of the board of directors of the Texas State Bank in Dallas when it was engulfed in scandal, a hugely psychedelic mess involving a bunch of Russian mobsters from New Jersey who had been using the bank to clean and press their income from a variety of rackets up and down the East Coast. The character at the center of the imbroglio was an Armenian named Jimini Zubokof, who was better known as Jimmy Kicks because he had once, so the legend went, personally taken his gleaming Ferragamos to an FBI informant and kicked the poor bastard to death.

Somehow Jimmy became inexplicably possessed by the idea of shifting his money-laundering operations to Asia—anywhere in Asia, really—and he demanded his people find a compliant bank somewhere that would serve his purposes. Of course, all Jimmy Kicks actually knew about Asia was how to order Chinese takeaway and he wasn’t even very good at that, so in the ensuing upheaval at Texas State Bank offshore accounts and foreign currencies were whizzing all over the place and quite a lot of money disappeared. Tens of millions of dollars, or so the press reports claimed, were lost by the bank through dealing forward contracts in the foreign exchange market, although whose contracts they actually were or how the losses had been incurred was never made entirely clear.