FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE (10 page)

Earl leaned across and slapped me on the knee. “I can see already that you call a spade a spade, or as the Brits put it, a short distance earth transportation implement. That’s good. So let’s get down to it…guys.”

HONG KONG

When I walked
into the crowded bar of the Foreign Correspondents’ Club I didn’t need anyone to point out Susie Cooke. She has auburn hair, grey cat’s eyes, and enormous tits displaying not an inch of cleavage. She’s a classy-looking lady…no question about that. Her face and figure would tempt any fellah to make an eejit of himself.

“Well good evening memsaab….I trust that isn’t too British Raj of me? I’m Finn Flynn. And by a process of elimination, I’m persuaded that I’m addressing Memsaab Susanne Cooke. Would I be correct?”

“Pretty close to the edge with the memsaab. We’re a long time out of India, but I get the colonist gibe…otherwise, yes, you are correct. Fran’s brother said you have a way with words….Which is something of an understatement, one might conclude? But dear me, I’m forgetting my manners,” she said with a tiny lisp, as she stood up from her barstool.

I got a whiff of sandalwood perfume and a kiss on both cheeks. Reaching up with her index finger, she wiped the remnants of her bright orange lipstick from my face.

“Finn,
do
call me Susie…there’s a sweetie. A glass of château la plonk? But do tell, how did you pick me out so readily?” she asked, as she poured me a glass of ‘plonk’ from her bottle of chilled Riesling.

“I did receive some insider information from that old fellah over there,” I confessed, motioning towards the Dutch
Life
photographer with his head slumped on the counter at the far side of the bar.

“Ah, my breasts were the give away…or, as he likes to call them, the ‘tits’. Yes, I imagine they do rather
stand out
around here. And Finn…don’t bother forgiving the pun, it was intentional…and intended to place a firm, full seizure on that subject,” she said, as she began a little flirtation in her plummy Sloan Rangers’ accent.

The conversation, which had started off so lively, swiftly petered out.

“Would you like to come and eat with me…somewhere outa here, where I can pay?” I asked, to fill the void.

“Oh yes, Gary warned that you’re a ‘charmer’. Could he have meant
fast worker
? But yes, let’s skedaddle out of here. We should get a table at the Mozart Stub’n…it’s just up the road.”

Jaysus, the steep climb up the hill to Mozart Stub’n would test Sherpa Tenzig Norgay of Mount Everest fame. Halfway up the hill Susie stopped to let me catch up and, unlike me, she’s not out of breath…not even a little bit. I’ve ceased picturing her dancing the night away at Lady Charlotte Berkeley’s ball, and I’m thinking that she must be the daughter of a mountain goat herder.

Susie admitted that she’d telephoned Gary in Brighton to get the ‘scoop’ on me. She told me that once she heard from her husband Fran that she was to meet a mysterious friend of his brother’s, whom he’d never heard Gary mention, she was on the phone immediately.

“And before you ask, Gary described you to me as ‘mountain man meets New Bond Street…when he has a mind to, six foot six, or a bit more, not sure, fifty inch chest, hairy, safe around other men’s wives.’ Pity about the last remark! I wouldn’t have minded fighting off your advances at all, ah well
ainsi soit-il
!”

Tempting as it is, I decided to say nothing about ‘fighting off advances’. But the remark sure put a spring in my step for the next few metres up the steep hill.

The Mozart Stub’n looks like a genuine Austrian bistro, and they obviously know Susie well. Even though we haven’t a reservation, the owner showed us to a cosy table tucked at the back of the restaurant.

“Right Finn, chatter out of the way, let’s get to this. I’m a freelance graphic artist designing print work for the banks and financial services companies located around Central District…they have oodles of money to spend. And you, what’s your gig?”

“Also financial…market investment, a touch of banking.”

“Cripes Finn, you don’t look the bland banking type at all. Are you sure that’s all you do? Let’s just say that face
à des vôtres
looks a little too
vécu en
for a boring financial chap. But fear not handsome prince, I won’t push the subject tonight….Gary’s already offered to fill me in a little more.”

As tempted as I am to drop a wee hint about meself, caution overcame testosterone and I thought better of it. Anyway, Gary’s the kind of friend I could be together with for hours without speaking a word…so whatever else Susie thinks she’ll learn about me from Gary, it won’t be much.

———

The truth is, Gary Cooke knows next to nothing about me. Or, maybe I should say he knows only what I wanted him to know…which is that I bedded Swedish girls and know how to handle myself in a scrap. Of course, Gary only knows the latter because some London drunks were taking the piss out of him one afternoon when he was trying to earn a few bob drawing charcoal caricatures of day trippers on the Promenade in Brighton.

Gary hasn’t an aggressive bone in his body, and the drunks sensed it. When Gary told them to shove off nicely they attacked him. They pushed over his easel and were just about to up-end him off his stool when I descended on them. Like every bully I’ve ever met, they couldn’t handle real aggression, and I think the way I thumped them shocked Gary. A small crowd of gawpers had formed around us, but it was all over in ten seconds, tops.

As I packed up Gary’s easel and stool he did a lightening sketch of the three prone bodies – with blood flowing from their mouths and noses. Then we went for a coffee in the Wimpy burger bar.

“You OK?” I asked.

“Yeah, thanks. You?”

“Yeah….You want a burger with your coffee?”

“No thanks.”

We didn’t say another word about what had just happened. Gary turned the page on his sketch pad and we sat contentedly in silence.

———

For dinner we ate venison, followed by soufflés, all washed down with too much wine. I almost made a pass at Susie over the brandies, but caught myself on in time. Well, that’s not strictly true. When she went to the toilet between the main course and dessert I phoned the Mandarin Oriental and booked a limousine to collect us in an hour. Like a spotty teenager out on his first real date, I hope the sight of
dad’s
Rolls Royce will be enough to convince her to come back to the hotel with me for a nightcap.

The restaurant’s filling up, and people are standing at the bar waiting to be seated. We stood up from our table, much to the relief of the owner, who gallantly escorted us to the door. He’s a real pro, and I’m not surprised that his little Austrian restaurant is so popular.

A limousine is waiting outside, just like the Mandarin promised it would be.

“Sweetie, do meet me for lunch tomorrow at Plume’s in Two Exchange Square, it’s just across the way from your hotel. Do say you’ll come. I’ll introduce you to some interesting people…you poor lost soul. Call you in the morning. Bye!”

She pecked me softly on the cheek before hailing a passing taxi with a two-finger whistle. Susie disappeared in a cloud of diesel fumes, and I’m left feeling deflated. So much for
dad’s
Rolls….Am I pathetic or what?

———

Susie just phoned to confirm our lunch at Plume’s. It’s on the second floor of Two Exchange Square, which, she reminded me, is within walking distance of my hotel. She suggested that I ‘take the elevated walkway’ to get there.

I’d only put the telephone down when it rang again. The receptionist said there are two gentlemen in the lobby asking to come up to my suite. Five minutes later William Ling showed Gerry and Earl into the lounge; he helped them to a pair of large whiskeys and handed me my freshly squeezed orange juice.

Gerry put down his glass of whiskey and got straight to business. “Earl, I’ll outline the plan to Finn first. But feel free to jump in if I’m missing anything…it is your deal after all. OK?”

“Good enough,” said Earl with a nod. He saluted me with his glass, stood up from the couch and strolled out to the balcony to enjoy the view over Statue Square.

“Here it is Finn…the Taiwan Bank…you know, the central bank that makes the polices…has a real tight-assed attitude about taking money out of the country. So the rich Taiwanese can’t move enough of their US Dollars out of Taiwan. Earl’s worked out a way they can transfer hundreds of thousands to banks here in Hong Kong. And this is where you come in, buddy. We’ll supply you with everything you need to approach the banks here and open security trading accounts in the names of shelf companies. That’s it bud.”

Earl strolled back in from the balcony with an empty glass, which he carefully placed on the butler’s tray. He shot up the sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt to reveal hairy forearms and turned his attention to me. “There’s ten thousand US dollars with your name on ’em for every account you open. Interested?”

I’m thinking:
Where’s the catch
? Ten thousand US dollars to open a bank account? Why not do it themselves? I smell a rat…I’m sure they’re going to run scams through the accounts. I bet the Taiwan stuff is just a smokescreen and they need me to be the fall guy. I’m disappointed that Gerry, and therefore Uncle Sui, already think so little of me. They see me as a front man, a disposable gillie. Of course, my fondness for jumping to conclusions has got me in trouble in the past….Then it struck me – I can present my fake passport to banks and open the accounts with that identity, so really, I’ve got little to lose….

“Right lads, bank accounts it is then.”

“Glad to hear it Finn. We’ll get you some walking-around money before you know it!” said Earl.

I call ten thousand dollars a lot more than ‘walking-around’ money, but there you go. How this is going to help me get my heroin to Europe I still haven’t a clue, but I’m much happier to have something to do now. I’m an impatient person, and I’ve been feeling that things were moving a bit slow in what’s reckoned to be one of the fastest cities in the world.

Before Gerry and Earl left I told them I’m going to Plume’s in Two Exchange Square for lunch.

“When did you fix that up?” asked Gerry, with a Cheshire cat’s grin across his face.

“Just this morning. Why? I’m meeting Fran Cooke’s wife, Susie. She’s going to introduce me to some interesting people.”

“Fran Cooke, the financial journalist?” asked Gerry.

“Yeah. So what?”

“I see what you mean about a fast mover,” cut in Earl. “This guy’s a few steps ahead of us buddy. Already he’s gettin’ with the financial movers and shakers. How long’s he been here? A couple of days? Shit!”

“That’s the Paddies for you, charm an’ blarney!” said Gerry.

I didn’t bother to explain, I just showed them out. Gerry passed me a screwed up note as we shook hands goodbye. It’s a mobile number, with the words ‘Call at 4:00 p.m. No later.’

———

Even though Susie told me the restaurant’s within walking distance, I used one of the hotel’s Rolls Royce limousines to get there. The humidity is up around ninety per cent; I don’t want to turn up dripping sweat. And, when in Rome, as the saying goes…use a Rolls Royce.

The hotel limo dropped me at the porte cochère underneath Two Exchange Square, where people queue for taxis and limousines drop passengers. I asked one of the arriving passengers how to reach Plume’s. “Follow me,” he replied.

We rode up in a lift to the second floor. Plume’s Wine Bar and Restaurant is across a vast lobby of polished brown marble.

Thank God Susie is already here. The atmosphere in Plume’s is more like a club than a restaurant. There’s a lot of waving back and forth across the room, the people arriving and departing are exchanging greetings with other diners, and calling out arrangements to phone or meet later.

The place is packed with the kind of people who inhabit the wine bars of the City of London and the smart restaurants around New York’s Wall Street. The uniform is international: loud striped shirts, louder braces – or suspenders as the Yanks call them – and expensive handmade suits and shoes. Every table has an ice bucket holding a bottle of vintage Champagne, or a Chateau Burgundy wine resting in a wicker basket. Most everyone is European, English or American, but there’s a smattering of Australians. There are almost no Chinese, except for the waiters dashing between the tables with fillet steaks, turbot Dugléré, moules marinière, and plenty of dishes I don’t recognise.

Susie pushed her way out from the bar to greet me with a soft kiss and another whiff of sandalwood perfume. She’s wearing a loose-fitting, printed silk frock that stops well above her knees and drapes over her bountiful breasts. Once again, she isn’t dressing to draw attention to her two greatest assets – but she is showing her long, shapely and deeply tanned legs, which I’d not noticed before.

“First things first Finn, let me introduce you to Michael Harrington-Browne. He’s our host.”

Susie turned to face a tall grey-haired man with a lived-in face and ruddy complexion. He’s handsome in an outdoor kind of way. You could imagine him in a bright red hunting jacket – these are curiously known as ‘pinks’ – sitting astride a large grey horse, enjoying a stirrup cup before setting off after a fox.
The unspeakable chasing the inedible
– according to my fellow Irishman, Oscar Wilde.