FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE (21 page)

“Susie my dear, don’t be fooled by appearances. The fellah who fixed it for me to lease this place goes around in a dodgy coolie outfit, lives in a bungalow on Lamma and dines at the Waterfront Bar. He’s going to inherit this whole building if his brother doesn’t reappear from New York…and I’m told that’s not very likely. What’s more, some of my casual clobber comes from the stalls at Stanley Market. But to answer your question, I’m neither rich nor poor. I’m making a few dollars at the moment, and I look forward to making more in the very near future.

“Speaking about money, how are things with you since Fran’s departure? I assume he’s not earning, or sending you any money. Will you look for a divorce, or are you waiting to see how things develop?”

I realise I’m pushing my luck with the question about divorce. Shite, I hardly know the woman. Still, my questions gave Susie the opportunity to offload on me. It all came gushing out, right back to the fights she had with her father when she told him about Fran and their age difference. With tears in her eyes, she confessed that she hasn’t spoken to her father since the day she stormed out of his chambers in London’s Thames Court, near the Old Bailey.

“He was so angry, so disappointed. I miss him dreadfully,” she said.

I wiped her tears and stuck a large glass of Montrachet in her hand. She sipped the wine, gained control of herself, and continued describing her unhappy marriage. I couldn’t believe it when she told me about the time in Australia when Fran demanded she go under the surgeon’s knife to have her breasts reduced. I’m saying breasts…she said ‘tits’.

The poor girl got really embarrassed when she told me about trying to get shagged by a stranger and having to jerk the fellah off. She confessed that was only the second cock she’d ever touched, and that the thought of that great big thing inside her was too scary.

I decided it’s as good a time as any to mention that, apart from what she’s wearing now, I think her recent dress sense isn’t great.

“Susie, because of your figure, most men are genetically pre-programmed to think you’re a slapper when you wear revealing outfits. They shouldn’t, they have no reason to, but they do. Tonight you’re wearing what suits you…it’s sexy, classy…but not obvious.”

That little speech earned me a kiss on the cheek, and I took it as my cue.

“Would you like to stay the night?” Not sure that I’m on solid ground yet, I quickly added, “There are plenty of bedrooms. Pick anyone you like…except that one up there, that’s mine.”

Susie jumped up and flicked off her shoes. She padded barefoot around the penthouse, opening doors and squealing with delight at every new discovery. Eventually she picked the main guest suite.

“Susie love, why don’t you go up to the dressing room off my bedroom and get a shirt to sleep in.”

As I uncorked another bottle of wine Susie reappeared, she’s wearing another of my Sam the Tailor shirts. When I sat next to her on the settee I noticed that it doesn’t hide that she’s no longer wearing a bra.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning – after two more bottles of Montrachet – Susie took my head and rested it on her shoulder. Then, out of the blue, she suggested that I invite Paul Wills, the stockbroker, and his wife, to the penthouse for a barbecue and a swim in the pool.

“You see Finn, Paul’s been giving me tips on shares to buy…and each time they’ve gone up in value. The profits are helping me out…since that useless husband of mine isn’t.”

“I think I met Paul Wills in Plume’s. I’m sure that’s the fellah Michael Harrington-Browne introduced me to anyway,” I said, while burrowing my head around until my face lay on her left breast. I could feel her nipple hardening under my cheek.

“What about this weekend?” I suggested.

“Why not? But now it’s time for bed,” she said, as she stroked my hair.

HONG KONG

Over a plate
of barbecued duck and a pint of Bulmers Irish Cider from Clonmel, Susie raised the idea with Paul of helping me with my share investments…like he’s been helping her. A smile crossed his face that’s more than a fair imitation of a cat that’s found the cream.

“How much have you got to invest?” he asked, like any good stockbroker worth his salt.

“I’m thinking ten thousand US, for starters anyway,” I said, with a bit of a wink to drive home the message that there’s more if it’s needed.

“We should be able to double your ten thousand in a month. But I can’t deal with you directly, as we only work for a small number of fund managers. You’ll need to register with a stockbroker on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange and lodge your investment with him.” He reached across to his jacket that’s slung over a deck chair and pulled a sterling silver card case from the pocket. “There’s another of my cards, call me when you have a broker. We’ll meet in Plume’s, or somewhere quiet, so you can give me the name of your broker and your trading name. But other than that, no telephone calls…please. There mustn’t be a direct connection between us that can lead to any kind of awkward questions.”

———

After the weekend barbecue for Paul and Anne Wills, I feel that I’m finally getting wired into the real Hong Kong – the Hong Kong that makes you rich. I got the name of a stockbroker from Hamish, the Scots accountant. At my new stockbroker’s suggestion, we met at the American Club. I gave him a cheque for ten thousand US and the name Bodacious Beauties for my trades.

I met Paul in Plume’s and gave him the name of my stockbroker. He laughed when I told him the trading name, and he agreed it’s a fitting tribute to Susie. I let him have a few stiff gins before I asked any questions.

“Paul, how is it you’re so confident about doubling my money?”

“We only trade in second and third line stocks, which are always down in the bottom quarter of the lists and lightly traded. Each afternoon our clients give us a list of twenty stocks to buy the following day. We have more money than we need to push these second-stringers to any price we’re told, so we keep on buying until the price is pushed up to the figure they’ve told us to sell at. I’ll give you the names of twelve of the twenty stocks our clients have given us, and you tell your broker to buy and sell them at the prices I say. All the little investors watch the stocks climb and jump on them, usually just before we begin to sell. They may pick up a few points at the tail-end of the trades, so they’re happy. The Hong Kong Stock Exchange is always awash with rumours of takeovers that never materialise, but it never stops the little speculators from hoping they’re on to one. Some people call it insider trading. I call it making money. But not a word to Michael or Natasha Harrington-Browne, please. What the eye doesn’t see…etcetera, etcetera. Susie’s cool. As you know, I’ve already put her on to a couple of nice ones to help her meet a few bills, now that Fran’s not around.”

“Not to worry, Paul. I understand.”

“Now, what’s the best number to reach you first thing in the morning?” he asked, as he took out his crocodile skin Smythson notebook. He wrote down my home phone number with his gold and black Montblanc ballpoint pen. “When we get going I’ll call you between seven and seven thirty, before I get to the office. And before you ask, I use an unregistered mobile for these calls. Now, I take it you’re awake at that time?”

“Don’t fret yourself about that now Paul. I’m up and about long before the first sparrow farts, so I am.”

———

The telephone beside my bed buzzed at seven sixteen a.m., it’s Paul Wills. I wrote down the names of the twelve PLCs and a list of buy and sell prices.

“Get the broker on the blower before eight thirty, and tell him you want everything bought before nine twenty. We’ll be buying from nine thirty, so get in before then. Have everything resold between eleven and eleven thirty,” Paul reminded me, before he cut the call.

———

My stockbroker invited me for a ‘quick bite to eat’ at the American Club. The little bollocks is trying to find out where I get my information.

Smiling, I reached across the table, took his shirtsleeved biceps brachii muscle in my hand, and squeezed just hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. “It’s been a very good six weeks for us, hasn’t it? You’re making money aren’t you? So what’s the problem? I hope you’re not putting your other clients on to my run of luck, eh?”

The wee poof is concentrating on my every word, trying to ignore the pain. “No, no….I swear on my dear mother’s life…I…I would never use your information to profit anyone but you Mister Flynn. You have it all wrong….I’m…I’m just curious…that’s all,” he tried to assure me, as he wiped away his tears and rubbed his aching arm.

I turned to gaze out the window; the royal yacht
Britannia
is gliding up through the harbour. She’s surrounded by fire tenders directing sprays of sea water to form an arch of welcome, and the sunlight is catching the sprays to create a rainbow. Police motor launches and private pleasure crafts are following the yacht. I notice that the Star ferries are moored up on either side of the harbour – a rare concession for Her Britannic Majesty. I suppose this is explained by the owner of the Star Ferry Company, Sir Y.K. Poi, having been recently knighted by Queen Elizabeth II.

I returned my attention to the effeminate man facing me. “I have no problem when you buy on your own personal account. Everyone who works with me is entitled to wet their beaks. But no outside parties, and no more questions. Oh yes…I’ve a cheque here for twenty thousand dollars. Add it to my account.”

We travelled down in the lift, and the troubled stockbroker is still trying to massage away the pain in his biceps brachii. With my arm around his shoulder, and a friendly smile on my face, we parted company. He returned to the Hong Kong Stock Exchange and I walked along the waterfront to admire the view.

The roads are lined with
gweilos
and Chinese waving Union Jacks, and the royal yacht
Britannia
is now moored in the middle of the harbour. I can see that the colony is in for a spate of royal worship and rounds of
Rule, Britannia
! I’m reminded of the rumours about the second prince’s
fetishes
doing the social circuit. Of course the rumours remain rumours – no barmaid would confirm or deny the carry ons of such a noble personage…even if they left her sore and bruised for weeks afterwards.

MANILA

As a US
citizen travelling on an American passport, Gerry only gets a short-stay visa when he enters Hong Kong. He has to travel farther afield than Macau every ninety days to renew it. So he asked me to go with him for a weekend in the Philippines.

A Mercedes limousine is waiting for us at the foot of the passenger boarding stairs on the tarmac at Manila International Airport. A uniformed chauffeur saluted us, grabbed our cabin luggage, loaded it in the boot of the limo and drove straight out of the airport – no Customs, no Immigration, and no Department of Agriculture inspections.

We checked into the Peninsula Hotel, one time home of General Douglas Mac Arthur of the US Army, and Field Marshal of the Philippine Army. He of ‘I will return’ fame, and fair play to him, he did indeed return.

Once we were showered and dressed, Gerry and I hit Makati…where the girlie bars are fun, not like the seedy joints back in Wan Chai.

Our first port of call is the Firehouse, so named because the building once housed the local fire station. Within minutes of arriving, girls are sitting on our knees drinking glasses of fizzy water masquerading as Champagne; even these chichi drinks are dirt cheap. The girls are fun, and they deserve their commissions. We happily gave them a good few pesos along with their drinks.

Time flew, and it was nine before we made it to Hobbit House on Mabini Street. Jim Turner, college professor who worked with the US Peace Corps in the Philippines, opened this great bar and restaurant. He’s a real J.R.R. Tolkien nut, and he staffs the place entirely with ‘little people’. The waiters and waitresses aren’t any taller than the tables, but that doesn’t stop them serving trays loaded with beer and plates piled high with food.

A darling little character wearing a cowboy’s ten-gallon hat and a pair of chaps came to our table. “What are you gentlemen drinking this evening?”