Year of the Dragon (33 page)

“Humph,” said Sir David, “summit conference. Captain, you may have happened on to more than you knew.”

“Summit conference?” Powers was amazed at the authority that now emanated from this man, who no longer seemed silly at all.

“I can’t be sure of course. It’s been a number of years since I last saw any of those chaps. But I think you’re looking at four of the so-called five Dragons, including the chief Dragon of course, Koy himself. Only chap missing seems to be Sergeant Hung. He was the most vicious of the lot, but not the smartest. We had him tight. We had his passport and everything. But somehow he escaped from the Colony. We never found out where he went and so were never able to extradite him back here. Whatever this summit conference may be about, I dare say Sergeant Hung won’t be coming to it. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe somebody shot him. I hope so.”

“Who’s the woman?” inquired Powers.

“Mrs. Koy, his wife.”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh yes. When he resigned and left Hong Kong his wife and son remained behind. We were able to block travel documents for her for almost a year. She couldn’t leave. He sent money regularly. He still supported them. We were able to learn that much. He sent them money and therefore honor. That’s very important to the Chinese. He sent them face.”

“Was there ever a divorce?”

“Not that we know of. Why?”

“Because he’s got another wife in New York.”

Sir David laughed. “I don’t think the bigamy statutes cover two wives if you keep them thirteen thousand miles apart.”

Below them Koy, the woman and the three other men started out of the arrivals hall toward the street.

“Let’s go back to my office,” said Sir David.

This decision provoked agitation in Powers, who glanced from Sir David to the departing Koy and back again. “You’re not going to let Koy just walk away, are you?”

“I have some men tailing them,” Sir David said sharply. He gave a snort of annoyance. “We’re not New York here, but we’re not completely incompetent, what?” And he led the way out of the office and down the stairs into the arrivals hall.

“I’m sorry,” said Powers, but he was talking to his back.

“We’ll set up a major investigation. You’ll be kept informed.”

“I’d like to take part.” Powers followed him outside toward his official car.

“Negative, I’m afraid.” Sir David’s voice had become overly hearty, impersonal “You’ll have to be satisfied with watching from the wings, so to speak,” said Sir David.

CAROL CONE, floating first class above the Polar icecap, sipped Moet et Chandon champagne, listened to the Bee Gees in stereophonic sound in her earphones, and studied the collection of clippings, articles, treatises and books about Hong Kong, and about crime therein, that had been gathered for her by an unknown network researcher.

She was unable to decide what her motives were. Was she making this trip for the sake of a story or only to be with Powers in a place where, at night, he would not have to leave her to go home to someone else? Or perhaps her purpose was to bring this affair to a head. She was not good at sharing. He would have to choose between Carol Cone and his wife. She wanted all of him or nothing. The clipping in her hands at the moment was about rape. The Hong Kong version of an old story. Interesting version. A thirty-one-year-old man was in the habit of approaching girls on the street and claiming to be a doctor. He was Chinese, as were the girls. He offered to cure one girl of an upset stomach, and told another that she was even more gravely ill - she appeared to be suffering from blood clots and an ulcer, and her hymen was broken. Unless she agreed to treatment he would prescribe, she had only a short time to live. These girls and others withdrew money from their bank accounts to pay this “doctor,” then followed him to an apartment building where he “cured” them. After a hot bath the girls were told to lie naked on the bed, and submit to body massages followed by the most critical part of the treatment, the miracle drug that never failed, sexual intercourse. Of course several doses of this drug were invariably required. One or another of the girls did question him from time to time. But the treatment was absolutely necessary, he told them. The alternative for the girl was the hospital, and an abdominal operation. After treatment he would present his bill, usually one hundred Hong Kong dollars, and the girls paid it.

Carol, reading this, shook her head in disbelief. The case had gone to trial. Two of the many girls had testified. Both were twenty-one years old, and immediately after filing their complaints had been examined medically. The examinations showed they had been virgins until only hours before.

Was sexual ignorance that great among the Hong Kong Chinese, Carol asked herself. Among the Chinese in general? Were twenty-one-year-old girls normally still virgins?

This article Carol put aside, picking up a booklet which purported to be a history and description of the Triad gangs. Most gangs seemed to have escaped virtually intact from mainland China to Hong Kong at the time of the communist takeover in 1949. So the criminals had run too, Carol reflected, just like the bankers, industrialists, and politicians. So what else was new? Thumbing through the booklet, she saw that a number of sections had been marked in red for her attention, and one of these caught her eye. It outlined Triad methods of selling girls into prostitution. Young girls who had run away from home were prime targets. The Triad groups were constantly on the lookout for such girls, who would be quickly raped, and in some cases gang-raped. This was referred to as “sealing” or “stamping” the merchandise, and usually it reduced the girl to a state of such catatonic shock and shame that, when she was brought to a brothel and sold, she did not resist. The price paid for her became her debt to the brothel. She could not leave till she paid it off, and this took considerable time, because she was credited with only thirty percent of the money she earned, and had to pay living expenses out of that. Another method Triads used was to sell their own girlfriends. The Triad member would convince his girl that loan sharks were after him, she had to save his life by turning a few tricks and giving him the money. He would then take her to the brothel, and unbeknownst to her, sell her to the brothel owner. Once inside, she would find herself unable to get out until she had paid back her purchase price.

Carol had no idea where the researcher had found this stuff. She had no great interest in people on the research level, but this one, she guessed, had been a woman, for much of the material had a definite feminist slant. It was all very subtle. This type of thing was just what communist film-writers had been accused of more than a generation ago, Carol knew. They had proselytized not by speech-making, but by selection of material. Carol herself was a militant feminist who fought for women’s rights only when the woman was herself. There was no place for feminism in her work. She was interested in success as demonstrated by the size of her paycheck and the degree of her celebrity, and such success was based strictly and solely on the broadest possible appeal to viewers, an appeal almost political in nature. That is, not offending people was more important than pleasing them. There was no room in television - not yet, anyway - for a woman who wished to stand as a symbol.

Other women, as far as she was concerned, would have to fight their own battles. She had made the initial penetration, and made it possible for them to follow. It was up to them to widen the breach themselves. Her Q factor and her ratings proved that millions and millions of Americans invited her into their homes each day, accepted her as being just like them. She did not wish to disabuse them. If they knew, for instance about her affair with Captain Powers, a married man, most of them would tune her out. She thought of Powers, who would be surprised to see her. She smiled. He would be astonished to see her. And, she hoped, very, very pleased. It was certainly the farthest she had ever traveled to see a man - 15,000 miles.

A steward in a white jacket stood at her place carving slices of rare roast beef - the airline had decided it was dinner time. She was like a child again - someone else was deciding when and what she would eat - and at the same time she was like a queen - before her champagne glass was even empty it had been refilled. The Japanese gentleman beside her downed another whiskey. Carol only sipped, and watched the bubbles percolate, and contemplated luxury. She rode pampered above the clouds and it cost her nothing. The world’s ultimate luxury had changed. It was no longer the yacht but the expense account. One bought goods and services without even asking about price, and was just as rich afterwards as before.

After dessert and coffee she finished her champagne. Beginning to feel a bit high, she pushed the button and dropped the seat rest back as far as it would go, stretching out, snuggling in. Here in first class she lay almost in the horizontal, which was extremely comfortable, yet not really comfortable at all. It was like lying out in a dentist’s chair, attached to various tubes and implements - the earphones, the tray, the seat belt. Like a patient she was fixed in place.

Twilight fled ahead of them. It lasted an interminably long time. It was like a lover, beckoning the loved one to follow. It was like Powers teasing her, staying always just out of reach. The only trouble was he didn’t know he was doing it. At last it got dark. Sockettes and eye masks were passed out. Carol employed both. The steward arranged the foot-rest under her calves, arranged her pillow; he put a blanket over her. He was like a lover tucking her in. She saw lovers everywhere tonight, and wondered why.

Masked, she floated through total darkness at 600 miles an hour in a jet-propelled capsule that seemed motionless, even soundless. She concentrated on sleep fiercely. She was determined to sleep at all costs because tomorrow in Hong Kong a film crew would be waiting, and she might have to film her standup, or one or more interviews. She wanted to look her best. She could not afford to look less than her best, and she began to worry about a makeup man. It was vitally important that there be a makeup man on hand. Would they have found her one or not? Suppose they hadn’t?

The Japanese beside her had begun to snore. All day she had watched him drinking too much. Lifting her mask she peered at him. Dead asleep. Slobbering slightly. She wondered what to do. Call the steward? Change seats? It was like lying awake in a dormitory. But she couldn’t change seats. This dormitory was full.

His snore was both a sneeze and a whistle. She was sharing a double bed with a Japanese she didn’t know and paying heavily for it. It wasn’t her choice. She had been given none. She had been assigned to his bed, or him to hers, as in a well-run whorehouse. His near arm was balanced on the armrest, and with her elbow she knocked it off. He came awake with a start, and glanced around, but could not find the culprit who was hiding under her mask, feigning innocence, feigning sleep.

Sleep was what she wanted, but it would not come. The Japanese gentleman, she sensed, was peering around, trying to decide what had awakened him. Consider it a miracle, pal, Carol thought. It will be a miracle if I ever doze off, she thought. Tomorrow she would look a wreck. She would go on camera after twenty-four hours without sleep, and it would show in her face. At her age she could not afford to miss a night’s sleep like this. It would make her whole face sag.

She began to wonder where her career would be ten years from now, twenty. As she became middle-aged, and then an old woman, would the network keep her on, or get rid of her? With one or two exceptions, the famous movie actresses of her childhood had all disappeared from the screen at a far younger age than she was now: Lana Turner, Rita Hayworth, Hedy Lamarr. For most, tragedy had promptly followed. A number of them became shoplifters, or alcoholics, or suicides. Of course newswomen were not actresses. It was a totally different category. Or was it? One pretended that looks did not count. But perhaps they counted far more than anyone wanted to admit, especially herself. Was there a place in television news for the experienced older woman? Walter Cronkite had become a father-figure, and then presumably a grandfather-figure. Could the same thing happen to a woman? Could it - would it - happen to her?

There were no answers to these questions because Carol belonged to the first generation of women such as herself. One could not examine any track records. There were no track records. Not one of these women had yet reached menopause. It remained to be seen what would happen to them then - what would happen to her.

As she fought to fall asleep, Carol asked herself why this subject of age had so preoccupied her in recent weeks. For the last hour it had occupied every room and closet in her head. Was there some reason? She had known since adolescence that, like any baseball player, she was using up finite resources. The best part of her life would end after a set number of years, same as a shortstop’s. And after that? She did not know. She had never yet squarely faced that question, or tried to resolve it, and when on occasion it was brought to her attention she had turned it aside with a flippant comment, or an arrogant one. Live for today is my motto, she would say with a grin. Or she would tell people, usually men, that she did not expect ever to have to face the problem - she simply did not expect to live very long. If depressed enough she might suggest - without ever actually using the ugly word - that there was always a way out. One could always simply “end it.”

The Japanese gentleman was snoring again. She could not get away from him. She lay beside him. Call girls must experience this all the time: to be stuck there, unable to leave, the man snoring. To be frank, it had happened to her once or twice, when she would spend the night with a man she scarcely knew. Lots of men snored, even the most attractive ones sometimes. But this was different. She had not invited this Japanese gentleman into her bed, or even her life. She could not make him turn over. She could not pass it off as payment for pleasure received. There was no way to escape the rhythmic, rasping noise, no way she could ever get to sleep. Pushing the button, she snapped her chair upright, ripped the mask off her eyes, and stared at the villain. Who snored on, oblivious to her rage. Breathing hard, she found the earphones and clamped them back on her head, and turned the volume up high. The snoring vanished. Rock music drowned it out. But she was now so upset that the music sounded like a bombardment. It sent cannon balls blasting into her skull through both ears to bounce around in there. There ought to be a husband or lover in the chair next to her. Powers - her daughter - someone she loved. Why wasn’t there? Why was she always so alone? Tears came to her eyes. It was intolerable. She was not going to get any sleep at all. Tomorrow she would look awful. She would look fifty. She stared blinking out the porthole into the void of night 30,000 feet above the Arctic Ocean. Total darkness, total emptiness, total nothingness, total cold. She was weeping hard. She was half drunk, exhausted, and terribly worried about her face, and about what would happen to her when it was gone.