‘Christ,’ said Dugan, and he looked up at the ceiling in exasperation.
Petal seemed to revel in the company of the three men, laughing at Bellamy’s corny jokes and listening with rapt attention to Burr’s stories of police work. Dugan began to show his impatience; he didn’t want to be standing at the bar with just one third of her attention, he wanted one hundred per cent of her, ideally naked and preferably in bed. He kept his arm around her shoulder and occasionally he’d give her an encouraging squeeze, but she made no move to go. The bar was busy, buzzing with its usual night-time mix of off-duty coppers, television starlets, Chinese yuppies and underworld figures. For once Dugan’s eyes weren’t prowling the crowd looking for possible conquests – he’d got all he wanted right under his arm. Petal was all he wanted to look at. It had been a long time since he’d felt like that about a girl.
‘But aren’t you frightened, taking on the triads?’ she asked Burr.
‘What’s to be frightened about?’ he said.
‘Well,’ she hesitated, ‘don’t they try to stop you?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But not with violence. They wouldn’t dream of hurting a copper, not a gweilo anyway. The whole force would come down on them like a ton of bricks. They fight each other all the time, hatchets, guns, acid, the works. But it’s always in-house violence, the public hardly ever gets hurt. And they leave the cops alone.’
Bellamy nodded in agreement. ‘Most of the top triads are OK guys when you meet them socially. Wouldn’t you say so, Dugan?’
Dugan grinned, a smile with no warmth. Bellamy was a bit tight, but even when sober he took a malicious glee at picking away at people’s sore points, and right now friendships with triads was a definite touchy subject so far as Dugan was concerned.
‘Take a look around you,’ said Burr, waving theatrically with his arm. He pointed at a Chinese youth, late twenties, in a snappy blue silk suit, who was eating a steak and talking at the same time to a demure girl in a tight-fitting black dress that left little to the imagination. On the table in front of the man was a mobile telephone.
Petal raised an eyebrow expectantly. ‘What about him?’
‘Triad,’ he said. ‘Danny Lam. Very big in drugs, and I mean big. Danny Boy drives a very pretty little Ferrari, and he’s partial to young Chinese girls – and I mean young. That one he’s with now is twice the age he normally goes for. He gets them hooked on cocaine and when he’s finished with them he hands them over to one of the fishball stalls.’
Petal wrinkled her nose. ‘The what?’
‘You’ve never heard of fishball stalls?’ said Bellamy in disbelief. ‘Under-age brothels. Chinese only, gweilos are never allowed in. We raid about five a week, charge the organizers and send the girls back to their parents. A few days later the girls run away again and the bad guys are out on bail. And so it goes on. See that guy over there?’ This time he gestured towards another young man, this one with slicked-back hair and an expensive leather jacket. Under one arm he carried a small Gucci case from which protruded the aerial of a portable telephone. He was laughing with two teenage girls, one either side. Not exactly twins, but close. Petal looked at Bellamy for an explanation.
‘Stockbroker,’ he said. ‘One of the best. Drives a Porsche. Now, can you tell them apart? Neither can I. They look the same, they drink in the same bars, they’re members of the same clubs, they eat at the same restaurants. Chances are they even went to the same school.’
‘What are you getting at?’ said Dugan, angrily. He felt as if Bellamy was setting him up for something, but he wasn’t sure what.
‘The point I’m trying to make to Petal, Patrick my boy, is that triads are no different to any other local businessmen.’
‘In fact,’ added Burr, ‘we actually get on quite well with some of them.’
‘You’re friends with them?’ said Petal.
‘No, not friends,’ said Bellamy. ‘Never friends. But we drink with them. It’s part of the game. They’ll stand and talk with us, part of the macho image, it gives them a boost to be seen drinking with cops. And sometimes they’ll give you info about one of their competitors.’
‘Part of the job,’ said Burr.
‘Sounds crazy,’ said Petal, slipping into Cantonese.
‘The world is crazy,’ replied Burr, also in Chinese. All three of the men were good enough to be able to flit between the two languages without hesitation.
‘Don’t your bosses mind you mixing with the guys you’re supposed to be trying to catch?’ asked Petal, genuinely puzzled.
‘There’s a line that we don’t cross, Petal. We drink with them, we laugh and joke with them, but that’s as far as it goes,’ said Burr. ‘At the end of the day we’re trying to put them away.’
‘Listen to the Lone Ranger,’ laughed Bellamy.
Dugan felt a fingernail run down his spine, and for a moment he thought it was Petal until he realized that her arm was around his waist. He turned to look over his left shoulder and found himself looking into a pair of green, knowing eyes above a slightly upturned nose and a wide, smiling mouth. The smile grew wider and dimples appeared in both cheeks, and as she tilted her head to one side her long blonde hair rippled.
‘How’s it going, brother of mine?’
‘Hiya, Jill. Business as usual, nothing changes. You look good.’
She did, too. The white silk blouse and hip-hugging grey skirt she was wearing had exclusive designer labels and she had several ounces of gold hanging around her neck. The gold Rolex was new, and he didn’t recognize the small pearl earrings. It seemed that every time he saw his sister these days she had something new, either clothes or jewellery. She wore her wealth like a badge of office. With pride.
She looked at Dugan’s companions. ‘Jeff,’ she said, ‘nice to see you. And you, Colin. Long time no see.’
They raised their glasses to her in unison.
‘The lovely Mrs Ng,’ said Bellamy. ‘Where’s your better half?’
‘Speak of the devil,’ said Burr. ‘Here he comes now.’
A tall, well-built Chinese walked along the bar, confidently, like a male model on a catwalk, shoulders swaying slightly, one hand in the trouser pocket of his grey double-breasted suit, the other outstretched towards the girl. He was about forty years old, his hair short and trimmed around his ears, making his face seem even squarer than it was. He looked like a man who was used to wielding power, a man who expected to be obeyed.
He took Jill’s hand and smiled, his thin lips pulling back into a smile that would have been cruel if the eyes hadn’t been so warm as he looked at her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t let me go.’ She tilted her chin up and kissed him on the cheek. Behind him were two men with hard eyes and unsmiling faces. They were never far from Simon Ng or his wife. Bodyguards. Ng looked past his wife at Dugan and nodded.
‘Hello Pat,’ he said.
‘Simon,’ he replied.
‘And Mr Bellamy and Mr Burr. My favourite policemen. Can I buy you gentlemen a drink?’
The two cops beamed at him, and together drained their glasses. ‘I’ll have a brandy and Coke. A double,’ said Bellamy.
‘And I’ll have a malt whisky,’ said Burr. ‘A treble.’ It was a game they’d played many times with the triad leader.
A barman had followed Ng as he walked along the bar and was waiting patiently for him to order, ignoring several other thirsty customers. Ng ordered drinks for the two cops and a bottle of champagne and the barman moved off in double time. Ng had that effect on most people.
‘What can I get you, Pat?’
Dugan lifted his half-filled glass. ‘I’m OK, Simon, Thanks.’ Ng looked at Petal, and then back to Dugan. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dugan. ‘This is Petal. Petal, this is my sister, Jill, and her husband, Simon.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ she said.
‘If you’ll excuse me, there’s someone I have to see,’ said Ng, and he walked over to the table where the blue-suited man was deep in conversation with the girl in the tight black dress. The man practically jumped to his feet and shook hands energetically with Ng, inviting him to sit with them.
‘So how long have you known my little brother?’ Jill asked Petal.
‘Not so little,’ interrupted Burr.
‘I used to change his nappy, he’ll always be my little brother,’ said Jill.
‘For God’s sake, you were three years old at the time,’ said Dugan, reddening. Ng was using the man’s portable phone, talking and nodding. The girl was watching one of the television screens and pouting.
‘Not long,’ said Petal.
‘Don’t worry, he grows on you,’ said Jill.
‘Like mould,’ said Bellamy, and Burr spluttered into his whisky.
Petal smiled at Jill. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said.
‘What do you do, Petal?’ asked Jill.
‘I’m with the Bank of China. And you?’
‘A lady of leisure,’ she laughed. ‘Bringing up an eight-year-old girl and looking after Simon.’
‘You have an eight-year-old daughter?’ said Petal, surprised.
‘I married young.’
‘Too young,’ said Dugan.
‘Pat didn’t approve,’ said Jill. ‘Nor did our parents.’
‘For different reasons,’ said Dugan, sourly.
Dugan’s objection had been that Simon Ng was a triad member. Their parents didn’t want the marriage to go ahead because Ng was Chinese. One of the crueller things they’d said was that they didn’t want Chinese grandchildren. Subtle. Jill had gone ahead regardless and she hadn’t seen them since. In a way she’d had the last laugh, for when Sophie had been born she’d taken most of her genes from her mother and had curly blonde hair and European features – only the soft brown eyes had come from her father. But it made no difference, because by then the damage had been done.
‘Come on, Petal, come and sit down with me and I’ll tell you a few things about my little brother,’ said Jill, leading her to a table close to where Ng was sitting.
Dugan sighed deeply. It just wasn’t turning out to be his night.
The Navy boys were getting frisky. Two of them were on their knees behind the bar forming periscopes with their arms and making sonar noises. Their pals thought it was hysterical, and the dancers were laughing too until one of the glasses of lager was knocked over. The mamasan went over and asked them to be quiet, and the barhags moved away. The boys behaved for all of ten minutes before the horseplay started again, a game of tag with the freckle-faced weapons officer as ‘It’.
He ran around the fish tank, feinted to dash out through the entrance and then lurched back to the bar. His mates were hard on his heels as he ran around the bar and ducked into the changing-room, from where he emerged five seconds later chased by two semi-naked dancers, shrieking and hitting him with towels.
He cannoned into the giant with bulging forearms, spilling his drink down the front of his T-shirt. The man growled angrily, grabbed Freckle-face by the throat and banged him against the wall. Amy slid off her stool and moved behind Howells, just in time because the younger man brought up his knee into the giant’s groin and pushed him backwards. All the girls started screaming as the giant fell against Howells and overbalanced the stool. They fell to the floor together, Howells underneath, and the weight of the big man winded him. The giant rolled off and went after the weapons officer while Amy helped Howells to his feet.
By the time Howells was up Freckle-face was back with his head being pounded against the wall, his eyes rolling and his neck limp. Two other youngsters were trying to pry the big man’s fingers from around their friend’s throat, but with little success.
‘He’s killing him,’ gasped Amy.
She was right, Howells realized. There was manic gleam in the man’s eyes, a combination of alcohol and bloodlust that by the look of it was only going to end one way. And if the boy was seriously hurt or even killed then the police would come, and that was the last thing he needed.
‘Tom, you must stop them,’ said Amy, as if she’d read his mind. He looked at her, frowning, and she took him by the arm. ‘Mamasan not here, she go to other bar. She leave me in charge.’
Howells realized then that the Chinese heavies he’d seen on his earlier visit weren’t there either.
‘Please, Tom. I be in big trouble. Some of the dancers do not have visas. Please stop them now.’ She practically pulled him off his stool.
Howells decided he’d help; partly because she was so insistent, but also because he could see that Freckle-face was going to get hurt and he knew that if the police did come they’d take names and addresses and ask for identification and he didn’t want anyone to know where he was.
Freckle-face’s breath was rasping now, his eyes beginning to glaze and spittle foaming on his lips. The big man was breathing heavily through his nose as Howells moved up behind him and slammed his cupped hands against his ears, hard enough to stun but not hard enough to burst his eardrums. He bellowed and released his grip immediately, turning to face Howells with murder in his eyes. Howells smiled, relishing as he always did the way time seemed to almost stop when he was in combat. He could see each drop of sweat on his opponent’s forehead, the red tinge to the whites of his eyes, the throbbing veins in his arms. He saw him step forward as if in slow motion and reach out with splayed fingers.
Howells let him come, taking a step backwards and dropping down as he put most of his weight on his rear leg, ready to spring forward. His right hand was clenched and in the ready position on his hip, his left hand slightly crooked, fingertips pointing at the man’s face. He was still smiling. Relaxed – Howells had long passed the stage where he tensed up during a fight. There was only one time for tension, and that was when you made contact.
He knew it was a lot easier to kill a man or cripple him than it was to stop him without causing too much damage, and from his cat stance he could put together fifty or sixty combinations of moves that would end the life of the big sailor as easily as stepping on a cockroach. Part of Howells wanted to do it, to bring the side of his palm crashing against the man’s temple, to hammer his knee with the side of the foot and then slam his elbow into the man’s throat and feel the cartilage splinter. But the rational part of him knew that now wasn’t the time. Best bet would be the solar plexus, but he wouldn’t risk his fist because too hard and he’d break the sternum. He let the man move until he was almost on top of him, then he went under the outstretched arms, still in his crouch, and threw his right hip forward and thrust his arm towards the centre of the man’s chest, dead centre between the base of his ribs. The fist unclenched as his arm moved and when he hit it was with the palm of his hand and it was controlled, but even so the sailor moved back a full yard in small shuffling steps, bent double. He slumped sideways against the wall and then slid down it to the floor, conscious but totally unable to move, his arms clasped around his stomach. The bloodlust had gone from his eyes; now he just looked pained.