The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (56 page)

“Do you have any tips?” asked Lehman.

“Oh yes,” said Dr Chan, flipping through his notebook, “let me see. Yes, I calculate that Red Pearl has a ninety per cent probability of winning the second race.” He looked at Lehman over the top of his spectacles. “And Shining Wind is worth a bet in the fourth. Other than that, there is nothing I would recommend today.”

“I’ll certainly back them, Dr Chan. Thank you.”

“How long will you be in Hong Kong for, Mr Lehman?”

Lehman shrugged. “A few weeks, I think.”

“Ah, then you will be here for the last race of the season. That is always a big day.”

“I’d love to see it. You’ll be at Happy Valley?”

Dr Chan frowned. “Oh no, last race is here, at Shatin, not at Happy Valley.”

“Are you sure?”

Dr Chan looked pained, as if Lehman had suggested that he’d written a wrong prescription. “I would not be mistaken about such a thing, Mr Lehman. The last race is always at Shatin. Tradition.”

Lehman’s mind whirled, wondering why Tyler had said that the robbery would be at the Happy Valley track. Dr Chan could not possibly be mistaken, and Tyler had been right on everything else. Why the conflict? It was bizarre in the extreme.

“You seem puzzled,” said Dr Chan.

Lehman forced a smile. “No, I just made a mistake, that’s all. Well, I hope you have a good day’s racing, Dr Chan. I must get back to my friends.”

They shook hands and Lehman took the betting cards to Horvitz and Carmody.

“Red Pearl in the second and Shining Wind in the fourth,” said Lehman as he passed out the cards.

“Hot tip?” asked Horvitz.

“Yeah, I met a guy who gave me some advice last time. He seems to know what he’s doing.”

“Okay, I’ll put a hundred dollars each way on both of them, and fifty bucks on Galloping Dragon,” said Carmody, scribbling on his card.

An announcement in Chinese over the loudspeakers resulted in a rush towards the betting hall and Carmody dashed off, a wad of red banknotes in his hand. From their seats Lehman and Horvitz looked out over the track and across to the sea. Like Happy Valley there was a massive video board on the far side of the home straight and there was a grass track and an inner dirt course.

“It’s a beautiful track,” said Horvitz. He pointed out to sea. “Be a hell of a lot easier to get away from the place, wouldn’t it?”

Lehman nodded. He had been thinking along the same lines. If the last race of the season truly was being held at Shatin, the heist would be a good deal less complicated than the cross-harbour flight that going to Happy Valley would entail. Lehman was confused, but he didn’t want to discuss his fears with Horvitz. Or with Carmody for that matter. Over the past few weeks both men had grown much closer to Tyler and Lehman suspected that the colonel trusted them more than he did Lehman.

Tyler came out of the offices with his portable phone in his hand. “The guys gone to Shatin?” he asked Lewis, who was lying on his side by the turbine. Mr Tsao was kneeling by his toolbox and handing tools to Lewis as he asked for them.

“They left about an hour ago,” said Lewis.

“Good. Chuck go with them?”

“No, he’s in his room. Meditating, I think.”

“Okay. I’m going to take the Toyota into town. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. When do you think you’ll be ready to install the turbine?”

Lewis rolled away from the turbine and sat up, grunting. “Tomorrow, I guess. And we’re going to have to test it.”

Tyler nodded thoughtfully and tapped the antenna of the phone against his leg. “It’ll be noisy,” he said.

“But it’s got to be done. If we don’t get the settings right there’s no guarantee she’ll fly.”

“If we must, we must,” said Tyler. “But let’s wait until the Huey is fully assembled. I don’t want to test the turbine more than once. Get the gearboxes and the electrics in and the rotors attached. We’ll test them all together.”

“And there’s the fuel,” added Lewis.

“The fuel will be here within the week,” Tyler promised. He headed towards the door. “See you guys later,” he said over his shoulder.

Lewis groaned and rubbed his stomach, his eyes closed and his mouth half open. He put his spanner on the concrete floor and took out a bottle of codeine tablets he’d bought at the drugstore. They barely took the edge off the pain and they made him feel nauseous, but they were better than nothing.

Mr Tsao squatted back on his heels and watched Lewis with watery eyes. “You are sick?” he asked.

Lewis winced as he chewed and swallowed two of the white tablets. “Headache,” he muttered.

“I think not,” said Mr Tsao. He wiped the back of his hand under his nose and sniffed. “I think problem your stomach. You are in much pain. And you not eat much.”

“What are you, my mother?” said Lewis, putting the bottle of tablets back into the pocket of his overalls.

“Not mother,” said Tsao, his hands on his knees. “Friend. I not like see you hurt.”

Lewis got to his feet and pulled a face. “I’ll be okay. We’ll be finished soon.”

Tsao raised his thin eyebrows. “Maybe I can help,” he said.

Lewis looked at him and massaged his stomach. “I don’t think so, Mr Tsao. If the tablets don’t help, I don’t think there’s much you can do.”

Tsao pressed his hands against his knees and stood up, his joints cracking like dry twigs. He took a step closer to Lewis and he could smell garlic on his breath.

“So, pain is bad?” said Tsao.

“Yes, all right, it hurts,” said Lewis. He knew that Tsao had seen him wincing as they’d worked on the turbine and the gearboxes, so there was little point in continuing the charade. He had grown to like and respect the Chinese mechanic; he was hardworking, a skilled metalworker and he had a dry wit that Lewis appreciated.

“You have cancer, I think,” said Tsao.

Lewis was stunned by the man’s perception and his jaw dropped. “How …” His voice faltered before he could finish the question.

“How I know?” Tsao said. “My wife died two years ago from cancer of the stomach. She not eat, she lose much weight. Before she die she in much pain. Always rubbing stomach.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lewis.

“We married long time,” said Tsao, a faraway look in his eyes. “She give me many sons. She cry all the time, at night she screamed. Begged me to take away the pain.”

“I’m sorry,” Lewis repeated. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought that, in all probability, that was how he himself would end up, lying on a bed somewhere screaming for the pain to be taken away. The way Dr Jordan had described it back in Baltimore, the pain he was feeling now was just a shadow of what was to come.

Tsao’s eyes seemed to refocus and he smiled thinly at Lewis. “Towards the end I give her something to dull pain. If you wish, I get same for you.”

“What is it?” asked Lewis.

“Opium,” said Tsao softly.

Lewis threw his hands up in horror. “Opium?” he said. “You mean heroin. No way, Mr Tsao. No way. I’ve seen that shit destroy too many lives to get involved with it. My home town is riddled with heroin and coke and crack and all the rest of that crap. I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

Mr Tsao shook his head patiently. “We are not talking about heroin. No need inject. I show you. Chinese use opium for long time.”

“I don’t think so,” said Lewis. “I’ve seen too many addicts panhandling on the streets.”

“I think you need not worry about long-term effects,” said Tsao, his voice little more than a whisper. “I think you not have to become addict.”

Tsao’s words made Lewis feel cold deep down inside and he licked his lips nervously. He couldn’t say anything so he just nodded.

Tsao took that as acceptance. “I will call number two son. He will bring opium here.”

Tsao used the second portable telephone, which Tyler had left on one of the workbenches, and the two men worked on the turbine while they waited for Tsao’s son to arrive.

After an hour they heard a car horn sound and Tsao went outside. He returned with a small polythene packet, about two inches square, which contained a small amount of white powder.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” said Lewis.

“Try,” said Tsao. “No need inject. You can chase the dragon.”

“Chase the dragon?” said Lewis.

“I show you,” said Tsao. He went over to the area of the warehouse the men used as a kitchen. He put the packet on top of the microwave and picked up a roll of kitchen foil. He tore off a strip about four inches wide and eight inches long and then folded it in half lengthways. He bent the oblong strip into a V-shape and sprinkled a small amount of the powder into the groove. There was a disposable cigarette lighter on the bench next to a butane gas burner and Tsao took it in his right hand. “Watch,” said Tsao. He held the foil strip up to his face so that one end was about three inches below his nose. He ran the lighter along the underside of the foil. “You do this with flame, flame burns powder, you sniff smoke,” said Tsao. “You must move face over strip to keep up with smoke. That is why we call it chasing the dragon. You understand?”

Lewis nodded and Tsao handed the foil and the lighter to Lewis. He lifted the foil and flicked the lighter on. Tsao nodded encouragingly, and Lewis played the flame under the end of the foil closest to his face. It bubbled and smoked and he breathed in deeply.

“Not so fast,” cautioned Tsao. “One slow breath is best.”

Lewis moved the lighter up the foil and more of the powder turned into sweet grey smoke. It began to drift up into his eyes, making them water, and he moved his head forward, chasing the fumes. He continued to inhale the smoke. He was so busy concentrating on catching the fumes that he inadvertently played the flame over his fingers and he yelped and dropped the foil.

“Shit!” he screamed and put his scorched hand under a running tap.

“Chasing the dragon needs practice,” said Tsao sympathetically. “How you feel?”

Lewis dried his hand on a paper towel. He could feel a warm glow concentrate around his chest and spread through his veins, taking with it a feeling of well-being, of peace. It seemed to fold around the searing pain in his stomach and envelop it like a cotton wool shroud and gradually it began to diminish until the pain became an ache and then the ache became just a memory. “It feels good, Mr Tsao,” he said gratefully.

“I thought so,” said Mr Tsao. He picked up the small bag of powder and handed it to Lewis. “Use only when pain very bad,” he cautioned. “When this finished, I get you more.”

The roads in Kowloon were clear of traffic as William Fielding drove the Saab out of the Lion Rock Tunnel and into the early morning sunshine. Even crowded Hong Kong had to sleep, and at five o’clock on a Monday morning the colony’s roads were no busier than an English country town’s.

The Saab handled well, but the car felt claustrophobic in comparison with the Mercedes, and the air-conditioning was nowhere near as efficient. He could have requisitioned a Mercedes from one of the bank’s senior employees but decided instead to use his wife’s car. The visit to the Shatin stables was, after all, a private one.

The white grandstand loomed ahead of him and he waved his pass at the security guard at the entrance to the stables. The old man in the dark blue uniform barely glanced at the pass and he saluted as he recognised Fielding at the wheel. It was just one of the perks of being a steward of the Royal Hong Kong Jockey Club. He parked between a white Rolls-Royce and a dark green Bentley and walked over to the stable block where his horses were based. Fielding’s two horses cost him more than 25,000 HK dollars a month in stable fees and brought in only a fraction of that in winnings, but he relished being an owner, both for the excitement of watching them race and the social cachet it brought.

He showed his pass to another security guard outside the block but he too saluted without looking at it. One of his horses, Bank On It, was in its stall being brushed by his
ma-foo
, or stable boy. The stable boy, actually a fifty-year-old man, greeted Fielding. Under the system operated by the stables, a
ma-foo
was allocated two horses and he cared for them for as long as they raced in Hong Kong. The stable was air-conditioned to a constant twenty-two degrees and gentle piped music seeped out of concealed speakers and the floors were covered with an expensive Japanese floor-covering so that they wouldn’t have to walk on bare concrete. The racehorses lived in better accommodation than most Hong Kong workers.

“Galloping Dragon in pool,” said the
ma-foo
as he brushed Bank On It’s glossy coat with long, firm strokes.

“Is Mr Kwan with him?” asked Fielding.

The
ma-foo
nodded without looking up. Unlike the security guards, the
ma-foo
was not impressed by Fielding’s presence. He lived for his horses and cared little for the owners.

Fielding went over to the swimming pool. His trainer, Archie Kwan, was walking along the poolside watching Galloping Dragon swimming. The horse was midway along the pool as his
ma-foo
matched its pace, holding a tether in his hand to keep it centred in its lane. Kwan said something to the
ma-foo
, another middle-aged man, and both men looked at the animal’s rear legs. The
ma-foo
nodded and said something in Cantonese.