The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (59 page)

Horvitz sat up in a smooth movement as if he were doing sit-ups in a gym. His arms dropped to his side and the cotton sheet that had been covering him fell around his waist revealing his tanned chest. “They called me Baby Killer when I got back to the States,” he said, his voice softer and quieter than before. “They called me Baby Killer and they were right. That’s what I am. That’s what I have nightmares about, Dan.”

Lehman stared at Horvitz, trying to find the words to say that would ease his pain, but knowing that there were no words. A single tear trickled from under the sunglasses and ran down Horvitz’s left cheek. Lehman said nothing. He leant forward and put his arms around Horvitz and hugged him.

Marie answered the phone on the third ring and called up the stairs to Debbie Fielding that it was for her. Debbie asked who it was but Marie had already gone back to the kitchen. She picked up the extension in her bedroom. Her heart fell when she heard Neil Coleman’s voice.

“Oh, hello, Neil,” she said, knowing that he was going to ask her out and wondering how she could get out of it without provoking him. The last couple of times he’d called they’d ended up rowing, usually over her relationship with Anthony Chung. What made Coleman’s accusations all the more annoying was that she’d hardly been out with Chung, and on the four occasions they had dated he’d done nothing more than kiss her, despite her making it clear that he could go as far as he wanted. Anthony Chung had been the perfect gentleman, though Debbie still hoped to corrupt him.

“Hiya, Debbie. How are you?”

“Busy, as usual,” she said, sitting down on her bed. She reached for her toy lion, a graduation present from her mother, and stroked it on her lap.

“I’m sorry about last time,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just lost my temper.”

“You should be careful about that,” said Debbie. In fact he’d screamed an obscenity into the telephone and then hung up on her. Debbie had actually been relieved because she thought that meant he finally understood that she didn’t want to see him any more. Men were so crazy sometimes, she thought. You slept with them once or twice and they thought they owned you. She’d liked Neil Coleman at first, and she’d needed little encouragement to have sex with him, but he’d taken that as a sign that she wanted to settle down with him and have his children.

“I didn’t mean to,” whined Coleman. “I was just upset because I missed you so much.”

Debbie saw her reflection in the mirror of her dressing-table. She stuck her tongue out and crossed her eyes.

“I am sorry, Debbie, really.”

“Apology accepted,” said Debbie.

“So, can I take you out again? This weekend maybe?”

Debbie closed her eyes. “I can’t, Neil.”

“Where are you going?” His voice had hardened and she could sense they were heading for another row.

“I’ve just got a lot of work on, that’s all.”

“Okay, what about next week?”

“Can I get back to you?” she said.

“Aw, come on, Debbie. You said that last time. You said you’d call me and you never did.”

“Neil, the way I remember it, you slammed the phone down on me.”

“The time before that, I meant,” he said.

“Whenever. You can’t expect me to call you when you’re behaving so badly.”

“I said I was sorry,” Coleman said. “Look, Debbie, I love you. I really do.”

“That’s nice,” said Debbie. She rolled her eyes at her mirror.

“So why can’t I see you?”

Debbie sighed. “Maybe next week,” she said.

“Debbie, don’t you love me?” He said it in a plaintive whine that made her want to throw up.

“Neil, I hardly know you,” she said.

“You know me, Debbie. Jesus, have you forgotten what we did in your car?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten, Neil.”

“Well surely that must have meant something to you?”

“Apparently it means more to you than it does to me, Neil.”

“You sound like you’re mad at me,” he said.

“Not mad, just disappointed. I thought you’d be more mature, you being so much older than me.”

“I’m not that much older, it’s only ten years. Plenty of girls marry guys ten years older. It’s not much of a gap.”

“Neil, I don’t want to get married.”

“So why did you make love to me? Why did you do that if you didn’t love me?”

“Christ, I just wanted to have fun,” she hissed. “I’m twenty-three years old, sometimes I like to fuck, okay? I wanted to lay you, that’s all. Why can’t you accept that?”

“Have you made love to that Chink? Is that why you don’t want me?”

“Chink? You mean Anthony Chung?”

“You know who I mean. Tell me, I have a right to know. Have you made love to him? Have you?”

Debbie held her breath, wondering what to say. She knew there was only one way to get rid of Neil Coleman once and for all. “Yes I have,” she lied.

“You bitch!” Coleman yelled. “You fucking bitch!”

The line went dead. Debbie looked at herself in the mirror and brushed her long blonde hair behind her ears. She wondered why men behaved the way they did. She’d have been perfectly happy to have gone out with Coleman now and again, and she quite enjoyed having sex with him, but like most men he wanted more and more of her. She put the lion back on her pillow and stood up to check her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing black leather jeans and a white shirt, and she turned so that she could see her backside. She knew men liked her legs and her rear, features that she’d inherited from her mother. She looked at the mirror face on and stuck out her chest. Pity she hadn’t inherited her mother’s breasts, she thought ruefully. She really envied her mother’s figure. When they went shopping together Debbie saw the reaction her mother’s low-cut dresses had on men and she wished she could do the same. She went downstairs into the lounge where her parents were.

Anne Fielding was sitting by the fireplace, wearing a blue silk dress and holding a large gin and tonic in her hands. Debbie resisted the impulse to look at her watch, but she knew it was early. Her mother seemed to be hitting the gin bottle earlier and earlier these days. She wondered why her dad didn’t say anything to her. He was sitting on another sofa, a stack of bank papers by his side, polishing his spectacles. He signed a memo with a flourish and put it on one side.

“Are you going out?” Anne asked Debbie.

“Not tonight,” she replied. “I’d rather just read. And I’ve a couple of videos I want to watch.”

“Not going out with Anthony?” said Anne.

“He hasn’t called in a while,” said Debbie. “Do you think I should call him?”

“He seemed like a nice guy,” said Anne. “But it’s never a good idea to chase a man. Let him do the chasing.”

“That’s what your mother did with me,” said William Fielding, looking at Debbie over the top of his spectacles.

“Works every time,” said Anne. She tapped the side of her crystal tumbler with a red-painted fingernail.

“I was thinking, Dad. Would it be all right to invite Anthony to come to the races with us, on the last meeting of the season? He told me he was a big racing fan.”

“That’s this weekend,” said Anne. “It’s a bit short notice.”

“I know. I thought if it was okay with you I’d ask him. You said I could go and there’s plenty of room in the box.” The Kowloon and Canton Bank’s boxes at Happy Valley and Shatin were lavish affairs, ranking in prestige alongside those of the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank and Jardine Matheson, and invitations to the major meetings were eagerly sought after.

“I don’t see why not,” said William Fielding, “he seems a perfectly presentable young man. A big improvement on that policeman, anyway. Has he found my car yet?”

“I’m afraid not, Dad. So I can ask Anthony?”

“Yes. I thought I just said yes.”

Debbie went over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re not getting serious about this man, are you?” asked Anne.

Debbie shook her head. “You know me, Mum.”

“Yes, young lady, I do,” said Anne. She drained her glass and walked over to the drinks cabinet to fix herself another gin and tonic, her heels tapping on the floor.

Woo Bik-kuen held his bowl up to his lips and used his chopsticks to shovel roast pork and rice into his mouth, his eyes never leaving the television screen. He guffawed as the fat lady on the screen tried to squeeze into a lift full of Filipina maids, and rice grains sprayed out over the Formica table. His wife didn’t mind, she was laughing as heartily as him at the on-screen antics. They were both fans of the Cantonese comedy programme and never missed it. He reached for his bottle of San Miguel and took a mouthful, swilling it round to wash down the rice. He belched appreciatively and his wife pointedly leant over and switched up the volume.

The doorbell rang, but neither of them moved. Woo put the bowl back under his chin and shovelled in more food. His wife could cook only a limited number of dishes, but what she cooked, she cooked well, and Woo only liked simple fare anyway. Give him dim sum, or roast pork, or roast goose, or won ton soup, and he was happy; that and a little rice was all he needed after a hard day’s work. His job wasn’t demanding, but it was boring, and he looked forward to his evenings in front of the television set, especially when his three sons were out of the apartment. Their home was small, two bedrooms and a cramped lounge, and when everyone was home there was barely enough room to sit around the television. It was hot, too, even with their tiny electric fan on full power; it couldn’t cope with the humid night air and five sweating bodies.

The doorbell rang again, three impatient buzzes this time, and Woo glared across the table at his wife. He worked all day, she should be the one to answer the door while he was eating, he thought. She ignored his angry look and stared at the television, chuckling as she swallowed. The elevator doors had closed on the fat woman and the maids were complaining in sing-song pidgin English. The doorbell rang, one long continual buzz as if someone was leaning against it. It was clear that they wouldn’t stop until the door was opened.

Woo pushed back his chair and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Thirty-five years he’d been married, and the woman was as stubborn as the day he’d put his ring on her finger. She pretended not to see him walk to the front door and open it, but risked a sly look over her shoulder. She was curious to see who was calling so late in the evening, but not curious enough to spoil her viewing pleasure.

Two young men stood in the doorway, one a good-looking man in his forties in a dark blue suit and a red and white striped tie, a man who looked like a television presenter or a successful insurance salesman. The other was younger and more muscular, his leather bomber jacket straining across his broad shoulders. His hands swung easily at his side and he had an arrogant tilt to his chin. Woo had seen the pose many times among the rough young men who stood outside the off-course betting shops. It was the stance of a Red Pole, a triad fighting soldier. The man in the suit nodded at Woo and introduced himself as Mr Chan. He said he was a Grass Sandal for a triad gang, the name of which Woo was all too familiar with. He didn’t introduce his leather-jacketed companion.

“What business does the triad have with me?” asked Woo. “What have I done that they send along an illustrious messenger to my humble home?”

Mr Chan smiled. “We wish only to speak with you, Mr Woo. We seek a favour only you can grant.”

Woo felt suddenly sick. His wife was openly listening, her chopsticks poised halfway to her mouth. Triads did not request favours, they demanded them, no matter how flowery the language.

“I am just a working man,” said Woo. “I am a poor man; if it is money you want I can raise some, I am sure, but times are hard and …”

Mr Chan held up a hand to silence Woo. He was wearing a thick gold bracelet around his wrist and his nails were neatly clipped. “Mr Woo, we do not wish to take money from you. Indeed, fortune has smiled on you this day because the favour we will ask will result in riches for you and for your family. Riches the like of which you have never imagined in your wildest dreams.” His eyes hardened. “But they are not the sort of riches that should be discussed outside, in a corridor.”

The man in the leather jacket slowly clenched and unclenched his fists, his nostrils flaring like an angry bull.

“Of course, of course,” said Woo, stepping to the side. “Please excuse my impoliteness. Please come into my humble home.”

Woo’s wife was already clearing away their supper dishes and wiping the table top down with a greasy cloth. She pulled out three chairs and busied herself making a pot of
bo lay
tea for the visitors. She served the fragrant brew in small bowls and then scurried away into the sanctuary of the main bedroom, wanting to stay and listen but knowing that it was no place for a woman.

“Such fragrant tea,” said Mr Chan, sipping at his bowl.

“I wish I had something better to offer my illustrious guests,” said Woo, his head bowed.

“This is perfect, refreshing on such a hot night.”

“My humble home has no air-conditioning, and for that I apologise,” said Woo, getting to his feet and moving the fan so that the cool breeze blew across the visitors. The man in the leather jacket swallowed his tea in two mouthfuls, and tapped the table three times as Woo refilled his bowl, the traditional way of showing thanks without the effort of speaking.