‘Warn, hurt, cripple, kill,’ Mr Haw from Macao said. They were the choices to be voted on, ‘Blind, amputate, scar, castrate.’
‘Kill!’ Alice said through her swathes of linen.
Mr Boon thought about it. He sucked his hollow tooth in contemplation.
Francis John Vinehouse, aged fifty, was the Hong Bay taxman. He went into the bar Feiffer had gone into earlier in the day and sat down. A stripper was in the process of removing her bra from her breasts and he waited until, released, they bobbed up and down like two ripe melons to the bumping of the music from a scratched record on a player on the bar. Then he took out a little leather covered notebook and made an entry in it with his Parker pen.
Entertainment tax not paid
, he wrote in the notebook. He wrote the date and put the word
Entertainment
after it. He counted the audience of happy drinkers and wrote
Audience: 37.
He glanced at the stripper. She had blotches on her stomach and acne on her face.
Mr Vinehouse was a regulation man. If the tax regulations considered it entertainment, it was entertainment, and if Mr Vinehouse himself did not consider it entertainment and the regulations did Mr Vinehouse admitted his error. It was entertainment.
He underlined the word in his little leather covered notebook—
Entertainment
—and put the Parker pen back carefully into his shirt pocket.
‘Four fingers and one ear,’ Feiffer said. He put the reports down on his desk and lit a cigarette, ‘Our Mongolian friend runs a busy trade. Have we got any leads on him?’
O’Yee shook his head.
‘Nothing known? No previous?’
O’Yee shook his head.
‘An independent?’
O’Yee nodded.
Spencer glared at O’Yee. It was Spencer’s case, Spencer
thought. He said, ‘Alice said he was new.’
‘Christopher—’ Feiffer began. O’Yee yawned and grasped his heart. He said in great pain and discomfort, ‘Oh—!’
‘The old trouble again?’ Feiffer enquired pleasantly.
‘The old trouble,’ O’Yee said. He nodded bravely, ‘I’ve done my bit for the night.’
‘He’s pretending,’ Spencer said. He looked at O’Yee with contempt. ‘He’s just pretending so he can get out of doing anything about it. It’s my case anyway.’
‘Right!’ O’Yee said readily. He nodded encouragingly to Feiffer, ‘It’s his case. He got it all out of Alice.’
‘I did,’ Spencer said. ‘It was a very valuable interview.’
‘Keen as mustard,’ O’Yee said. He broke into what he thought was his
Destry Rides Again
voice, ‘Give the kid a break, Sheriff.’
‘Auden?’
‘I’ve got an accident report to type up, Boss,’ Auden said. He held the particular piece of paper above his head and screwed it quickly into his typewriter, ‘See?’
‘I’ve done my bit for the night too,’ Feiffer said, ‘I’m not going to stand out in Camphorwood Lane for the rest of the night dying for a pee in case some mad bastard with a kukri turns up.’
‘Quite right,’ O’Yee said. ‘You have to think of your wife and children.’
‘He hasn’t got any children,’ Spencer said irritably. He couldn’t understand it. It was typical: because Alice had a bad reputation everyone was against her. He said, ‘If you’re all so afraid why don’t you send little Minnie Oh to do your work for you?’
‘Good idea,’ O’Yee said. ‘That’s a very good idea.’
‘You stink!’ Spencer said, ‘Poor Alice Ping.’
‘Poor One-Eared Alice Ping,’ O’Yee said, ‘Poor Hot Time One-Eared Frank and Valuable Alice.’ He said, ‘I’ve done my bit for law and order.’
Feiffer decided.
‘We’ll leave it till the morning,’ Feiffer said. ‘The day shift can handle it. He won’t do anything else tonight. I think I’m right.’
He wasn’t. He was wrong. At that exact moment, the Mongolian was having a short but communicative discussion with Mr Edgar Tan of
Edgar Tan and Company, Jewellers,
two doors away from
Alice’s Goldsmith’s and Jewellery.
It was an extremely brief discussion.
The Mongolian said, ‘Money,’ and Mr Edgar Tan broke into laughter.
The Mongolian said, ‘Money,’ and drew his kukri and Mr Edgar Tan said, ‘Ha-ha!’
The Mongolian said, ‘Fingers,’ and Mr Tan danced away and said, ‘You in big trouble.’
‘Money!’ the Mongolian repeated. Mr Tan repeated, ‘Ha!’ The Mongolian ordered, ‘Hand!’
‘You in big trouble,’ Mr Tan said, ‘Wrong person to chop. Hanford Hill gang.’ He stood out of range and waggled his still intact index finger, ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong, Hanford Hill—wrong, wrong, wrong.’
‘Money!’ the Mongolian said. He kicked aside one of the counter display cases and faced the waggling finger. The finger disappeared behind its owner’s back. ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong,’ Mr Tan chided him, ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong.’
The Mongolian looked at Mr Tan. Mr Tan smiled happily. The Mongolian looked at his eleven-inch long kukri with a silver lion’s head pommel. ‘Wrong—ha!’ Mr Tan said. ‘Can do nothing—wrong, wrong, wrong.’
So the Mongolian killed him.
‘Hernando?’ Mr Boon asked.
Hernando Haw from Macao shook his head, ‘Cripple.’
‘No!’ Alice protested. Mr Boon ignored her.
‘Cripple,’ Mr Boon confirmed, ‘Cripple?’
‘Cripple,’ Mr Haw said. He threw his extinct cheroot butt
into the brass spittoon. Crushed Toes grinned lovingly at him. Crushed Toes was the official crippler.
‘Low?’ Mr Boon asked.
Low Fat considered it. He said, ‘I don’t know . . .’
Crushed Toes nodded encouragingly at him. Low Fat looked at Tinkerbell Lin Wong. ‘I don’t know what Miss Alice wants.’ He looked pointedly at Tinkerbell Lin Wong.
‘Kill!’ One-Eared Alice said, ‘Kill!’ She touched at her ear bandages gingerly, ‘Look what that bastard did to me!’
‘Hmm,’ Mr Boon said. He said kindly to Low, ‘Take your time; no one wants to make the wrong decision.’
Hernando Haw made a tiny bow of respect to Low Fat. He said, ‘It’s all right with me. I don’t mind.’ He explained with a little self critical motion of his chin: ‘I’m always a little over cautious.’
‘That’s very often a good trait to have,’ Low Fat said chivalrously, ‘you shouldn’t be embarrassed.’
‘Thank you,’ Hernando Haw said. ‘I call it subtlety.’
‘Quite right,’ Mr Low said. He caught Tinkerbell Lin Wong’s eyes looking at him, ‘Still, a man does have to be violent on occasion. A man has to have the thrusting fierceness of white steel.’
‘Hmm,’ Mr Boon said, ‘take your time.’
‘Look!’ Alice said suddenly. She tapped her bandages hard. It hurt. ‘Look at what he did to me!’
‘Poor old Alice,’ Spencer said. He fixed his attention on to the line in Chen’s statement form that said
Witness To Statement
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Rank
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Number
. . . . . . . . . and signed through a gauze curtain of hot tears. ‘Poor old Alice,’ he said bitterly.
‘Quite right,’ O’Yee said, ‘The day shift will be righteously diligent.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Spencer said. He was the newest member of the Station and he thought they were picking on him. ‘Oh, shut up,’ Spencer said. He thought he had been so forthright and
firm and policeman-ish at
Alice’s.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Spencer said again.
‘Who’s doing all the talking?’ O’Yee asked. He began to type out the circumstances of the African’s arrest and found that any way he put it made him sound like a cross between Dick Tracy and the Lone Ranger. He said, ‘Jesus, this is going to look good on my record, this one,’ and ignored Spencer’s barely audible rejoinder of ‘Oh, shut up.’
The barman came over to Francis John Vinehouse the tax-man as the fat stripper’s fat legs wobbled her off to the makeshift dressing room behind a curtain to put clothes on again so she could take them off.
‘Mr Lop,’ Mr Vinehouse greeted him.
‘Hullo,’ Mr Lop said. He sat down at the table unhappily, ‘More trouble?’
‘Not for me,’ Mr Vinehouse said. ‘For you.’
‘Your Cantonese is getting better,’ Mr Lop said morosely. ‘Do you want to talk in English?’
‘No,’ Mr Vinehouse said. There was an opened bottle of Tiger beer on the table in front of him. He slid it towards Mr Lop.
‘Aren’t you going to drink it?’ Mr Lop asked without interest. ‘You’re going to claim it on expenses so you might as well drink it.’
Mr Vinehouse shook his head. The Department did not encourage intemperance.
Mr Lop shrugged. He took up the bottle and drained it. He said, ‘Tell me the bad news.’
Mr Vinehouse touched at the glass beside the empty bottle. Glasses were to drink things out of. ‘Entertainment,’ Mr Vinehouse said.
Mr Lop turned the bottle upside down and watched the last drops of beer dribble out on to the table. He jerked his head to where the customers sat in hushed silence watching the silhouette of the stripper dressing behind the threadbare
curtain. ‘That?’ Mr Lop asked with distaste.
‘Entertainment,’ Mr Vinehouse said.
‘Do you think so?’
‘Your customers think so.’
Mr Lop sniffed. He owned a place like this, he worked in a place like this, he drew his sustenance and the food for his children’s mouths from a place like this, but that didn’t mean he had to be lacking in taste. ‘No,’ Mr Lop said.
‘Yes,’ Mr Vinehouse said, ‘and you haven’t paid your tax on it.’
‘Entertainment tax?’
‘You haven’t registered it, you haven’t advised the Department of it, you haven’t made a note of it in your interim statement, and you haven’t paid it.’
‘O.K.,’ Mr Lop said, ‘I’ll pay it.’
‘When?’
‘Well—’ Mr Lop said. He ran through a directory of possible dates, months and years in his mind. ‘Next.’
‘Next what?’
‘Next time.’
‘Now,’ Mr Vinehouse said. He noticed the stripper finish dressing so she could undress and the assistant barman cock the stylus arm on the plastic covered record player on the bar. ‘Now would be best,’ Mr Vinehouse said.
‘Hoh!’ Mr Lop said. He raised his arms and his eyes to Heaven at the suggestion, ‘If only that were possible—hoh!’ He shook his head as the unutterably sad truth about his finances and the health of his children and the temper of his wife and the infirmity of his aged parents swept over him under his mask of host and bon vivant to the world, ‘Hoh!’ Mr Lop said, ‘If only you knew—’
‘Arseholes,’ Mr Vinehouse said quietly. The music recommenced and the dancer brought her fat body out in front of the curtain.
‘Hoh!’ the barman said, a figure of abject tragedy and the aproned repository of the world’s woes, ‘Hoh!’
Mr Vinehouse waited.
Mr Low looked at Tinkerbell Lin Wong. He liked his people intact. He said to Mr Boon, ‘Whatever you decide.’
The phone rang on the wall near the bar.
Alice said, ‘Look at what he—’ but Mr Boon raised his hand to silence her and jerked his head at The Fourth Gangster to answer the telephone.
Edgar Tan’s assistant was named Tommy Lai and he was put out. One of the display counters had been smashed, rings, earrings, cufflinks and assorted items of value lay on the floor covered in blood, Mr Tan lay on the floor covered in blood, there was blood on Tommy Lai’s shoes and in his socks, the policeman knelt down by Mr Tan’s body with blood on the knees of his khaki trousers, there was blood on the walls, and the policeman wanted to use the telephone.
The policeman stood up from Mr Tan’s blood and said, ‘Hurry up with the phone.’
‘It’s ringing,’ Tommy Lai said, ‘I can’t make it go any faster.’
Constable Cho said, ‘This is murder, I want to use the phone.’ A herd of sightseers crowded at the open door and in front of the glass windows. Constable Cho said, ‘I’m going to clear the doorway and then I want the phone.’
At the other end of the line, the telephone stopped buzzing. ‘Hullo!’ Tommy said urgently.
‘Yeah?’
‘Tommy Lai.’
‘Who?’
‘Lai, Tommy,
Edgar
—’—maybe, he thought, he should have said ‘The late’—
‘Edgar Tan and Company, Jewellers.’
‘So what?’ the voice said.
‘Tommy
Lai.
They said at the house that I had to ring your number’—Constable Cho was moving the crowd away from the doorway and the window—‘Tell whoever’s there that it’s Tommy Lai.’
‘O.K.,’ the voice said. The voice said into an abyss, ‘Tommy Lai—’ and then put the phone down on a table or a chair.
‘Speak,’ another voice said.
Constable Cho came back into the blood shop. ‘Phone.’ He came forward to take it.
‘Speak quickly,’ the voice said.
Tommy spoke.
The stripper stripped, then went back behind the curtain to dress again.
‘Feiffer,’ the barman said.
‘What?’
‘Feiffer,’ Mr Lop said, ‘Inspector Feiffer sent you to get me.’
‘Who’s Inspector Feiffer?’
Mr Lop shook his head sadly. The world was a place of unending and bitter disappointments. ‘After all we did for him.’ He shook his head sadly, ‘What a comment on the European mind.’
‘Tax,’ Mr Vinehouse said, ‘We got the word from the Licensing Office that this area was going to be blitzed. We work all night at the tax office these days catching up with people like you.’ It was a thankless task.
‘Feiffer,’ Mr Lop said sadly. ‘After all we did. We saved his life, you know. There was a madman with a knife after him.’
‘I don’t know any Feiffer,’ Mr Vinehouse said. ‘Tax. Or I’ll have the police close the place down.’
‘Ah,’ Mr Lop said. They would too, led by Feiffer. ‘Ah,’ Mr Lop said. He went over to the bar and started the record player music so that he would not hear his pen scratching on the cheque.
‘Ah,’ Mr Lop said to his departing bank balance, ‘Ah . . .’
The stripper came out from behind the threadbare curtain, half dressed and cursing.
Mr Lop thought he would never help a cop again.
‘Mr Boon . . .’ Alice said entreatingly. She touched at her ear absence with lost love. She opened her hand to him in supplication, ‘Mr Boon . . .’ She leaned forward to crave his grace, ‘Mr Boon . . .’
Low Fat looked hungrily at Tinkerbell Lin Wong.
Mr Boon lit a cigarette and looked at the inanimate telephone on the wall.