The Red Pole of Macau

( 14 )

They ate in a Portuguese restaurant almost directly across the street from the one-hour shop. Ava had dropped off the camera’s memory card, offering to pay double if she could get two sets of prints in half an hour. Now she waited, in no mood for chit-chat and her appetite not functioning at its usual level. She picked at the bacalao, took a couple of bites of African chicken, and chewed a couple of slices of bread.

The boys made up for her lack of hunger. Carlo worked as a bookie during the Hong Kong racing season, and Andy loved to play the horses. As they ate, they dissected jockeys, trainers, and the relative merits of post positions at Happy Valley and Sha Tin racetracks. In Hong Kong, horse racing was a national sport. The season lasted only six months, with races on Wednesdays and Sundays, alternating between the two tracks, but when the season was in swing, it was all some people cared about. Every newspaper, every day, was filled with racing news. The television stations covered both the racing and the training sessions.

They worked through a whole loaf of bread and two servings of salted cod and demolished the chicken. She had always admired their ability to remain focused on the moment, whether it involved horse racing, food, or covering her back. They were arguing about whether the South African Douglas Whyte or the Australian Brett Prebble was going to be jockey of the year, at the same time dipping bread from a second loaf into the chicken sauce, when Ava checked her watch and saw that half an hour was up.

“I’ll be back,” she said.

The clerk saw her coming through the door, gave her a broad smile, and pointed to the envelope on the counter. “They were done ten minutes ago. I should get a bonus,” he said.

She opened it. The photos were good, not great, but the faces were distinct enough. “How much do I owe you?”

“At the double rate, three hundred.”

Ava paid him and went back across the street to the restaurant. Carlo and Andy had finished lunch and were smoking. She collected the bill from the table, settled it with the cashier, and then said to the boys, “Outside. I can’t breathe in here.”

She pulled the photos from the envelope and passed a set to Andy. “Not too bad from that distance,” he said.

“These are of the three women I saw leaving in the Nissan. Two of them look Russian. I’m sure all three are hookers.”

“Home delivery service,” Carlo said.

“Whatever. The thing is, I need you to find at least one of them.”

“And then what?”

“I want to talk to her.”

“How will we arrange that?”

“I’ll come to her or you can bring her to me, it doesn’t matter.”

Carlo frowned.

“What is it?” she asked.

“These girls normally aren’t very talkative.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whichever one I find first, if I tell her that you just want to talk to her —”

“I’ll pay.”

“She’ll get suspicious as hell, pay or not.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’ll just say I want a good f*ck and that a friend recommended her to me.” He looked across the street. “Take a room at the Kingsway and then phone me with the number. I’ll take the girl there. Once she’s in the room you can handle her.”

Ava nodded. “You seem sure you can find one.”

“If they’re in Macau, I’ll find at least one.”

“He knows every mama-san over here,” Andy said. “And there isn’t a whore who operates without one.”

“If I have a choice, I’d prefer the Chinese one.”

“Okay, I’ll target her first.”

“Take Andy with you. I’ll call you with the room number as soon as I have it. Now, do you need any money?”

Carlo looked offended. “Hey, I won’t have to pay up front.”

Ava went to the car and retrieved Andy’s carryall, then climbed the ramp to the hotel entrance. The Kingsway was a three-star hotel, part of Stanley Ho’s empire. It wasn’t so fancy that a hooker going through the lobby would be bothered. Ava didn’t think of that until she stood inside the hotel entrance, and wondered if that’s why Carlo had suggested it.

She asked for a room on the eighth floor, wanting all the luck she could get. To her surprise one was available, a corner suite. She took it. Calling it a suite was a stretch. There was a sitting room and a separate bedroom, but they were small and, even though sparsely furnished, looked cramped. It was furnished in rattan: a couch and two easy chairs with floral cushions in the sitting room and a double bed and three-drawer dresser. The floors were covered in a pale green carpet that felt and smelled new. Ava walked to the window and looked out. The hotel was in old Macau, near the Porto Exterior, and from her window she had a great view of the old town and the new development around the port. She called Carlo. “The Kingsway, room 808,” she said.

“I’ll phone when I’m on the way.”

She pulled the cover off the bed and fell onto the clean sheets. She thought about napping, and then Amanda popped into her head. Where was that girl?

She tried her cell again and this time Amanda answered. “Ava, I’m just leaving the construction company office and it’s very noisy around here. I’ll call you back in a minute.”

The minute turned into two, and then five. Ava was just beginning to worry when Amanda’s name popped up on her phone screen. “Sorry, he wouldn’t let me go,” Amanda said. “He’s spent the past half hour trying to convince me to build another kind of house, and the hour before he drove me all over Macau looking at examples of his work.”

“Congratulations — I assume you have the plans.”

“Plans? I have plans for four different houses. He made me take all of them to show to my husband.”

“Good girl. Any problems?”

“I had to spend a hundred dollars at the registry office.”

“Other than that?”

“No. It amazes me; I’ve spent my whole life being truthful, and I had no idea that people could accept me for something other than who I am.”

“Look, we’ll talk when we meet,” Ava said. “I’ve taken a room at the Kingsway Hotel, room 808. It’s on Rua de Luís Gonzaga Gomes, in old Macau, near the port. Come on over.”

“I’m getting in a taxi right now.”

Ava lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. They had floor plans, but to what purpose? She thought about the house and inwardly groaned. The only thing the least bit encouraging was its isolation — no neighbours within sight or hopefully within hearing distance. Other than that, it was a son of bitch, a complete son of a bitch.

She dozed, waking with a start at the rapping on the door. She blinked, not sure where she was.

“Ava, it’s Amanda.”

Ava got up and opened the door. Amanda stood there, a cardboard tube stuck under her arm, construction dust in her hair and coating her shoes. “Here — the fruits of my lies and a hundred dollars,” she said.

“Money well spent and lies well told,” Ava said.

“Thanks, I think.”

“You need to wash,” Ava said, reaching for the tube.

“I know, and I’m parched and hungry.”

“Those things are easy to fix.”

Amanda walked past Ava. “Why did you take a room here?”

“We’re waiting for a hooker.”