I spent the week after Axewell departed settling at Hootens. It had been miserable. Every morning, the remoteness of the damn place obliged me to take a long, expensive cab ride or take the MTR to Tsuen Wan and walk twenty minutes in pissing rain. It had poured all week: black water flooded the streets and sidewalks; in the apartment moist patches that smelled of urine had soaked through the walls’ chipped paint. The only happy person in my life had been Samson, Card Wainright’s IT manager, who had gloated near my cubicle as I packed my boxes; he had always resented my presence in his fiefdom.

The morning after Axewell left Alicia came in before I arrived, moved her things to her new desk, and disappeared. She had not shown up the next day, nor the day after, nor the day after that. I had tried calling her mobile and home numbers but she screened her calls and I gave up. I also gave up my fantasy of a tryst with her on the photocopier room floor: I sensed she wouldn’t be too keen; besides, there were other things to worry about, particularly Imelda, who I’d been unable to reach since she hung up on me.

It also seemed as if Orson had jumped town. Dozens of calls to his mobile and home phones had availed me nothing, so over the weekend I sloshed through Wanchai visiting our old haunts only to have countless bar girls tell me he had vanished. Except for a trail of unpaid bar tabs (which they tried to make me to pay) it was as if he had never existed.

While I wondered about Imelda and Orson, the staff produced an endless stream of forms to sign and problems to solve. I tried fobbing them off, but they were intent on giving me more work then I gave them. Wasn’t the boss supposed to be the one sitting back and delegating? Already a pile of ignored, unsigned documents tottered in my plastic in-tray; I intended to throw them in the garbage before Axewell’s return.

I was thinking about heading back to Central for a half-day holiday when my mobile rang. "Jake Stratton," I answered.

"Jake, it’s Nigel."

Cockbottom never called me: it had to be something to do with Orson. "Mr. Cockbottom! How are you?"

"None too well, I’m afraid. None too well."

"What’s wrong?"

"Ah, Jake, I know this will be hard on you, with Orson being your mentor and all, but there’s some bad news I need to tell you."

"What happened?"

"Jake, a mentor is a fine thing…the guidance, the sense of shared purpose, the bridge of ideals between the old and the young, but it can’t last forever, I fear."

"What happened?"

"Your relationship with Orson, Jake, always reminded me of my relationship with my mentor, Colonel Salisbury, in Malaya. A good man he was…"

"Mr. Cockbottom, what happened to Orson?"

"Orson is dead."

"Dead! What happened?"

"It’s difficult for me to believe, but I understand he took his own life."

I felt a great sinking feeling. You’ll bloody pay for this you cunt Stratton! Orson’s last words rang in my head. At least it seemed he hadn’t spoken to Cockbottom about Axewell and the Audit Strike Team. Although the police were convinced it was a suicide, said Cockbottom, the circumstances of Orson’s death were strange. Police had discovered the body 2 days previously, on Sunday, after receiving and anonymous tip off from a woman calling from a payphone. They found him laying on his couch naked. There was no sign of a struggle, and the autopsy showed he’d downed a bottle of whisky – Bushmills 1812, if I knew Orson – and 50 valiums. Nonetheless, somebody had cleared out the apartment: Orson’s wallet, TV, hand phone and everything else of even the remotest value was gone. Probably one of his girlfriends had shown up, I thought, discovered him dead, cleared out the apartment, and only then called the cops.

"A great tragedy," said Cockbottom. "A great loss to the business community. Why on earth would he do such a thing at the pinnacle of his career, Stratton? And especially with the brilliant opportunity offered by this JV with Hootens."

"I’m too shocked to even speculate. Women trouble?"

Cockbottom sighed. "Ah, yes. That was likely it - all great men have their downfall. Both his wives are coming for the service tomorrow, by the way. I trust you’ll be there."

"Of course."

"I’ll have my secretary email you the details. Jake, I’m sorry."

"Yeah, I’m sorry too."

The line went dead.

I looked around and noticed that Fanny Ma, red folder in hand, was leaning on Judas’s cubicle. They looked away when they caught my glance, but I got the feeling they’d listened to my conversation. I’d noticed them together a great deal and it occurred to me they were dyke lovers. On Judas’s desk, in fact, was a picture of the two of them sitting astride a Harley. Both wore black leather in the picture (Fanny had a chain draped over her shoulder) and helmets like the ones the Germans wore in WWII, complete with the double lightning emblem of the Waffen SS.

I was contemplating this baleful duo, wondering whether Orson’s loss was a good or bad thing for me, when Kok Heng came over and seated his rat-like frame in my guest chair. "What is it? I’m pretty busy," I said.

"Ai yah, always say that, but never do anything," he tapped the stack in my in-box.

"I’m busy with other projects."

"If you’re so busy, maybe you need a DSM."

"A DSM?"

"Deputy sales manager, lah."

"That’s Alicia."

"Jake…Jake, my friend. Where is Alicia? She hasn’t been here for days. I tell you, man, she’s going to resign."

"How do you know that? Did you speak to her?"

"Jake…Jake, my friend, it’s obvious. I’ve worked at Hootens for years. I know how she thinks."

"Kok Heng, did you fucking speak to her?"

Kok Heng winced and pushed up his glasses. "No, but that’s not important, lah. What’s important is that you have a DSM you can rely on…a leader. You’re obviously too busy for all this," he tapped the stack again. "You need somebody with experience."

"Who? You?"

"Of course, lah. Who else?"

"All right, whatever, I’ll think about it. Is that it?"

It wasn’t. Kok Heng leaned in close over my desk, again laid his hand on the in-tray stack, and with an oath taker’s conviction said, "If you promote me to deputy, I can do all this work for you. And you can concentrate on…other projects." He leaned back, smiled, and straightened the knot of his tie, a cheap red job that looked as if came from a tourist shop.

The condescension with which he said other projects irritated me. "Let me think about it," I said.

He leaned even closer, his eyes bulged out like a goldfishes behind his glasses; a nerve or vein on the side of his neck pulsed under pimpled skin. "How much pay rise?" he said.

"Huh?"

"How much pay rise for DSM? In Singapore, DSMs make 50% more than I make now."

Keep them cheap, keep them low, Axewell said somewhere in my head. "I really can’t say right now. I’ll need to speak with Peter."

Kok Heng jerked his chin up a few times. "Why must you to talk to Peter? You are the manager, what."

He had a point, I was the manager. And it wasn’t as if I was planning to stay forever...

"Let me buy you a coffee," he said.

I nodded and rose, happy for the opportunity to warm up after sitting under the blasting air vent above my desk, and anyway I was still dazed from the news about Orson. We walked through the maze of departments: consulting, audit, economic research, etc. Eventually we got to the canteen, a low-ceilinged room lit by fluorescent lights packed tightly with tables and plastic chairs. Even though it was mid-afternoon the place was crowded. We ordered coffee at the service counter, a long steel warming table with holes for food containers. Sauce-covered meats and vegetables lay softy steaming and bubbling. Despite the variety of food I smelled nothing but the over-rich stench of MSG.

Seated at a table – I with a cup of watery instant coffee, Kok Heng with a cup of condensed milk and sugar – he began speaking again: "So, Jake, do you really need to speak to Peter? Why don’t we organize the promotion and pay rise just between the two of us. Come on, man. Be a manager. Do what is right for the team."

I liked the idea of him doing the paperwork, I disliked being pressured. His ambition bewildered me. Except for more money, what was the point of it? A private hospital room where one day he could die of cancer? A star on some obscure gravestone to show the future world he had worked hard? Whatever the point was, Kok Heng was more blinded by it than most; he sat with his mouth agape, twisted teeth ready to tear into whatever shred of opportunity I tossed him.

"Jake, my man, I don’t think you should talk to Peter, lah. Why don’t you promote me to acting DSM for one month? This will show you the wisdom of making me permanent DSM. If I’m accepted, then you can give me the pay rise as well as a bonus for the trial month. I won’t let you down and the rest of the team looks up to me."

He was going a bit far with the last bit. I’d noticed the team – Judas, Sharon & Sheena, and Simon – shunned Kok Heng. Just the day before, for example, they had all left for lunch together, but had ignored Kok Heng and I. Their dislike probably had something to do with Kok Heng’s being from Singapore. Unlike the staff, he didn’t speak a word of Cantonese, and they probably resented the litany of criticism he constantly directed there way: "In Singapore, it’s much cleaner and the people don’t spit;" or "The food in Singapore is better, cheaper, and doesn’t cause food poisoning;" or "In Singapore, I was top sales rep, but I have no sales here because the prospects are stupid and racist." etc.

"Let me think about it," I said. "Any sales in the pipeline?"

"Not really, you know how slow summer is. But I’ve got one on Thursday that you can come on."

"Yeah, I suppose I’ll come." Not that gave a rat’s ass, but it would be a good idea to keep up appearances before my departure, and I preferred being out of the office. "Where is it?"

"Tsim Sha Tsui East, with this Indian fellow."

"An Indian?"

"Yes," said Kok Heng, grinning and wrinkling his nose. "How do you know when an Indian woman is ready to have sex?"

I thought about it. "Shit, I don’t know."

Kok Heng, already laughing, replied: "The red dot on her forehead turns green."

As we laughed the phone rang in my pocket. I pulled it out: CallerID was blank, suggesting an overseas call. Imelda?

"I gotta take this…Jake Stratton, good afternoon."

"Jake, Peter here."

I regretted answering it. "Hey dude, how ya been?"

"What the bloody hell is going on in Hong Kong?"

"Lots, been really busy."

"Why haven’t you been sending the daily sales forecast?"

I’d totally forgotten. "Haven’t you been getting them?"

"No."

Kok Heng stared eagerly across the table, but if Axewell was going to ream me I wanted to take it in private.

"Hang on a sec, Peter," I returned the phone to my pocket. "All right, Kok Heng, thanks for the coffee. I’m going to take this outside."

I rose and set off through the cafeteria, the cubicles, and finally the freezing lobby to emerge at the front of the building. The whole way the phone’s tiny speaker vibrated against my leg. Outside, thankfully, there were no smokers. The rain had slowed to a drizzle; gray clouds hulked across the sky; brown water flooded the street.

I leaned against a pillar, took a breath, and held up the phone.

"Pick up the bloody phone!" Axewell was shouting. "Pick up the bloody…"

"Dude, chill," I said, holding the phone an inch from my ear.

"Bloody hell! I…"

"Peter, sorry…I wanted to get outside. What’s up?"

"Why the bloody hell haven’t you been sending the sales forecasts?"

"I’ve been sending them everyday. Maybe there’s a problem with my email. I’ll have the techie check…"

"There’s no bloody problem with email; you’ve neglected to send them. The staff has been sending them directly to me."

The sneaky fucks, I thought. "Really? Why would they do that?"

"Because from their comments you laze about doing nothing – when you bother to show up, that is. Judas says she watched you play solitaire for two hours yesterday."

"That’s bullshit." It had been more like thirty minutes. I recalled her moping back and forth in her bellbottoms. "I mean, c’mon Peter. I’ve been so busy getting acclimated that I…"

"Have you given your passport to human resources?"

"Yes." And I had: with the joint venture I needed a new work visa.

"Excellent, I suppose you’ve heard the news about your former colleague, Orson Crane."

"How do you know about that?"

"I have my ways, Stratton, I have my ways. His death is of concern, though, because it may delay our investigation into All Asia’s accounts. Fanny Ma was extremely annoyed at the timing of his decision. Most inconvenient indeed."

Judas and a blonde woman with large, spandex-sheathed hips came outside, looked at me scornfully, looked away, and lit cigarettes. I got as far away as possible. Unfortunately I couldn’t go out into the driveway because it was flooded and the rain had picked up.

"Anyway, Stratton, Fanny Ma will soon be getting some material for her red audit folder. Even with Mr. Crane’s inconvenient demise, the lawyers tell her we’ll have access to All Asia News Base within two or three weeks."

His attitude about Orson angered me; also, it had just dawned on me that my retirement fund’s major income stream had likely dried up for good. Grating my teeth, I changed the subject: "So the staff is sending emails behind my back?"

"Clearly, Stratton, they don’t trust you, and it’s clear you don’t listen to them. Why else would they send me emails? The only ones who haven’t sent me emails are Kok Heng and Alicia. Which reminds me, what objectives have you assigned her?"

"She disappeared right after you left. I haven’t seen her for days. I’ve tried calling…"

"Disappeared? What do you mean disappeared? She’s the best bloody one you’ve got! I warned you… I warned you about lording it over her. Why have you lorded it over her when I categorically warned you not to? Where is she?"

"I don’t know, she’s vanished. Kok Heng thinks she’s going to resign."

"I don’t give a stuff what Kok Heng thinks. This is a management issue and his opinion counts for nothing. Why are you discussing management issues with Kok Heng? Why?"

"Well, he brought it up. All of them can see Alica’s gone..."

"Listen! Let me be perfectly clear: you are not to discuss management issues with common staff. Do you understand?"

"Sure," I muttered.

Axewell was silent for a few moments. "I want you to hire this Dickie from All Asia News Base," he said finally.

Given Axewell’s loathing of All Asia News Base, this surprised me. Dickie and Carsolita had called me everyday since Orson’s disappearance: Dickie, with his family and apartment, was very worried; Carsolita, a pregnant Filipina without a work permit, was absolutely petrified. Just that morning she had called my mobile and cried for ten minutes. I’d eventually told her my battery was dying and turned my phone off.

"Remember," Axewell said. "Keep him cheap, keep him low."

"And what about Carsolita?"

"Is this the Filipina without a work visa?"

"Yes."

"I haven’t decided yet. Give me her telephone number."

"You’re going to call her?"

"Give me her number. If I’m suitably impressed by her, then perhaps we can make some accommodation."

Although I would regret it, I didn’t see what harm could come of it and I gave him the number. I visualized him hunched over, filling his diary with tight, Nazi-doctor script.

A Harley roared up in front of the portico. Astride it was Fanny Ma in her German helmet. Judas went over, opened the traveling container mounted on its back, and removed another German helmet and a rain smock. She put these on and they roared off.

"Okay," Axewell was saying. "There is something very important I need you to do."

Terrific. "What?"

"We need to cut the staff’s pay by ten percent – it’s in line with a ten percent pay cut across the entire joint venture."

"Are you kidding? They’ll go fucking apeshit."

"No they won’t, it’s standard policy. They’ve been through it before. I want you to announce it at the Monday sales meeting."

"No way, we can’t do this."

Axewell’s breath hissed in my ear. "It’s clear, Stratton, that you have a problem listening. Obviously you’ve ignored my instructions about keeping remuneration reasonable. You will announce a ten percent pay cut on Monday morning. It’s company policy, they’ll understand."

"This is a bad idea."

A crunching sound (a pen?) cut through the hiss of long distance. The smoking blonde had edged over to within earshot and cocked her ear towards me. I walked to the edge of the veranda, but the rain and wind were strong and I had to move back closer too her. Acrid, pungent smoke constricted my nostrils.

"The JV must strive to be profitable, Stratton. Profitable and efficient. The pay cut may be difficult for them to neck down, but don’t worry, you have my full backing. I take complete responsibility."

"Do you?"

"Of course, you have my word on it."

It wasn’t a good idea, but what difference did it make? I was gone once United American came through. Hell, it would be fun to cut the bastards’ pay – I didn’t like a single one of them. "Okay, I said, "so you’ve actually cut pay like this before?"

"Of course, it’s standard procedure at most companies. Didn’t they cover profits at Ebbers?"

"Of course they did."

Axewell laughed: a dry, hollow, humorless sound.

The smoking woman had edged closer. I stared directly at her. Sensing it, she ventured a glance, was startled by eye contact, and walked around behind a pillar. The smoke still found me; though I’d used my inhaler only an hour before, my lungs tightened.

"How is the team progressing with Card Wainright dot com?" Peter asked.

"Pretty good, I guess, but it’s kind of difficult without internet on the desktops. They don’t like using the internet stations; there’s always somebody else sitting there, and the connection is slow. The IT guys won’t let us have Internet on the desktop because of security. They say they need approval from you."

"Preposterous, Stratton. Why must I repeat everything? Being a manager is about being an entrepreneur and listening… listening… I’ll be there in two weeks. If I’m not satisfied with the staff’s knowledge of Card Wainright dot com, I shall come down on your hard - hard. Do you understand?"

"But..."

"Don’t make excuses. I’ll be there in two weeks, and I’m bloody annoyed about you’re high-handed treatment of Alicia. This conversation has been an opportunity cost for me, not to mention the emails your staff feels more comfortable sending me than you. Do not call me unless you have progress to report. If Fanny Ma needs your help - I insist you give it. And I want sales forecasts daily." He hung up.

I lowered the phone slowly and looked out at the eighteen wheelers throwing up sheets of brown water beyond the driveway. Above, the flags had been replaced with steel rectangles with the red, white, and black Hootens logo; when the wind caught them they swung rigidly back and forth, creaking metallically. And beneath them, directly in front of the portico, floated a dead, water-logged calico cat.

Bristling at the staff’s betrayal (what had I done but leave them alone?), I marched through the lobby and through the cubicles to the joint venture area. Simon ignored me; he was too busy reading a Chinese newspaper, and Sharon and Sheena both continued playing computer solitaire. The techie was the only one who seemed to be working, but it was hard to tell: he was immersed in the guts of an open computer; for all I know of such things he could have been having fun. Kok Heng, however, stared intently at me. As I drew near he rose from his seat.

"Was that Peter?" He asked.

"Let’s have a chat," I brushed by him.

I sat down at my desk and Kok Heng sat opposite.

"Yes, boss, what did Peter have to say?"

"Fuck that cunt."

"Wah? What happened? Did you have an argument?" He leaned forward eagerly. I noticed bits of meat trapped in his teeth. He must have eaten while I’d spoken to Peter.

"Listen Kok Heng, I’ve got a problem…we’ve got a problem."

"What problem? I fix it. Anything you say, boss."

"Okay. I’ve thought about your proposal and..."

"You promote me to DSM!"

"I think this idea of a trial period is pretty good."

"One month trial with special bonus? Pay rise after one month?"

"Well, not exactly." I considered how long United American would take to close. "It will be more like two months."

"Ai yah! So long. How much pay rise?"

"Well, don’t tell anybody, but Peter wants me to announce a ten percent pay cut Monday morning."

Visibly shocked, Kok Heng leaned back. "Ten percent?" He gasped. "Ten percent?"

"Yeah, ten percent. Keep it down." Beyond him, Simon looked briefly from his paper. I could tell he was struggling to hear us.

"Ten percent?" Kok Heng repeated. "No way man. For me too?"

"Yeah, you too, but don’t worry, if you pass your deputy trial period…you’ll end up with a lot more money."

"Ah! Get pay rise. How much?"

"Let me put it this way, if we save ten percent on you plus the techie, Sharon & Sheena, Judas, Alicia, and Simon, we’ll be saving a good bit of cash? Right?"

He nodded.

"Well, this is the way it works: if you pass your two month trial, you’ll get all the money we’ve saved from cutting everyone’s pay. And then, when you’re confirmed as permanent deputy, you’re monthly paycheck will include the ten percent saved from everyone else. I know how much they all make; you’ll probably double your take home pay."

Kok Heng gaped, and then he smiled.

"This is a big step in your career, Kok Heng, a big step. We can announce your promotion on Monday when we announce the pay cut. Afterwards, you can come back and deal with all this shit." I motioned towards the overflowing in-tray.

His hand shot up and hovered over the desk; I raised mine more slowly. When it was within range, he seized it and shook it vehemently.

"You can count on me boss! I’m your right hand man!"

I smiled back, relishing the misery he would impose on the treacherous staff while I lay back and waited for $250,000 from United American. Long before his trial was over, I’d be long gone.

"It’s gonna be great Kok Heng," I said.

He grinned and released my hand. "You can count on me, boss!"

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