The day of Orson’s funeral was a nightmare. Hungover, I’d arrived at the grim, gray Methodist Chapel on Queen’s Road East well after the service started. The septuagenarian pastor, a fierce man with glinting black eyes, fell silent in mid-speech - he had been lauding Orson’s "abstemious existence" and "spiritual fortitude" - and watched me angrily until I located a seat, which unfortunately was near the front given the mob of Filipina hookers that had turned up. I found myself beside Lavender Cockbottom, an emaciated old crow of a woman with dyed red hair, who pursed her thin lips in disapproval. Five minutes later, she waved her hymn book furiously when I loosed a noxious curry fart.

Before the entourage embarked for the crematorium, Orson’s ex-hooker Filipina wife and ex-hooker Thai wife had, despite Cockbottom’s best efforts, somehow learned about each other. This resulted in a murderous shouting row that left the Thai wife slumped in tears in a rear pew. Before storming off, the Filipina wife spat into Orson’s open coffin.

"Pity when these things happen," said Cockbottom, frowning down at the Thai wife. "Damn tragic."

"I always thought he was an abominable little man," said Lavender, shoving her chin toward the front of the chapel. "Maybe if he’d had a good British woman to bring him to heel, things wouldn’t have turned out this way. At least you turned out all right, Cockles."

"Damn tragic," Cockbottom muttered. "Damn tragic."

Neither wife came to the cremation. I would have skipped it too - preferring instead to nip off for a massage and a drink before the wake - but Dickie and Carsolita cornered me in the lobby and insisted we go together. It was raining hard and hailing a cab proved difficult. Presently, though, one came along and I found myself in the back with the two of them. Up front rode Autumn, one of the late Mr. Crane’s preferred hookers. I wondered if she were the one who had cleaned out his apartment before calling the police.

"Will Hootens hire us?" said Dickie as we pulled into the traffic.

"Jake, I very worried!" said Carsolita. "I have no work permit!"

"I have a family to support and an apartment to pay for," said Dickie. "It’s very important…"

"My relatives in Manila rely on my income!" said Carsolita. "And you know about…my other problem..."

Indeed I did, but she sure wasn’t showing: she looked very hot in her tight black mini-skirt and halter top; if anything, though, her tits seemed bigger. "Nice outfit," I said to her.

"I would have worn something longer but I don’t have any money."

"Well, no worries. I’ve convinced my new boss to hire Dickie – you owe me one, dude – and I think he’s also keen on you, Carsolita."

Carsolita grabbed my arm and started kissing my cheek. "Thank you, Jake! Thank you!"

Dickie was grinning too. "What are the terms and conditions?" he said.

I’d given that no thought whatsoever – Keep them cheap, keep them low, said Axewell in my head. "Well, we’ll… don’t you guys think it’s a bit disrespectful to talk about this on the way to a cremation?"

Dickie frowned. "Can we meet tomorrow afternoon?"

"Sure, I have a meeting in Tsim Sha Tsui…"

"Orson was a very bad man," snapped Carsolita. "I hope he goes to hell – did you see his wife spit in the coffin? I would like to spit too."

At this Autumn twisted around and began shouting in tagalog and Carsolita began shouting back. I spent a minute or so vainly trying to shut them up, and only by yelling "Shut The Fuck Up!" three times did I succeed. After this nobody was in the mood for conversation.

Eventually everyone – the Cockbottoms, Dickie & Carsolita, the hookers, and some of Orson’s old Brit friends - was gathered around the sealed coffin, which lay before the furnace’s steel door. While the pastor droned on about "the indelible mark of inspiration Orson has engraved on our hearts" and other such nonsense, I decided that Orson’s death, however tragic and so forth, was probably to my benefit. First, it would, owing to legal reasons, delay the Hootens Audit Strike Team’s entry into All Asia News Base (where there would be reams of evidence against me) and give me time to collect the US$250,000 from United American – Corbin was due to return from Canada in a few days. Second, Orson would never now be tempted to rat me out: as an official representative of Card Wainright, I was the chief enabler of our embezzlement; a paranoid fantasy that Orson would cut a deal with Axewell had nagged me until I’d learned of Orson’s demise.

Lost in such thoughts, I didn’t realize my phone was ringing until I noticed that the pastor had stopped talking and everyone was glaring at me. I dared not switch it off for fear it might be Imelda, and instead slipped out into the lobby. "My mother’s very ill," I said to the group.

"Jake Stratton."

"It’s me."

Imelda. Finally. "Hey, baby," I said. "How’s Australia?"

She sighed. "I’m back in Manila."

"I thought you were going for two weeks. I’ll come down this weekend. The shit’s really hit the fan up here and…"

"I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jake."

Something about her tone made me pause. "Then how about the following weekend? I’ll…"

"No. Please…"

"Imelda, what The Fuck’s going on with you?"

She was quiet for a moment, and then started sobbing.

"Imelda, what’s wrong? All right, I’m flying down tonight. I’ll catch the nine o’clock Cathay flight."

"Don’t come," she sobbed. "Don’t come!"

Suddenly she put her hand over the microphone and I could hear nothing. I got the feeling she was talking to somebody. When she came back she had stopped crying. "I don’t think you should come down," she said. "We need to…"

"Imelda! What the fuck’s gotten into you? It’s that fucking guy, isn’t it? It’s that bastard from the airport…and what about my money?"

"That’s all you ever cared about, isn’t it? The money."

"Imelda! It’s our money. We’re going to share it, remember?"

She started sobbing again. "Jake, I’m so sorry."

She whispered to somebody in the background, but I couldn’t make out the words. Then she hung up. Only the astonished looks I got from a group of cremation-goers nearby kept me from smashing the phone on the marble floor. I tried calling her back, but her phone was off. A second and third time, same thing. I was about lurch out of the building when Orson’s funeral party emerged; suddenly I was hemmed in by wailing hookers.

"Stratton!" said Cockbottom, shouldering up to me. "I can’t believe the disrespect you showed in there…my, you look a right mess. What in Heaven’s name is wrong with you?"

"My…mother," I stammered. "She’s very sick. I just got the news, Mr. Cockbottom."

"This is a damn pity. First the loss of your mentor, and now this terrible news about your mother; indeed, the second tragedy likely compounded by the first."

"What’s wrong with your mother?" said Lavender.

"Uh…cerebral palsy."

"Cerebral Palsy? How can that be? Cerebral palsy only afflicts children."

"That’s what they told me."

"But that’s impossible. When I did volunteer work…"

"Look, that’s what she has, all right? I’m not a doctor and I don’t know all the details."

Lavender frowned but said nothing more.

"I’ve got to go," I said. "I need some time alone."

"Aren’t you coming to the wake?" said Cockbottom. "I’ve laid on a curry and drinks at the Old China Hand. I think all of use could use a stiff drink, particularly you, Stratton. Damn tragic about your mother getting cerebral palsy. This must be one of the first cases on record of an adult getting it."

I wondered why I hadn’t just said cancer – everybody gets cancer. "Maybe I’ll come later, but look, I’ve got to go."

I said goodbye and went out to the cab queue. There were plenty of cabs, thankfully, but after I got in one a rat-like hand grabbed the door, preventing me from pulling it to. "What the fuck?" I said.

Dickie, teeth jutting, shoved his head through the door. "Tomorrow afternoon, okay? Terms and conditions."

"Yeah, of course."

He pushed the door shut and I ordered the driver to make for Hootens as fast as possible: I needed to get my passport from human resources, which was renewing my work permit, before heading to the airport. Since the crematorium was in Diamond Hill on Hong Kong island, I was in for a long ride.

As we pulled into the eastern harbor tunnel I tried calling Imelda again – no answer. So I left a voicemail: I apologized for getting angry, and told her I was on my way. It occurred to me that if I failed to get through to her I wasn’t sure how to find her in the endless sprawl of Manila; on all my previous visits she’d booked a room in a hotel and met me there. I’d never been to her home for she lived with her parents, and said they would disapprove of our relationship. I’d go anyway. Somehow I’d find her and get to the bottom of everything.

After a long ride in the rain we arrived at Hootens. I told the driver to let the meter run and to wait for me. I marched through the frigid lobby and straight to human resources, a patch of cubicles tucked away in a first floor corner. "I need my passport, immediately," said I to the dumpy receptionist. "I’m Jake Stratton from the joint venture."

She grunted and shambled off. After five minutes, by which time I was seething with impatience, she returned with a frowning gweilo in tow – a short, barrel-chested cunt with a blonde moustache.

"Are you Jake Stratton?" he said.

"Yes, I needed my passport, like, ten minutes ago. I’m late for a flight, where is it?"

"I’m afraid we don’t have it."

"What do you mean you don’t fucking have it? Hasn’t my work visa been changed?"

"We won’t tolerate such language here."

"I’ve been waiting ten fucking minutes. Where is it?"

"There’s no need to be so…"

"Okay, pretty please with sugar on top: where’s the fucking passport?"

His eyes widened at this, but I’d taken a step toward him – I’ve never had a problem menacing smaller people – and he thought better about giving anymore lip. Also, he seemed conscious that a number of people had stopped what they were doing and were watching. "It’s with Fanny Ma," he said.

"What the fuck is she doing with it?"

"Something to do with an audit she’s working on, I expect. Come, Dora, we don’t have to put up with this." The two of them walked off.

I raced up to accounting on the second floor and found Fanny’s cubicle. Her desk was clean except for a few model Harleys, and her chair was tucked in under the desk. I pulled angrily at some of the drawers, but they were locked.

"What you want?" said an alarmed secretary behind me.

"Where’s Fanny Ma? She has my fucking passport."

"Just leave for lunch. Maybe in car park."

I bolted to the elevator and rode down to the underground car park. My luck was in, for I heard the one-stroke roar of a Harley as the doors opened, and since the lift bank was near the ramp I managed to run out and block the exit. No sooner had a I gotten there then she came around the far corner and sped toward me. I waved frantically for her to stop, but on she came, only breaking about 20 feet away, forcing me to jump aside as she skidded to a halt. "Fucking hell!" I shouted. "You almost hit me!"

Fanny didn’t reply. Frowning, she pulled her goggles up over her World War 2 SS helmet, the one she wore in the picture on Judas’s desk. Over her suit, she wore a clear plastic rain smock against the rain.

"What you want?" she said.

"I need my passport."

"Sorry, we need for All Asia investigation."

"I don’t care what you need it for. Where’s my fucking passport?"

Turning, she patted the plastic carrying case on the back of the bike.

"In here. I take it to Hootens safety deposit box. You don’t need to worry about it."

"But I need it for a trip."

"Talk to Peter," she said, pulling her goggles down.

"Listen, you…"

She gunned the bike and roared up the ramp. I chased her a few yards up it into the rain, but she was gone. Cursing and soaked I ran back down to the garage. I called Axewell’s mobile.

"Peter Axewell," he answered.

"Tell that dyke Fanny to give me my fucking passport."

After a pause, he said: "Foul language will get you nowhere. We can’t have you leaving the country while the investigation is underway – unless there’s a true emergency, that is."

"But it’s illegal to keep my passport like this, I…"

"Illegal? Illegal you say? I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Fanny’s checked with the lawyers, and I can assure you we’re well within our legal rights. And don’t think of getting a new passport, as we’ve informed the immigration department about the situation."

"But my mother has cancer."

"That’s not my problem, Stratton. We may be able to make some accommodation if you get, say, two letters from doctors vouching for your mother’s condition, but otherwise you’ll need to remain in Hong Kong until the investigation is complete."

"But how long…"

"It may take longer owing to your erstwhile colleague’s suicide, but something else has come to my attention about your activities – something very interesting indeed."

"Now what?"

"Your expenses. What on earth were you doing two weeks ago spending four thousand three hundred dollars for lunch at the Grand Hyatt? And then, a few days later, paying eight thousand dollars to some nameless company for, what is it, professional services rendered? What bloody professional services? You can’t possibly expect to be reimbursed for all this."

"But those were business expenses."

"Oh really? Janie Chandler in Chicago has dug up your business expenses for the last two years, and was amazed by what she discovered; it appears your entertainment expenses far out strip your revenue. How do you account for this? Well?"

I leaned back against a wall and massaged my temples with my left hand.

Axewell chuckled and continued: "It seems Fanny Ma’s red folder will be very thick by the time Kit Matthews visits. I’d hate to be in your shoes. You dig your own hole, as they say."

"Are you suggesting I’ve cheated on my expenses?" I said.

"For once you appear to be listening, and that’s a big problem with you, listening. You spent exactly fifty two thousand three hundred American dollars in expenses over the last year – and a good number of your receipts mention no company, but only say "professional services rendered." What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean? And also you’ve expensed fifteen bloody massages to the company – massages!"

"Clients love massages."

"I’ll bet they do, especially when Card bloody Wainright pays. In any case, I forbid you from submitting anymore claims. The way it looks you owe a ton of money, Stratton - and not to mention all the money you and that so-called distributor likely embezzled."

"I haven’t embezzled a fucking thing! And entertaining clients is expensive here."

Axewell laughed.

I almost started raging at him, but then I thought about Imelda, and our conversation, and I suddenly felt weak, as if all the blood had drained from me. "Peter," I whispered. "Please give me the passport. My mother’s really sick."

"I’d be happy to return your passport provided you give us ample documentation as to your mother’s condition. Until then, you’re to continue with your duties – I’d gladly relieve you, but bloody Kit Matthews still thinks you’re innocent because of that Ebbers MBA of yours. Like all Americans, he places credentials above integrity."

"But…"

"But what? I’d like to point out that this conversation has been an opportunity cost for me, and I’m late for a meeting. Good bye."

"But…"

He hung up. For the second time that day I nearly smashed my phone to the ground. Instead I tried calling Imelda, but yet again her phone was off. I stood leaning against the wall for quite sometime, hardly aware of the cars passing by.

Eventually I stirred myself and went back to the lobby – I couldn’t possibly face my staff – where I found my cab driver, very anxious, still waiting. The meter had run up to over HK$400. I had him take me to The Excelsior Hotel in Causeway Bay, where I asked him to wait once again. In the lobby I went directly to the rear entrance and exited into the swirling crowds. I trudged through the rain to the Old China Hand in Wanchai, where I got horribly drunk at Orson’s wake. I remembered nothing of the evening the next day, but the call records on my phone showed I tried to call Imelda dozens of times, and, it seems, never once got through.

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