Knocking aside peoples’ umbrellas, I splashed down Granville Road heading for Tsim Sha Tsui East. The umbrellas and the water dripping from above had doused my shoulders and head. When I arrived at the prospect’s building, a square monstrosity of gold-tinted glass, I was thirty-five minutes late and in foul spirits. Even more aggravating, there was no sign of Kok Heng.

I was, of course, partially responsible for his lateness. The original plan had called for us to meet at Hootens and travel together to the meeting, but after getting so beastly drunk at Orson’s wake the night before, I’d slept in until 2PM, when, thirty minutes before the meeting, I’d called Kok Heng and told him I’d meet him at the prospect’s office. During this short discussion he was irritated and curt before smashing the phone down. When I turned my mobile on, hoping to find a message from Imelda, I discovered he’d been calling all morning and his tone had grown sharper and sharper in the progressive voicemails.

The building had no cover outside, so to escape the rain I waited dripping in the lobby, where the air-conditioning blasted at full power. The rushed walk from the MTR had started my asthma up, but when I reached into my pocket I couldn’t find my inhaler. I searched the other pocket and then my trousers. I’d probably left it in the apartment during the rush to leave. Fear tightened my lungs; I reminded myself that I would be home in hours. Perhaps it was for the better: I’d been using the damn thing too much, so much that only minutes after using it asthma would begin burning in my lungs again. However torturous, an inhaler break might be a good idea.

Red faced and furious, Kok Heng came in shaking his umbrella: "Why you take so long to call me? Ah?"

His tone rocked me. Wasn’t I the boss? Who was he to hoist attitude on me? "Fuck off," I said.

"Fourteenth floor," he turned and walked to the lift bank.

After a ride in a crowded elevator we arrived upstairs and proceeded to a small office lobby. Kok Heng told the receptionist we were there to see a certain Mr. Chellarham. I sat down on the only couch. We were 45 minutes late.

Kok Heng joined me. "I do the talking," he said.

"What’s with you? Relax."

"If we lose this sale it’s not my fault." He wiped his glasses with the end of his red tourist tie. "This is my only prospect all week."

"You’d have more prospects if you did more cold calling."

"No prospects in Hong Kong during summer."

It sounded like an excuse I would use. I was gauging my reply when a young Chinese man walked through the door behind the receptionist. His face was clean and fresh, his hair thick and wavy, slightly tousled. He wore business slacks, a white shirt with no tie (despite the heat and rain, Kok Heng and I wore jackets) and, annoyingly, a pair of battered sneakers. He could not have been more than nineteen, and he glanced nervously between us as he approached across the small space.

"Hootens?" he asked Kok Heng, flicking his eyes uncertainly at me.

"Are you Mister Chellarham?" said Kok Heng.

The young man laughed uneasily.

"Are you Mr. Chellarham?"

"No, no, sorry...Mr. Chellarham my big boss. Me IT intern. Mr. Chellarham very busy. I meet you."

Terrific. Profoundly hungover, I’d gotten out of bed, showered, shaved, staggered through the rain to the MTR, struggled with crowds, fought through umbrellas, and suffered a minor asthma attack just to meet a fucking intern.

"We have a meeting with Mr. Chellarham," said Kok Heng. Neither of us had risen. Over the top of her counter, the middle-aged receptionist peered at us with disapproval. The intern shot her a quick look as if for encouragement, looked back at us, cleared his throat, and said, "You’re late, he want me to meet you."

Kok Heng’s cheeks tinged brighter red and the spot on his neck pulsed. He stood slowly, "Take us to your computer."

The intern stepped back, again looked warily at me, and then walked off with Kok Heng on his heels. I followed; the receptionist gave me a funny look as I passed. Could she hear my struggling breath?

He led us to a small, windowless conference room that appeared to be his work area: papers and colorful Japanese action figures covered the small round table; in the middle of it all flickered a small monitor. The room was cold and very cramped, but we somehow managed to get seated. I resolved to enjoy the meeting: it was likely be one of my last before retirement – I’d decided that I may as well keep up appearances until United American came through. Once that happened, I’d leave Hong Kong one way or the other, even if I had to pay off a yachtsman to smuggle me out.

As befitted an intern, his computer was clearly the oldest piece of shit in the company: connecting to the Internet took several minutes, and when we did finally get on-line it took forever to upload the Hootens.com Homepage. We sat silently while we waited: Kok-Heng was angry; the intern was uncomfortable; I was struggling to breathe.

When the site was up, Kok Heng paused and said: "Can you get Mr. Chellarham now?"

The intern blinked at him, blinked at me, blinked at the black Hootens cross on the screen, and blinked again at Kok Heng, whose hand was poised on the mouse. "He busy, you show me," said the intern.

"Five minutes only," Kok Heng lifted his hand from the mouse. "We came all this way to see him; it’s very important for him to see power of Hootens dot com. Come on lah, go check."

"He busy."

"He’ll want to see."

The intern shook his head, but nevertheless rose and squeezed out of the tiny room.

"I only deal with decision makers," said Kok Heng.

I nodded, talking wasted breath.

"That idiot Simon will deal with anybody," he continued. " Even receptionists. But not me, man, I get the deals. No way for me to deal with interns. I’m a businessman!"

I searched my pockets again, hoping I had somehow missed my inhaler earlier - I hadn’t.

"These bloody Indians will try anything to avoid a meeting," said Kok Heng, "but do I look stupid? I talk to decision makers. Does Peter know that?"

"Peter?"

"Peter Axewell, Jake. Our MD-lah. Does he know I always talk to the main man?"

"Fuck knows."

Kok Heng looked suddenly worried: "But if you want me as DSM you must tell him these things."

"Don’t worry, I’ll tell him, I’ll tell him…"

"Can I help you?" Said a deep voice behind us.

I twisted around. In the doorway stood an Indian man of medium-height with thick, well-coiffed hair and a well-trimmed moustache. He wore an expensive suit, possibly Italian, and looked to be in his late 30s. He seemed very serious. The intern bobbed in the hallway behind him.

"Jake Stratton," I rose from my seat.

"I’m Ravi Chellarham," he shook my hand firmly, and then Kok Heng’s. "Are you the chap I spoke to on the phone?"

"Yes," said Kok Heng, presenting his card. " I think you should take just five minutes to see Hootens dot com, Mr. Chellarham. Just five minutes! It’s the best business database in the world, and I guarantee a very good discount. And Card Wainright JV makes us even more powerful. But most important - just for you - big discount-lah."

"Very pleased to meet you chaps," he said cautiously. "I’m very busy, and this sounds jolly interesting, but I’m not sure it’s our cup of tea. Is this your literature?" He picked up a Hootens sales packet and thumbed through glossies of executives gazing thoughtfully at computer monitors. Kok Heng began to speak, but Chellarham gestured for silence. He stood nodding page after page, stopping when something caught his eye. I was wondering yet again what the fuck I was going to do about Imelda when he looked up and asked me a question: "Why should I pay for this when everything is free on the web?"

Surprised, I gazed back, wheezing softly. Normally Dickie answered that one and I had no idea what to say. In that instant of tongue-tied uncertainty, I fancied that a look of scornful pity cross Chellarham’s features, which seemed to suggest the sale was irrevocably lost. What are you doing selling such a silly product? his eyes seemed to say. It’s 2003, nobody pays for information anymore. What a dismal job you have!

"No, no," said Kok Heng with a forced laugh, "don’t be silly. You cannot trust free information on the web, Mr. Chellarham. Hootens offers premium information that’s not free anywhere, but still very cheap price. Very cheap, just for you."

Chellarham glanced at his watch and turned to the intern, "Isn’t everything we need free on the web?"

The intern nodded slowly.

"Is it accurate and reliable?"

The intern nodded again.

With finality, Chellarham returned the sales packet to the table and said, "If you have anything else, just show Vincent. When it comes to computers, he’s our Bill Gates." He offered his hand; I shook it automatically (who gave a rat’s ass? I just wanted my inhaler), but Kok Heng turned and seized the mouse. "Mr. Chellarham! Please, I show you just one thing."

"No, no," said Chellarham. "I insist you show Bill Gates here. Good day." He smiled condescendingly and walked off down the hallway, leaving the intern, Vincent, grinning at the Bill Gates comparison.

"If we go to this menu," said Kok Heng, "we enter research report database…"

"Kok Heng," I wheezed, "let’s just leave Vincent the brochures."

Kok Heng looked around and saw the decision maker was gone; his neck started pulsing again.

"Can we give you a free trial, Vincent?" I said.

"No, see enough already."

"I give you free trial," Kok Heng said. "And also one for Mr. Chellarham."

Vincent just shrugged – whatever – and then somebody’s mobile rang. From his pocket, Vincent drew a hand phone bristling with blinking colored lights "Wei?" he answered, and walked out into the hallway speaking Cantonese.

"That could have gone better," I said.

But Kok Heng ignored me: he was busy using Vincent’s absence to adjust the browser so it would always open on the Hootens web page. This done, he gave Vincent’s hard drive a check, found the software for one of the competitors, Waxis, and deleted it. The speed with which he flitted through the windows and menus was amazing, like a soldier stripping a rifle. Just as he finished, Vincent walked back in, pocketing his phone.

"What are you doing?" He peered suspiciously at the screen.

"Setting up your free trial. I call Mr. Chellarham next week to arrange trial review meeting. I bring proposal."

"No need. If we have interest in such services, I call."

From his large briefcase, Kok Heng produced a stack of brochures that included Hootens’s 200-page source directory. He dumped the whole bunch on the table, knocking over an action figure. "For Mr. Chellarham to read," he said.

Vincent selected the slimmest brochure. "This is enough."

"No, give all to Mr. Chellarham."

Vincent shrugged again, perhaps wondering if his wastebasket was large enough to accommodate it all.

Nothing remained to be said; Vincent escorted us to the lobby, but not out to the elevators. "Tell Mr. Chellarham I’ll be in touch," said Kok Heng to Vincent’s retreating back. Soon we were back in the crowded elevator and then in the lobby. I looked at my watch, the whole meeting had lasted less then twenty minutes. I decided a drink would help my asthma.

"I think I’ll get them," said Kok Heng.

"Didn’t seem that interested to me. Didn’t you hear what that guy said about everything being free on the internet."

"Jake, don’t you realize that Vincent will influence him? I gave him a two week trial just to be sure. Anyway, leave it to me. Vincent is a Chinese. I am a Chinese. We’ll work together to sign up that bloody Indian monkey."

Reluctant to talk, I gave him a thumbs up as we emerged on the sidewalk. The rain had stopped, but it didn’t seem as if for long, for great banks of clouds scudded low over the buildings, and irrespective of the respite, windshield wipers raced back and forth and umbrellas bobbed along over peoples’ heads - it seemed people were so used to rain they didn’t notice when it stopped. It was humid too; although I’d been freezing indoors, I took my jacket off.

"Okay, Jake, let’s go back to Hootens. We need to discuss my promotion to DSM."

"Sorry, I have a meeting."

"Who? Client? Prospect? Tell me, I come and we close together."

"Nothing like that. I have to go alone."

"Wah! I DSM. I must know such secrets."

"No means fucking no, Kok Heng." My asthma was making me irritable.

He regarded me suspiciously for a moment. "Okay, we talk on way to MTR."

That wouldn’t do, I needed a drink, badly. Along with the asthma, my head was beginning to hurt again, as the 4 codeines I’d taken at home were wearing off. The codeine crash was also fuelling my paranoia. "No, Kok Heng, wrong way," I said.

"Where you go?"

"Intercontinental. You?"

"Since you don’t want to discuss my promotion to DSM and don’t trust me, I have to run some personal errands-lah. Then maybe back to office or go home."

His tone suggested he was probably going home (why would anybody go to Tsuen Wan so late in the day?) and the realization annoyed me. Not so much that he was slacking - anybody in their right mind was slacking - but that he was open about it to me, the boss. I always took pains to delude people into thinking I was working hard, and here Kok Heng was openly admitting to attending to personal errands during business hours. Unconscionable.

Glancing over our shoulders at each other we parted: he into the warren of Tsim Sha Tsui; I across a pedestrian walkway to the harbor promenade, where I turned right heading for the Intercontinental. To my left storm clouds hid the peak, and ferries and barges struggled against the current, more powerful now than in years past because of all the reclamation work. Fortunately, the rain didn’t pick up until I arrived at the hotel. At mid-afternoon the lounge was mostly empty; a pretty Chinese girl in a cheongsam seated me at table with a view through the 2-story tall windows.

If one doesn’t mind expensive drinks – and one doesn’t when one is suffering an asthma attack – the Intercon’s cocktail lounge is the ideal place to contemplate the splendor of Asia’s greatest metropolis while becoming slowly drunk. And become slowly drunk I did. The first double vodka soda went down poorly and seemed to make my asthma worse. The second was smoother. By the third both my paranoia and breathing had eased, and I was optimistically contemplating dramatic ways to leave Hong Kong without a passport – yachts to the Philippines, mid-night swims to China, bribed immigration officials, etc.

It was during my fifth or six double that Dickie called. I didn’t want to see him, but he was persistent so I told him to come to the hotel. Within 20 minutes, as if by magic, he was at my shoulder greeting me eagerly. It occurred to me the bastard had been loitering around town waiting to see me.

"Dickie! You surprised me," I rose too quickly, knocking the table and upsetting my half-filled vodka, which clattered to the floor.

"Are you drunk?"

"Just a bit, not too bad."

"But it’s…" he glanced at his gold wristwatch, "…only five o’ clock. Are you alone?"

"No, not at all. We were just celebrating - big group of us from the joint venture. I had to leave them to meet you."

He glanced around as if expecting to see a table of partygoers before looking doubtfully at the cocktail table set for two. The waitress in the cheongsam was bent nicely over cleaning up my spilled drink. When she stood she asked if I’d like another.

"Sure," I said. "What can I get you, Dickie?"

"Nothing."

"Beer?"

"No."

"Cognac?"

"No. I okay, not thirsty."

"C’mon, have a beer."

"No."

"You have to have something."

"Orange juice."

"No, Dickie, you’re having a drink." I turned the waitress. "He’ll have the same as me."

The waitress nodded and walked off. As Dickie and I sat down I couldn’t help watching the way her ass moved in its tight silk cocoon.

"Jake, I never drink! I’ll get high."

"No, not high," I said. "You get high when you smoke pot – you know, marijuana, grass - drinking makes you drunk."

"I don’t want to get drunk."

"One drink won’t make you drunk, and besides, we’re celebrating."

"Celebrate what?"

"We’re celebrating you joining the JV, and just before you came I…I mean we…were celebrating a big deal I just closed."

"Wah! With who?"

I looked across the harbor and spotted a sign atop a building in Wanchai. "WorldCom."

"Wah! So prestigious."

"Had the signing ceremony just a few hours ago. It was great. Big regional deal, one of the biggest of my career, Dickie. You don’t think I’d be sitting around drinking like this if it weren’t a special occasion? Do you?"

Dickie looked at me doubtfully.

"Sales," I continued, "is never-ending. No matter how hard you work for a sale, you have to go right out and get another, and then another after that. It never, ever ends. It’s like a rat in a cage running around a wheel. It’s great stuff, and the beauty is that one can do it forever. Even though I’m celebrating now, Dickie, tomorrow I’ll be back on that wheel. You know what a workaholic I am."

Dickie nodded slowly, unsure of what to say. The drinks arrived. We toasted and turned back to the view. Though it was early, the dimness was such that I could make out lights in the office towers.

"I can’t believe Orson killed himself," said Dickie.

"Yeah, it’s terrible, really. He was a great guy."

"Not a great guy. Before he die, he owe me money, owe Carsolita money."

"You didn’t get your last paycheck?"

"No, and I need money to pay for apartment and family expenses."

"I’ll look into it," I said. "Between you and me, Dickie, a number of people were unhappy about Orson."

"At the joint venture? Not surprised."

I glanced at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"He embezzled money from Card Wainright."

"Dickie! How can you say such a thing? It was my job to make sure everything was above board. What the hell do you think I’ve been doing these last few years?"

"Ai yah! I not stupid! I know what you and Orson were doing. One night when he got drunk I go to office and read files. I know everything – a few weeks ago I gave you a packet for two hundred thousand dollars, Jake. Remember? You counted it in toilet."

I forced a laugh. "Don’t be silly, Dickie, c’mon. I have no money at all. God! I wish I had two hundred thousand dollars. That’d be great! You don’t think I’d still be around here, do you?" But this made me think of Imelda again, and I felt very nervous.

Dickie shook a long finger at me (a gesture the Chinese find very rude) and grinned: "Don’t worry, I tell nobody."

"Dickie! What are you talking about? There’s nothing to tell. I’m here to offer you a job."

"You give me a good package and I don’t tell the Fanny woman about you and Orson."

The Fanny woman. I set my drink slowly down and stared across the harbor to the city. The rain had picked up and the wind blew great sheets horizontally along the promenade, where a lone tourist couple with cameras about their necks ran for shelter. The woman slipped in a puddle and fell. The man struggled to pull her to her feet. "What do you mean, the Fanny woman?" I said.

"Fanny Ma, she call me…ask questions."

I nodded, "And…"

"She want to know about all the accounts, Orson, you – everything."

The man had raised his companion, but she was limping now and he had to support her. They moved slowly; around them, the concrete and rain looked endless.

"Did you tell her anything?"

"No, I wanted to know if you would offer me a job first."

"I’m glad you waited, because I think you’ll be very happy with what we have to offer. How much were you making at All Asia?"

"Five thousand basic, plus commission."

"Okay, we’ll double your basic to ten thousand."

"No way," Dickie said flatly.

"Huh? That’s double what Orson paid you."

"I want twenty."

This staggered me. Twenty was nearly what I made – excluding my dealings with Orson, of course. "Dickie, don’t be ridiculous. Ten is extremely generous."

"Jake, we’re businessmen. I help you, you help me. I want twenty thousand per month, plus commissions, and I also want to take one month vacation before I start, so me and my family can visit relatives in China."

I took a sip from my drink, which was running low. I looked for the waitress, but Dickie shoved his sweating, untouched glass towards me. "Drink this," he said.

I took it and leaned back, stunned that Dickie knew about Orson and my doings, and that the murderous Fanny Ma had contacted him. How long had he known? Did Carsolita know too? I remembered giving Axewell her number. But what to do with Dickie? It was important to work something out with him, but I was very drunk and breathing was getting difficult again.

"Twenty thousand," Dickie repeated.

I sipped his drink. Outside the couple had disappeared from view. In the puddle where the woman had fallen lay a pink garment that appeared to be a sweater.

"And also one month off for China trip," Dickie said.

I nodded slowly and watched the waitress slink by with a tray of drinks. If I gave into him I’d be buying his silence for at least one month – one month in which to tie up United American. By the time Dickie started working, I’d be long gone. Besides, I was drunk and hated negotiating. Fuck it. "Okay," I said. "If you promise not to talk to Fanny Ma – or anybody – about, well, me and Orson, you can have twenty thousand and also one month off, but you’ve got to promise me."

Dickie grinned and wiggled in his seat. "Twenty thousand?"

"Yeah, twenty. But you can’t speak to anybody about Orson and me, okay?"

"Yes yes, I promise, but I forget one thing."

"What?"

"I also want to be deputy sales manager. I want to have staff and earn overrides on commissions."

"But…"

"I forget to ask you before."

I almost said yes, but instead said, "So you want twenty thousand, one month off, and the title deputy sales manager – is that all?"

"Ahhh, sorry, but no."

I gnashed my teeth. The only thing that prevented me from losing my temper was the thought of Dickie showing up in one month and finding his package was HK$10,000 - no, fuck it, HK$5,000. I’d gain mileage with Axewell if he thought I’d bashed Dickie down to HK$5,000. The thought of Dickie’s face on his first day at the JV made me smile, and Dickie, teeth pointing all over the place, smiled right back. "What else do you want?" I asked.

"Four thousand dollar per month travel allowance."

"Just keep track of what you spend on the MTR and taxis and we’ll reimburse you."

"No, four thousand cash at start of every month. I stay Tuen Mun, very far."

"Fine," I said, "but that’s it."

Dickie wiggled in his seat again and clutched the fabric of his trousers. "No problem, Jake, I don’t like Fanny woman. I much rather work with you."

"Terrific."

"You and me are a great team."

I nodded. I wanted him to disappear, but for the next half hour or so he droned on about clients and prospects. Eventually he realized I wasn’t paying attention and he rose to leave.

I stood and took his hand. "Great to have you aboard. I’ll see you in one month."

"You bet, Jake."

I was certain it was the last time I would see Dickie. I smiled again at the thought of him showing up after his trip to learn he was only making HK$5,000. It would serve the bastard right for trying to blackmail me after all the years we’d worked together. Perhaps I could even arrange for his title to be something like Junior Salesperson Trainee - yes, that would be the perfect touch.

We beamed at each other and he walked off smiling. At the entrance he turned and waved; I waved back.

After another drink I went home, where I found Thomas and the red-headed guy – Pinky, I remembered – who I’d encountered coming down the stairs a few weeks previously. They were slouched over the new laptop Thomas had bought talking about the drugs web site.

In my room, I was immeasurably relieved to find my inhaler under my pillow, and after 4 puffs I felt less ill than one normally does in Hong Kong. I tried calling Imelda for the fourth time that day, but yet again there was no answer, so I left yet another message pleading with her to call me back. Without bothering to change out of my suit, I collapsed on my bed and fell asleep.

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