Two days later, Sharon and I sat in a taxi heading to a client support call. My attempts at conversation had failed utterly and I stared out through the rain at the gray buildings rushing past. Although I’d been unenthusiastic about spending the afternoon with her, Kok Heng had insisted we split her and Sheena up for one or two meetings. "They do nothing when they’re together," he said. "We must make them work."

"All right," I said. "I’ll take Sheena, you take Sharon."

"No. I take Sheena."

"What difference…"

"I take Sheena."

I didn’t care so I didn’t protest. It had fallen to me to divide them – Kok Heng couldn’t have done it, for the team ignored him, much to his annoyance - and after much argument with the girls I set out with the square-headed, bug-eyed Sharon and he with Sheena. Judging from Sharon’s sulking, the arrangement still displeased her.

The traffic slowed and we plowed through a tire high-flood before accelerating again. The rain not only made Hong Kong more miserable, but also more dangerous: the South China Morning Post had become little more than a list of rain-related disasters: mudslides killed villagers in the New Territories, flash floods washed small children away, and planes landing at Chek Lap Kok skidded off the runways, etc.

"Some rain," I said.

She said nothing.

"Pretty nasty weather, agree?"

"Yes, very raining."

She dialled her mobile and started talking to somebody in Cantonese. Suddenly, the traffic slowed again; this time so everyone could have a look at the other side of the highway, where a double-decker bus had smashed into the divider, crushing its side into an accordion of twisted metal and shattered glass. After this we accelerated again and were soon through the tunnel and into Causeway Bay.

The client’s building reminded me of Orson’s. The lift lobby was in an alley clogged with vendors selling belts, wallets, clothing, calculators, umbrellas, underwear, stationery, watches, walkmans, everything. The lobby itself was a dim passage nearly blocked by a large desk, at which sat an old man listening to Chinese opera that whined from a radio hung from a pipe bracket. He ignored us as we squeezed by.

"Have you been to this account before?" I asked Sharon in the lift.

"No, new account. Kok Heng just open."

"Does he open lots of accounts?"

"Do nothing."

The lift opened onto a hallway lined with age-stained walls and a carpet that was little more than a layer of filth. We walked along until we found the client, Golden Dragon Venturetech. A steel gate reinforced with a chain and a padlock blocked the entrance. A picture of a snarling doberman hung from the wall. Sheena pressed the buzzer and inside a small dog started barking.

We waited a few minutes. Except for more barking, nothing happened. Just as well, I thought, for my asthma was bothering me a bit (for reassurance I squeezed the inhaler in my pocket) and I was beginning to desire a beer.

"Perhaps they’re out," I said hopefully.

Just before I could abort the meeting, however, the inner door swung abruptly open. Sharon and I jumped back a step.

From behind the steel gate glared an old, tall gweilo with a mop of white hair and a big gray beard. A blue bodysuit with studs instead of buttons sheathed his thick torso, a red handkerchief was tied tightly around his neck, and in his mouth burned a cigarette. He looked fresh out of Texas.

He mumbled something around the cigarette, but it was hard to hear him because the dog, a mop-like little rodent, had shoved its head through the gate to bark at Sharon and I. The man produced a plastic baton from behind the door and jabbed the dog’s back. PZZT! Howling, the dog jerked its head in and raced off. "Don’t tell my wife ‘bout that," he said as he undid the chain and opened the gate.

He led us through a disused foyer – the dog snarled from under a coffee table burdened by stacks of old magazines – and into an office with a window that faced a brick wall. His desk held a big, brand-new laptop, a stack of computer manuals still in their shrink wrap, an ashtray brimming with cigarettes, and, improbably, a two-foot tall model of a running ostrich. Along one side stood a row of filing cabinets, and on the wall hung a photograph of our host in full cowboy regalia – white suit with black pockets, 10-gallon hat, boots – standing next to a young Chinese woman in a wedding dress. Stale smoke burned my nose and it was already harder to breath. I wondered how many years had passed since the place had been aired.

"Your wife," I pointed at the picture.

"Mmmm hmm," he shrugged. Looking at Sharon, he said, "That Chinese kid said two girls would come."

Sharon didn’t answer. Eyes even wider than normal, she was looking nervously over her shoulder to where the dog growled in the doorway.

"Get the hell outta here!" The man half rose, which sent the dog scurrying off. He resumed his seat. "I was expecting two girls like that Chinese kid – Cock something or other - said."

"Change of plan. I’m Jake Stratton, Sharon’s Manager."

The man reluctantly introduced himself as Bill Quantrill. I handed him my old Card Wainright card – the JV had yet to issue new ones. He didn’t bother to give me his. The stinging smoke from his cigarette drifted directly to my eyes and nose, drying both.

"Thanks, little lady," he said with a wink when Sharon handed him her card. "These two cards are different."

I explained the joint venture while he looked at my card, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

"I’ll be damned," he said, "I know a guy involved in this Card Wainright business. Made a fortune. Great business to be in, all this internet stuff - or used to be, anyway."

"Really?" He had to be talking about Orson. It was easy to imagine the two of them in a Wanchai bar drinking with Filipinas fresh from the rice paddies: "What you name? You so handsome. Buy me lady drink?"

"Yeah, Orson," Quantrill smiled. "Never got anything off me, though. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter."

"So you know Orson?"

"Of course. Biggest crook I ever seen, and I seen a lot."

I lacked the energy to tell Quantrill about Orson’s suicide, so, for Sharon’s benefit, I said, "He did a pretty good job for us."

Quantrill laughed – a wheezing, rasping sound that sent him into a fit of coughing.

"Good job? You might just – cough cough cough – want to check your accounts again. I should tell you what he did to his second wife. Fucked her over big time – his fuckin’ wife! Used to fuckin’ brag about it. I tell ya, kid, some guys just don’t know when to stop."

"I always thought he was pretty trustworthy."

"Oh yeah, real trustworthy. Businessman of the fuckin’ year."

"What did he do to his second wife?"

"Well, it doesn’t really matter, as long as little Sharon here knows that I’d never do it to her. Got that, girl?"

"Can I do training now?" Sharon said nervously.

"Oh yeah. You go, girl." Quantrill pushed his chair back and gestured for her to come around and join him, which she promptly did. With Quantrill right behind her, she bent over the computer. His bloodshot eyes left her rear-end just long enough to wink at me. "This is a great deal. Why didn’t I sign up before?" he said.

"What flat fee you on?" Sharon asked.

"Flat fee? What you talkin’ about? The service is free for three months and then I decide whether I want to pay for it. Got that? Better treat me right, Sharon."

"Three months?" Sharon gaped at me.

"Yep, that’s the deal," said Quantrill. "That smart-alecky Chinese kid wanted to give me only two weeks free – must of thought he could out negotiate ole’ Bill Quantrill - but I said no way and made him give me three months with no obligations. Only just got the computer and you, little lady, are gonna teach me how to use it."

Sharon shot me a vicious glance and then went back to work. The modem whined as it connected to the Internet.

"What do you need the service for?" I asked.

"I plan to introduce ostrich farming in China. Just think about how much I’ll make – you listening, Sharon? - if even one half of the Chinese eat ostrich every day. You know how much they like to eat, right? Ostriches are cheaper than cattle, their meat’s healthier, and they ain’t got no mad cow disease. By 2015 the Chinese will eat more ostrich than rice. And who’s gonna sell it to them? Me."

"Wow, that’s a lot of ostriches," I said.

"Well no shit, Sherlock," he replied. "You ever eaten ostrich, Sharon?"

"Never try."

"Then we gotta get you over sometime to try it."

My mobile rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I welcomed an excuse to escape Quantrill’s cigarette.

"Excuse me," I walked out into the foyer. Under the table the dog snarled.

"Jake Stratton, good afternoon."

"Jake," Carsolita said breathlessly, "Please help me…please...that bitch! She tell me…"

"What’s going on?"

"That bitch put me inside jail! I hate that bitch!"

"What bitch? Jail? What are you talking about?"

"Jake, immigration found out I have no work visa, and I must leave Hong Kong." Her sobbing grew louder.

"What? How’d they find out?"

"That bitch say she want hire me for JV, but that I can’t tell you because it will be a big surprise to make you happy. And I believed her! But when I met her she was with immigration officers. They, they…put me in handcuffs and took me to the police station. I hate that bitch! I kill that bitch!"

"What bitch? Who are you talking about?"

"The Hootens bitch named Fanny. I hate her! She tell me she give me job, but she lie!"

I wondered how Fanny had gotten Carsolita’s number, and then remembered giving it to Axewell the day Kok Heng had approached me about promoting him. I also recalled telling him about her employment situation and pregnancy. Fuck. "Okay, okay," I said. "Try to relax. Where are you now?"

She began sobbing again.

"Carsolita, where are you? I’ll try to sort this out."

"They keep me in Western Police Station. I hate that bitch!"

I knew Western Police Station, it was close to my apartment. "Look, Carsolita, take it easy. I’ll be there shortly."

She was still hysterical when I hung up.

Although Sharon was horrified at being left alone with Quantrill, I bade them a quick farewell, reeling at the thought that Axewell, however malicious he was, would subject a pregnant woman to the mercy of Hong Kong’s notorious Immigration Department. Standing in the lobby, with the Chinese opera whining from the Old Man’s radio, I called him.

"Axewell," he answered.

"Why the fuck did you get Carsolita busted?"

"Jake, whatever are you talking about?"

"I told you she was pregnant, I told you she had no visa, and being a stupid fuck I gave you her fucking number."

"Ah, you’re talking about the All Asia woman. Has that been taken care of?"

"What do you mean taken care of? She’s in jail! They’re going to deport her."

"I really think you are overreacting, Jake. Calm down, take a deep breath, have a beer."

"If you didn’t want to hire her, just don’t hire her. What’s the point of getting her busted?"

"I did nothing illegal, Jake. I wasn’t the one working illegally, and since there was no position for her in the joint venture, there was little point giving her the opportunity to join a competitor. If anything I’ve done right twice by reporting a criminal and protecting the joint venture’s interests. I don’t see what I’ve done wrong. I’ve done right."

"You sent a pregnant woman to jail!"

"It’s not our problem, I’m uninvolved, and the joint venture is uninvolved. If I were you I’d calm down and think rationally. Have you prepared your sales strategy report for my arrival Monday? I…"

"Cunt." I hung up.

There wasn’t a cab to be had, so I dodged through the rain to the Excelsior’s rear entrance and went through the lobby to the cab rank. A velvet rope divided the queue for guests, where nobody waited, from the queue for non-guests, where a few dozen people waited. There were no taxis and everyone looked very impatient. Straightening my tie, I stepped to the head of the guest line.

"May I see your key, sir?" asked the doorman.

"I’m in 1802, my wife has the key."

"But, sir…"

An empty taxi pulled up.

"My wife has it," I said, climbing into the taxi. "Connaught Do Sai."

It was not yet rush hour, but the traffic along Gloucester Road moved at a crawl. We halted for several minutes opposite the featureless concrete block of the Nam Kok, where I’d stayed with the redhead - my last tryst before the JV. Then, moving a bit more quickly, we passed the Star Ferry and through the pumping wipers I saw the Airport Express station, a forbidden escape route until I got my passport back. And then it was on to western and Carsolita. I was beginning to dread rushing to her aid, for I had absolutely no idea how I could help her, and I was in no mood to bail her out given my parlous finances.

Like most of Hong Kong’s public buildings, Western Police station dates to the fifties. It’s little more than a drab office block enclosed by a high wall topped with big loops of barbed wire. From the wall’s corners jut turrets that command the approaching streets. I recalled Cockbottom saying the turrets had been unused since the communist troubles in the sixties, but entering the building I felt watched by unseen eyes in the turrets’ darkened slits.

After waiting thirty minutes in the lobby – a crowded room with too few chairs and too many people – I was taken to a small room on the second floor with a rickety metal table and four plastic chairs. After 15 or 20 minutes an immigration officer entered. He was a small, roundish man who ignored my greeting and snapped open a file when he sat down. His badge read Ng Chee Hong.

"Where’s Carsolita?" I asked.

He shook his head, frowned, and said, "Do you know Carsolita Florenza Contemplacion?"

"Yeah, of course. That’s why I just asked for her."

He missed the sarcasm, Chinese often did.

"What is your relationship with her?" he asked.

"I’m her friend."

"Do you employ her?"

"No," I said impatiently, "I’m her friend."

Mr. Ng pursed his lips in disappointment. "What is your name?"

I gave it to him.

"Do you have your ID card?"

"No, I don’t carry it because I don’t want to lose it."

He frowned again, flipped through the folder and made a note. "You understand Ms. Contemplacion has worked illegally in Hong Kong for two years."

Although the long wait, Ng’s cool attitude, and the intense desire I felt for alcohol had worked me into a fine temper, it occurred to me that he was basically a cop. I would need to be careful. "Well no, Officer Ng, I always thought she had a work visa."

He ignored the use of his name. "Do you work for this All Asia News Base?"

"No."

"Then how…"

"Look, how do we get her out of here?"

Ng chuckled. "Under immigration ordinance, bail is unavailable for such cases."

"Why?"

Ng smiled wider. "Because immigration ordinance says bail is unavailable for such cases."

"So you’d let a rapist out on bail, but not Carsolita?"

Ng’s smile disappeared. "So you were unaware Miss Contemplacion was working here illegally?"

"Yes, that’s probably why I said that before."

He made a note in the folder. "Miss Contemplacion says she is pregnant."

I didn’t reply, so he continued: "Are you the father?"

"No."

Ng made another note, closed the folder, and rose to leave. "Thank you, that’s all."

"Wait a minute," I stood up. "When can I see her?"

"Oh, so sorry, you cannot."

"What? Why can’t I see her?"

"Because immigration ordinance says only direct relatives or lawyer can visit."

"But she doesn’t have relatives or a lawyer."

Ng shrugged and glanced at his watch, a digital with a tiny calculator.

"If I can’t see her, why the fuck didn’t they tell me so when I got here? I have better things to do than wait around for you."

Ng shrugged and gestured toward the door.

"Can I at least call her?"

"She gets one call every week. If she want to call you, she can wait one week. But you cannot visit because you not direct relative or lawyer."

Angry, but more than a little relieved there was nothing I could do for Carsolita, I went downstairs and outside. The rain was coming down in great wind-driven sheets; since the station’s entrance was at the bottom of a hill, water cascaded over my shoes as I crossed the road to shelter. During the five minute walk home I gave up trying to save my suit from the rain and arrived utterly soaked. As I trudged up the stairs, my shoes leaving puddles, I reflected on the evil Axewell had perpetrated on Carsolita, and wondered what greater evil he had in store for me.

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