I took the joint from Ai Lin and leaned back among the pillows; they felt very clean and fresh after my bed at home. It was the day after my trip to the police station and I’d decided to take a holiday, let my suit and work shoes dry out, have an easy afternoon with Ai Lin, and then head to Card Wainright where Cockbottom was giving a cocktail party - the invitation email said there would be "a special announcement."

The day hadn’t worked out as I’d hoped, mostly owing to Ai Lin’s Canadian houseguest – a large, spotty creature named Lena - who was visiting Asia for the first time. At lunch, she refused to drink any alcohol; instead she consumed five or six expensive fruit shakes, giggling her disapproval whenever Ai Lin and I poured more wine. After lunch she had, luckily, taken my recommendation and gone to Stanley Village. That morning, TVB had reported a mudslide on the narrow road heading out there; traffic to and from the place was frozen, and I reckoned the trip would keep her away from Ai Lin’s apartment until well after I departed.

"Nice grass," I handed the joint back. "Where’s it from?"

"Your friend’s website, that’s a great service."

"Yeah, as long as they don’t get busted. But anyway, look, we have to talk. What’s going on with Phil?"

Ai Lin frowned and pulled the sheets up over her small breasts.

"I don’t know, I’m worried." She took a drag. "He’s been acting a bit weirder than usual, and when I asked him about Cardwainright.com he said he’s still thinking about it."

"What! We shook on it."

"I remember, but he’s heard about the joint venture, and he wants to know more about it. Besides, it’s your fault he didn’t sign before my trip. Why didn’t you have the contract ready that day, Jake?"

"Stop reminding me about that. Look, we’re talking about five hundred thousand US dollars here. Real money. This will solve all your debt problems."

"I know! Why do you always treat me like I’m stupid? And don’t forget, it’s your fucking fault he didn’t sign already."

"Then I’ll speak to him. We’ve got to do this deal."

"I’m not sure about all this…I think there may be a problem." She rolled onto her belly and buried her face in a pillow. I gently tugged her shoulder but she refused to look at me. Her body shuddered and I stroked her long hair.

"What is it? What problem?"

She shook her head.

"Ai Lin! What problem?"

She rolled over and sat up, the glint of a tear in her eye. "I’m really worried, Jake. We were stupid to be so greedy."

"I don’t think so, United American’s getting a great deal."

"Did you tell anybody at Hootens about this?"

"Of course not."

"Well, this morning I came back from a cigarette break, and two of your colleagues were leaving our office. The receptionist told me they met with Phil."

"What!" I set my glass down. "Who visited? Why didn’t you call me?"

A tear slid down her cheek.

"Ai Lin," I said, struggling to keep calm. "Who visited? This is important."

"The pretty English girl with the double last name…Alicia, I think. She was with a fat Chinese guy with glasses."

"What the hell was she doing there? What did they talk about with him?"

"I don’t know! They were with him about twenty minutes, I…"

"Why the fuck didn’t you call me? You should have called the minute you knew about this."

Ai Lin buried her face in the pillow again. I rose, paced back and forth at the end of the bed, and then sat and drained my glass. The familiar burn of alcohol calmed me somewhat and I leaned back and puffed the joint. Ai Lin sobbed beside me. There was a flash outside and a peel of thunder.

"I can’t believed how fucked this thing has gotten," I said. "Is there any more wine?"

Still face down, she shook her head.

"Any beer?"

No again.

What had Alicia and Simon (who else could it have been?) talked about with Phil? Had he told them about my proposal? My proposal that politely requested the one-off, US$500,000 check be made payable to CW Info Services? If he had, it would be easy enough for Fanny Ma to learn that I was CW Info’s CEO. But perhaps, just perhaps, he hadn’t told them: prospects often tried to get a better deal by talking to different salespeople from the same company, to see if a company’s right hand was out of synch with its left. "We have to find out if he told them about my proposal," I said.

Ai Lin shook her head.

"No, don’t fucking give me that. You have to find out or we’re both fucked – and I mean really fucked."

She shook her head again.

An impulse seized me. I grabbed a fistful of her black hair and dragged her across my lap. She struggled in pain and surprise, but I was far stronger. She began twisting, so I gave her hair a yank. She cried out, but then, finally, lay still. I relaxed my grip, tore the sheets away, tugged down her black lace panties and smacked her. She realized what was happening and started struggling again, but another yank and several hard slaps quieted her.

I spanked her in earnest. Her soft buttocks made a hard crack whenever my palm connected. Every few seconds she struggled, but a yank of her hair coupled with a few especially hard slaps stilled her nicely and let me get on with things. By the time her buttocks turned bright pink she was whimpering and her struggles had ceased. When I finally released her she lay panting for a while, but then she sat up and kissed me, hard, and soon we were having our best sex ever.

Later, after a nap, we lit another joint.

"It used to be so much easier," I said.

She raised her head from my shoulder. "What used to be easier?"

"Well, you know, the information industry. The internet has ruined everything."

She sighed and lay her head back down.

"When I started selling this shit most people didn’t even have modems," I continued. "The Internet didn’t exist, and we could charge thousands for stuff that’s free now - we used to charge one dollar U.S. for a single stock quote. One U.S! Can you imagine? It was great then - no competition."

"Progress," she said. "The world moves on."

"Fuck progress. I’ll take ignorant clients and a monopoly any day. It used to be like sticking a shotgun in a gold fish bowl, but now there’s all this competition and it’s a fucking nightmare."

"Fine, whatever, but what are we going to do?"

"I’d like another drink, actually."

"No, Jake, what are we going to do about Phil?"

"First find out if he told Alicia and Simon about my proposal."

"Who’s Simon?"

"The fat cunt you saw with Alicia. He works for me."

"And if he did?"

Well, it will end up in Fanny Ma’s red folder and I’m even more fucked. "I don’t know. Just find out."

"I’ll try, but you know how secretive Phil is."

I kissed her forehead and she raised her lips to mine. As we kissed I thought not of her, but of my disintegrating situation. What the hell was I going to do? Years of dedicated embezzlement, only to be betrayed by my supposed fiancé, and now the United American deal looked far from certain. If it came to it, I could probably scrape together enough to pay a fishing boat or a yacht to smuggle me out of Hong Kong, but then what? A job at a bar in Thailand or the Philippines? A chance to drink lots, surely, but I would still be forced to work, and instead of living in a house with a yard and a pool, I’d be stuck in some US$5 a night concrete chalet, my only sex coming from the poxy hookers who preyed on German tourists too disgusting to get any action at home.

"Ouch!" Ai Lin jerked away. "You bit my tongue."

"Sorry, I was thinking about something."

"Whatever." She went to the bathroom, closing the door hard behind her.

As evening fell I descended the mid-levels escalator and caught the MTR to Wanchai for Cockbottom’s party. I found him in the lush conference room where I’d shaken hands with Phil. He was with five men. Four I recognized with some dread as his buddies from the old colonial days – alcoholic old vultures of men in threadbare suits and drab regimental ties. The fifth, though, I’d never met. He was a silent, dark-skinned man, perhaps in his late fifties. He wore a tailored black suit, a designer tie, and a pair of black Ray Bans.

"Stratton!" said Cockbottom. "We were just talking about you. Pour yourself a drink and sit down."

Talking about me? I tapped a pint of Guinness and joined them.

"Stratton," Cockbottom said. "You’ve had the pleasure of meeting Rupert, Cozzie, Tiny, and Duncan."

I nodded at them, but I couldn’t tell one from the other. They eyed me suspiciously over their pints.

"And this, Stratton," Cockbottom waved a fat hand toward the dark man, "is Captain Hussein of the Malaysian police, anti-narcotics. He used to be a cadet with us back in the sixties. He’s in Hong Kong for a special investigation."

Hussein greeted me with a nod - a rigid, economical gesture. Given I couldn’t see his eyes through the shades, I started to get a bit paranoid: Ai Lin and I had smoked another joint before I’d left, and somehow it felt as if he knew how I’d spent the afternoon.

"Stratton’s the one I told you about," said Cockbottom.

"I see, " said Hussein. "You just started at Hootens, correct?"

I glanced at Cockbottom, who shook his jowls in encouragement.

"I work for a JV between Card Wainright and Hootens. I moved out there a few weeks ago. Why?"

"How do you find it?"

"It’s okay, I guess."

"Have you seen anything unusual?"

"It’s a different corporate culture so, from a management perspective, I’d say yes, it’s quite unusual."

"Are you familiar with their, what is it they call it, their cooperation network?"

Why on earth was a nark asking me about that? Had the cops used C. Network to observe me take drugs? But before my paranoia could mount I reminded myself I’d never taken anything out at Hootens.

"Yeah, what about it?" I said.

"Have you noticed anything…unusual?"

I glanced at Cockbottom, who eyed me expectantly.

"No, it’s a great system. Perfect management tool. Doesn’t work all the time, though."

"I see," said Hussein, a bit disappointed.

"It’s as I suspected," said Cockbottom to Hussein.

"So what do you think of those Hootens cunts?" one of the brits (Tiny?) asked me, slurring.

"I guess they’re not so bad."

"What a load of bollocks. Just say they’re a pile o’ bloody wank and be done with it. Eh?"

The Brits and Hussein laughed. "Come now, Tiny," said Hussein. "You can’t expect our young flash here to denigrate his superiors."

"If they’re cunts, then bloody say they’re cunts," said another – Rupert? He raised his pint to his lips with a trembling hand. Then, with the bitterness of and old alcoholic, he said, "C’mon then, say they’re bloody cunts. What are you waiting for? Cat got your balls?"

"Stock it, Rupert!" said Cockbottom. "Another word from you, mate, and you’re on cold tea."

"But the cunts…"

"Stock it."

Rupert fell silent, but for pride’s sake silently mouthed "cunts" at me a few more times.

Except for Hussein, who glanced at me every few moments, they lost interest in me and began trading old police stories. They constantly interrupted each other with input and corrections: "You got it wrong, mate. It was Cozzie who punched the kaffir, I only shoot ‘em." Or "Remember that riot when I dashed upstairs for a shag and that Sikh stole my trousers? Had to stand in me skivvies and threaten the cunt with my three-O-three – now that was gun!" Or "I remember that typhoon: that was when my mates got pissed and discovered the CIA had buggered off." etc.

To my relief, several reporters and editors from Card Wainright Capital Asia started to wander in. The Chinese gathered by the snacks laid out on a side table; the gweilos gathered by the bar where they began tapping pints and pouring drinks. I gulped my pint and went for another. I didn’t return to the table, but stayed with the 3 or 4 reporters at the bar, half listening to boring conversation about the rain of the last few weeks – at least I was close to the tap.

"People!" Cockbottom boomed during my third pint. "People! May I have a word? I have an important announcement! An important announcement!"

"Make the bloody announcement then! I fancy a pint!"

"Stock it, Rupert!

One by one, conversations petered out and there was silence.

Cockbottom cleared his throat and said: "I’m pleased you could all join me today…" He stopped to wipe his eye.

"Sorry," he continued. "I’m a bit emotional, indulge me with your forbearance. I’ve known all of you for sometime, some for months, some for years, and I’m pleased that friends from the three finest periods of my life are here to share this moment. In this very room are friends from my army days, my police days, and my thirty years manning the helm of Capital Asia, during which we grew from a one man operation to a large, proud magazine – although those people in Chicago have done their damnedest to mank things up."

Scattered applause greeted this, but some of the American reporters who had transferred out from the US looked pained.

"Throughout my career," he went on, "Asia has seen many changes. Hong Kong has gone from Britain’s greatest colony to China’s greatest City" – one of the brits, I couldn’t tell who, snickered at this – "and Asia has gone from the very brink of the communist abyss to the very vanguard of capitalism and progress."

Cockbottom sipped his pint. "But alas, an unfortunate consequence of participating in these momentous changes and developments is that I’ve aged. No longer am I the solid lad I used to be – and I most readily assure you that I can feel it."

No great surprise there, I thought, looking at his gut. I hoped he’d get to the point; my pint was nearly empty, and I didn’t want to shoulder over to the bar during the speech. I noticed everyone around me was nearly empty as well, suggesting a charge to the tap when Cockbottom finished.

"Well," Cockbottom wiped his eyes again. "I suppose I’ll just say it: After all these years and all these adventures, it is, I’m afraid, time for the missus and I to return to the UK. Next month, I shall retire."

A hubbub rose at this.

"No, no…it’s time for me to go, I’m well nigh seventy years of age, and it’s time for the old guard to stand down." Cockbottom ran a hand across his eyes. One of the Chinese secretaries haltingly advanced and handed him a small tissue.

"Where will you be going?" asked a well-groomed American cunt named Darcott MacDougall.

"Our cottage in Dartmouth. It’s a small place, but peaceful and close to the pub."

"Will you be taking these?" Asked another American, gesturing toward the sculptures lining the walls.

"Of course I’m taking my Apsaras! I didn’t spend a week listening to jackhammers in Cambodia just to leave them behind. There’s no room for them in the cottage, though, so they’ll live in the Dartmouth Police recreation hall, where I’ll take tea with them every day."

Several looked disappointed; perhaps they’d hoped to pick up some authentic Khmer sculpture on the cheap.

"Anyway, just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean we need to stop drinking. Let’s get on with the evening!"

There was some applause and Cockbottom was surrounded as conversation re-filled the room. I would have liked another pint, but there were five guys ahead of me at the tap, which was spluttering and hissing and giving every indication that the keg was empty. Rather than wait, I decided to slip out without farewells. At the door I glanced back and was surprised to see Hussein, the nark, eyeing me darkly. He didn’t acknowledge my wave.

On the MTR, my thoughts, as they always did, drifted back to Imelda. I resisted calling the ruthless bitch’s mobile; the previous night I’d tried calling only to find the line disconnected, as if she’d never existed. Manila directory inquiries (when I managed to get through at all) had told me that there were hundreds of I. Ramos’s in the Philippines and "So sorry, sir, listings for mobile phone users are strictly confidential."

I trudged out of Sheung Wan station into to the rain (which I hardly noticed) fantasizing about what I’d do when I caught her. Shoot her boyfriend (Who you talking to, luv?) in the face before turning the gun on her knee caps? Kidnap her and torture her until she coughed up the money? Pour gasoline over her and relish her terror as I threatened to set her alight?

My mind in this dismal post-drinks state, I suddenly became aware of goings on up ahead, and froze. About 100 yards away, at the door to my building, flashed red and blue sirens; in the flickering light were a half dozen firemen loading hoses onto a fire truck. Greatly outnumbering them were the cops, which alarmed me indeed: I could understand one or two cops keeping the crowds away from a fire, but two dozen? Their presence strongly suggested Thomas and Inksy had been somehow involved. But what had happened?

I edged into the shadow of a doorway and pulled out my mobile. I scrolled to Thomas’s number but didn’t dial: if he had been arrested his phone was in custody, which meant they also had my number and all the documents from my bedroom – including my contract with Card Wainright - unless, of course, the fire had been in our unit. But had it been?

I was wondering whether to risk the call when two fireman edged out carrying the end of a big box-like thing. It was blackened at one end but the other end, held by two more firemen, was white, and I recognized our old refrigerator. What the fuck had happened? Shocked, I watched them struggle to load the fridge into a police van. Then, I nearly staggered back when at my shoulder appeared four cops.

"You stay inside?" One gestured angrily toward my building.

They were looking for gweilos. "Uh…no can ingles," I replied. "Go Macau. I Portuguese people…Portugal. Macau ferry?"

He said something in Cantonese to one of his colleagues, who gave me a long look and shook his head.

The first one gestured brusquely back the way I’d come: "Macau go there."

"Merci, merci," I smiled and walked away.

I only dared look back when I’d crossed the road and mounted the long steps to Victoria Center, but the elevated highway blocked the view. Inside, I used a payphone to call Thomas – his phone was off, Inksy’s also. It occurred to me the police could be tracing the calls, so I hurried down to the MTR station, which I instantly regretted as the narrow, low corridors were filled with TV cameras. I decided to avoid the train and exited on Des Voeux Road Central, which, I realized as I climbed the last flight of steps, was a suspicious behavior surely noted by the ever-vigilant eyes at the TV banks.

Back outside I turned toward Central. Lightning flashed over the city, thunder echoed among the buildings, and soon the deluge roared down through the night. Thankful for the cover the storm offered, I crossed Des Voeux Road Central and went into the maze of narrow streets and alleys below Hollywood Road. Drenched and chilled, hands deep in my pockets, I slouched up through the darkened narrows to Ai Lin’s apartment.

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