I left the Beer Keller and boarded a tram for home. Trams are slow, but there was no hurry, and sitting comfortably on the upper deck, watching the lunch time crowds, was far better than hanging from a strap on the MTR, staring at my reflection in the window as the dark tunnel raced by. In any case the MTR stopped several blocks short of the apartment; the tram stopped on Des Voeux Road West, directly behind it.

As it emerged from Wanchai’s cramped buildings into Admiralty I saw, behind the Bank of China Tower, the white, mirrored mass of Citibank Tower. Since many brokerage firms and banks, including United American, had their offices there, I’d been inside countless times; it reminded me to call Ai Lin before she left for Canada.

"Hellloo!" she answered.

"It’s me."

"Hey sweetie!"

"You sure sound cheerful. When’s your flight?"

"Three o’clock. I’m in the limo going to the airport. I’m so happy to be getting out of here."

"You’re in a limo? Why didn’t you take the airport express?"

"Oh, I’m flying first class so they sent a limo. It’s so awesome! It’s got a little bar with a fridge, I’m drinking champagne, and I’m wearing a pair of shoes I got yesterday and also…"

"Ai Lin! You can’t afford first class."

"But Visa can, baby. And I’m on vacation! Yeah!"

"But you’ve got debt like crazy."

"Jake! I shop, you drink. What’s the difference?"

"There’s a big difference, and you don’t sound exactly sober right now."

"Jake! There’s no difference at all. Anyway, I didn’t tell you, but for the wedding rehearsal I found this salmon pink dress at Chanel and…"

The tram was passing the HSBC building. At the base of one of the stone lions sprawled an unconscious tramp. His rotten-toothed grin and the empty bottle of clear Chinese liquor he clasped to his chest suggested he was dead drunk. Most compelling was his naked lower torso, which drew quite some attention from passersby – although everyone was careful to keep their distance.

"Jake, you’re not listening to me."

"I’m sorry, sweetheart. You wouldn’t believe it, but there’s a homeless guy with his dick hanging out in front of Hong Kong Bank."

"I’ve seen him! Remember the one I told you I saw whacking off in front of Pacific Place?"

"Yeah, that was pretty funny…look, did you give Phil the contract?"

"Jaaake, I don’t want to talk about business. I’m on vacation."

"Neither do I, really, but it’s important."

"I left the contract on his desk, but he’s still in Beijing."

"When’s he back?"

"I have no idea. You know how he travels."

"You know, Ai Lin, maybe you should come back a bit early. There’s a lot of money at stake."

"Jake! This is my sister’s wedding. There’s no way I’m coming back early, and he said he’d sign. I also don’t think…"

But I couldn’t hear her because the tram was approaching some workers on Des Voeux Road Central who were ripping apart the street with jackhammers – they even had one of the big track-mounted pneumatic drills.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

It was so loud I hung up. One couldn’t go anywhere without encountering road works, a building being torn down, or a building being put up. The tram almost passed the road crew, but a red light stopped us adjacent to them, and when it turned green a cement truck straddling the rails blocked the way. By the time it moved the light was again red.

After the tram finally got moving I called her back but her phone was off. I decided instead to call Imelda. I was particularly annoyed with her for not calling me to say me she’d received the money I’d wired. In addition, I was still displeased that she was going to Sydney on such short notice.

"Imelda Ramos," she answered. In the background I heard a loudspeaker announcing flights,

"It’s me."

"Oh…hi, Jake. I’m about to fly off. I got the money and everything’s fine."

"You sound tense. What’s wrong? "

"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just running for…hang on…"

"Who you talking to, luv?" said an Australian guy in the background before Imelda covered the receiver. After a few seconds of silence she was back. "Sorry," she said.

"Who the fuck was that?"

"Roger, my colleague. You don’t know him."

"You never mentioned him before. Is he going to Sydney with you?"

"Yes, he is going to Sydney with me. What’s wrong?"

"Well, first of all you could have called when you got the money – you know, like you always do - and also I wouldn’t mind knowing about it when you’re taking a trip with some fucking guy. I mean, I didn’t even know about this trip until two days ago."

"He’s not some guy, he’s a colleague. Why are you getting jealous?"

"Imelda, I haven’t seen you for three weeks. I’d be with you now if it weren’t for this trip you’re going on with this guy."

"He’s a colleague! You can see me when I get back."

"But…"

"Jake, I have to turn the phone off, we’re going through the metal detector. I’ll call you back in five minutes, okay?"

"But Imelda…"

"Okay Jake?"

"Love you."

"I’ll call you back," she said, and hung up.

Four years earlier, I’d spent the 2 weeks between the collapse of Queenly Commodities and my first day at Cardwainright.com in Borokay. The plan was to get laid as much as possible while drinking myself senseless with one dollar bottles of San Miguel. Sitting at my resort’s driftwood bar one day, looking out at the sun dappled sea and watching Korean couples passing on the beachfront path, I’d felt a hand on my arm. I turned and there was a beautiful Filipina, whose pale skin marked her as one of Spanish descent. Her wet hair was slicked back like silk; her large breasts glistened in a white bikini.

"Greg!" she said, wrapping her arms around me.

"Uhhh…"

She kissed my lips and pulled her head back to regard me.

"Oh my god!" she dropped her hands. "You’re not Greg at all, I’m so sorry."

I could only stare back.

"I’m really sorry about this," she said, blushing. "I’ll let you get back to your beer."

"No, no…join me…"

And so I’d met Imelda.

I lied to her, of course, about my situation. Instead of telling her my last employer, Queenly, had been shut by the Hong Kong police, and that I was living on the last shreds of credit until starting a low-paying sales job at CardWainright.com, I told her I owned a successful, listed computer company – so successful I’d hired others to run it, freeing me to plot my next corporate coup.

Smiling in admiration, she lapped up every drop of it, and those two weeks with her ranked among my life’s greatest: swimming in the ocean at night and making love in the fishing boats, smoking grass together naked and watching the sunset from my balcony, and always, always making plans for a future together.

Best of all, she actually had money, for she owned a Manila investment company that managed the wealth of rich Filipinos. Even if I never amounted to anything, I reckoned at the time, she could carry me should Hong Kong become too much. But, of course, I did end up amounting to something, and who better to trust with my growing fortune than the love of my life?

Clambering down to the first deck of the tram I smiled at the memory of those far off days by the sea, but the thought of her bastard traveling companion (Who you talking to, Luv?) wiped it from my lips. I tried forcing my mind onto more positive things (after all, how many times had she said she loved me?) but it didn’t work, so after getting off the tram I went to 7-11 and bought as much beer as I could carry.

Drunk, thirsty, dizzy, and angry I staggered towards the apartment. The day had become quite hot, my suit felt tight and uncomfortable, and the stench of fish (just about every other shop in Sheung Wan sells seafood) drying in the sun nauseated me. And there, at the last corner before my door, was a worker, shrouded in a cloud of dust, attacking the sidewalk with a jackhammer. I had to squeeze against the building to get through. At one point my shoes were only a foot away from the slicing steel bit, which he didn’t bother to stop as I passed. What I saw when I turned the corner, however, made me want to turn around and go back. It was not the absence of tramps watching TV, nor the entrepreneur’s walking about muttering more agitated than usual, nor even the bitch – normally docile – straining her short chain and yowling over the jackhammer. Indeed, I barely noticed any of this, for just beyond the entrepreneur stood four cops.

I was careful not to look their way, and once in the building I picked up my pace and climbed the stairs 2 at a time. On the landing below my floor I was surprised to encounter, coming down the stairs, a stocky western guy with long red hair.

"Who are you?" I said. Other than Thomas and Inksy, I’d never seen another white man in the building.

"None o’ your bob, mate." He replied, shouldering by.

"Who was that red-headed guy in the stairs?" I asked Thomas when I got home.

"Pinky."

"What was he doing up here? Isn’t Inksy supposed to deliver the gear?"

"Pinky’s helping with our site, mate. He’s a web designer."

"This is fucking crazy, man. There were four cops downstairs just now."

Thomas’s eyes narrowed as he stroked the scar on his cheek. "What were they doing?" he asked.

"Just standing there, but I’m really worried we’ll get busted – especially if you have people coming in and out of here. I’m pretty sure they were checking me out."

"Stop being bloody paranoid. I told you before, mate, and I’ll tell you again: There’s no way I’m getting done. I spent three months in jail back in the UK, and there’s no way some copper’s going to get his finger up my bum again. They were probably just chasing those bloody vagrants off."

"Can you trust this Pinky?"

"When I lived over in Chung King Mansion, mate, a few cunts tried nick my gear. They gave me this little souvenir," he pointed to his scar. "But I fucked them up something awful; put one of the cunts eyes out, I did. Pinky bloody knows it."

"Yeah yeah I know that story. It’s still fucked that those four cops were down there."

"Just chasing the vagrants, mate. Piece of piss. Got something for you."

He handed me bag of cocaine and a receipt. Professional Services Rendered, it read, although their was no company name – no matter, Caz would sign anything. I’d also expensed the drinks at the Beer Keller.

"Cool, thanks man." I handed him HK$8,000.

Hours later, stoned and well into my eighth beer, I sat watching TV. Thomas was sorting through a pile of grass, carefully measuring it into baggies. The rattling air conditioner struggled to keep the room cool. Through a gap in the curtains I saw an old man in the next building intently stuffing sausage tubes; above him, sausages hung from the ceiling like bunches of bloodied fruit.

Thomas took a drag from the joint, made a sweeping gesture across the grass with his hand and said, "You know, this will all be legal before long. The Internet will see to that. And then I’ll be rich…retire in northern Laos, I will. Luang bloody Prabang."

"Yeah, so you keep telling us. When it happens, great. But we still need to be careful."

"Mate, it’s an established fact that George Bush and Tony Blair snort heroin together, you know, and I’ve told you about that special military plane from Columbia to Washington every week full of charlie. They’ve got bloody bowls of it all over the White House."

"I know, so you say."

"Speaking of coke, aren’t you going to do some, mate? You’ve sure got enough."

"Nah, saving it until tomorrow when we go out with those girls. Chicks love that shit."

"Tomorrow’s going to be fun, my friend. There’s five of them, and Inksy says they’re all really fit."

"Does he? I won’t get my hopes up just yet; don’t forget he’s been dating that beast Debbie."

I finished my beer, went into my room, and lay down. It was only 7PM but I was exhausted and my asthma was bothering me. A few puffs of my inhaler helped my breathing, but I didn’t sleep for a long, long while, for though I’d waited all afternoon, there had been no call from Imelda.

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