The following morning my mobile woke me at 11:45am. When I saw it was Orson and not Imelda I shut it off without answering.

Since it was nearly lunch I declared a holiday. I was in particular need of one; after leaving Corbin’s apartment I’d spent the evening with Inksy, Thomas and Inksy’s rugby friends celebrating his 28^th birthday. We’d started at a curry place on Wyndham Street, and after traipsing through almost every bar in Lan Kwai Fong, ended up at a Wanchai massage parlor. When, beastly drunk, I’d left for home at 5am the others where heading out for more beers.

I’d just dozed off again when the phone rang in the living room. It was quickly picked up. "Robert?" said Debbie. "Is that you?"

She listened for a moment and then knocked on my door. "Jake, phone."

"I’m asleep."

"But he says it’s urgent."

"Who is it?’

"Some bloke called Orson."

"I’ll call him back."

"Can he call you back?" she said.

She knocked again. "Jake, he wants to talk to you now. Why don’t you just take the bloody call? He says it’s urgent."

I climbed out of bed and ripped the door open, making Debbie jump back.

"Give it here."

She threw it against my chest and it clattered to the floor. I picked it up, slammed the door, and put it to my ear.

"What?"

"You trying to pull the wool over me eyes, Jakey? Eh?"

Fuck, he’d found out about United American. My head started throbbing.

"Orson…"

"Think ye can hang up the bloody phone on me? Like I was born yesterday? Eh?"

"Calm down. I’m hungover as shit. What’s going on?"

"What do you know about this Janie Chandler woman?"

"Who? Never heard of her. She some hooker?"

"Of course she’s not some bloody hooker; she works for bloody Card Wainright dot com in the states. I’ve got this nasty email from her asking for bloody facts and figures about all the bloody accounts. She says she’ll start shutting them off if we don’t bloody reply. These accounts are me bloody livelihood."

Part of me was relieved he wasn’t talking about United American, but another part of me cringed: this Janie Chandler issue wasn’t the kind of thing I liked dealing with.

"Hey, Orson, I’ll be there in about an hour, okay? We’ll sort it out."

"Bloody right," he said, hanging up.

Being woken like this after a night on the piss was too much for my lungs, which tightened with asthma. It took a few minutes of rooting through the pile of soiled laundry to find the slacks I’d worn the previous day, and then I discovered my inhaler wasn’t in the pockets – nor was it in my jacket. With a sinking feeling I remembered loaning it to one of Inksy’s friends while a group of us smoked dope in a Wanchai alley. I was in no mood to deal with Debbie as I wheezed to the bathroom.

"You were all out drinking last night, weren’t you?"

"You got a problem with that?"

"Yes, I…"

I shut the bathroom door in her face.

"Where’s Robert?" she yelled. "He’s not answering his mobile! Do you know where he is?"

"Fuck knows."

Once I’d showered, shaved and suited up – Debbie, thankfully, had retreated to Inksy’s room and shut the door – I went out and, still wheezing, made my way downstairs. On the 4^th floor landing I discovered Inksy, in his suit, sprawled unconscious in a puddle of curry vomit. I nudged his chest with my wing tip, but he only grunted and hid his face in the crook of his arm. I continued on my way. The tramps downstairs were watching TV in the heat, and waiting for the tram to Wanchai my dehydrated body broke into a heavy sweat.

All Asia News Base was located up a Wanchai alley on the sixth floor of a residential building in a converted one bedroom apartment. In what had been the living room were 5 desks - three on the left, two on the right. On the left, the first desk was piled with yellowed copies of The South China Morning Post and back issues of Card Wainright Capital Asia, on the next two were stacks of old PCs and monitors that hadn’t seen use since the early nineties. Dust covered all of it.

The desks on the right housed Orson’s two-person sales team, Dickie and Carsolita. Dickie’s desk was a barren expanse of wood except for a calendar, two piles of neatly stacked papers covered with impeccable Chinese handwriting, and a section of bamboo full of pens and pencils. Carsolita’s was strewn with papers, and stuck to the wall above it were dozens of pictures of Carsolita and her Filipina friends; many had been taken at Sunday picnics in Central, but there were quite a few in Wanchai night clubs, some in the club where Orson had first discovered her.

Dickie was out, but Carsolita was in, and leapt up when I entered: "Jake! So good to see you my darling! How are you? Have you been drinking again?"

"Hi. I…"

"Why you no call, Jake? I miss you so much."

"I’ve been busy." I let my eyes track down her body: she wore pink hot pants and a low-cut top that showed her tits to brilliant effect. Tattooed on the inside of her left breast was a heart circled by a banner, on which was written "DJ."

"How are sales?" I asked.

"Ee! New account! Blinder Robinson."

"The brokerage? That’s an excellent company. How much?"

"One thousand US, we beat Hootens!"

"Way to go," I said. That worked out to US$400 per month for me, not bad for a morning in bed, but then I remembered what I was there to see Orson about.

"Why you frown, Jake?"

"Nothing, just not feeling well."

Through the glass partition to the inner office I could see Orson, toad-like, staring at me through a haze of cigarette smoke.

"I gotta talk to Orson."

She stood her ground, forcing me to brush past her.

"I see you soon?" She said. "We must talk, very important."

"I’ll call you."

"No, it’s important," she squeezed my hand.

"Sure, I’ll call."

Orson’s desk filled most of the small room; behind it he sat on a big leather chair from which poked tufts of pale blue stuffing. Visitors were obliged to sit on plastic stools opposite him, their backs against the window with almost no leg room.

I closed the door and took a stool. The tightness of the space and his cigarette aggravated my asthma.

"You look like shite," he said.

"Thanks." He didn’t look too hot himself, what with the bags under his eyes and his stained teeth. The varicose veins that lined his face were darker purple than usual: he was clearly agitated.

"Hungover? Eh?"

"A bit."

"Want a beer? Bit o’ hair of the dog?"

"You got one?"

"Carsy!" he shouted. Scratching his pelt of white chest hair, he leaned forward and whispered: "What you think of those pants, eh? This morning, to get my mind off that bloody email, I made her carry monitors in and out so I could watch."

"Yes, Orsie," said Carsolita from the door.

"Be a good lass and fetch us four Boddies."

Once she’d left Orson stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes glaring.

"Look me in the eye, Jakey, and tell me I can trust ye."

"You can trust me. You know that."

"But can I? Eh?"

"Show me this email."

He turned his laptop toward me so I could see the screen:

I looked up to see Orson watching me closely. He took a drag from the cigarette he’d lit while I read. Aside from the smoke, the only thing that moved for a few moments was a roach that scuttled from the wastebasket to a crack in the wall.

"The fucking dike is on to us," said Orson.

I leaned back, closed my eyes, and groaned.

"I’ve got two bloody families plus me lifestyle to support and this bloody happens," Orson said. "What the hell am I supposed to bloody do? Eh?"

I’d always taken it for granted that I’d be safe in Borokay, enjoying my millionaire’s retirement with Imelda, by the time anyone realized what we’d been up to. If worst came to worst, though, the US$600,000 or so I did have should be enough to see me through, although I might have to get a job tending bar or perhaps I could open a used book shop.

"Maybe Cockie can help us," said Orson. "I’ve arranged some young lasses over in Kowloon this afternoon. Why don’t you come along? We can ask him about this shite."

"Cockbottom? I doubt he knows anything. Except for getting you this distributorship he’s never had any interest in us, and now that he’s so close to retiring all he does is drink all day. I also heard the CEO back in Chicago is really keen to ease him out, so if anything’s going on he’s probably not in the loop."

"Ah, Dickie’s back," said Orson.

I turned to see Dickie, laptop case in hand, entering the front office. We waved at each other through the window.

"Are you sure I can trust ye, Jakey?" said Orson.

"Orson, seriously, whose side do you think I’m on? I’ve got as much tied up in this as you. "

"Then what’s going on at United American?"

"Nothing. I’m working with somebody there, and if a deal comes in you’ll be the first to know about it. This Janie Chandler email is pretty worrying."

Orson lit another cigarette and stared at me for a moment; I shrugged and shook my head. Had Dickie spoken to him about United American? The scoundrel!

"What you going to do about the email?" he asked.

I thought about it for a moment. "All right…I’ll write back to her tomorrow and tell her we don’t have time to answer her. If nothing else it’ll buy us more time. I’ll copy you."

"Well," he said slowly, "that takes care of that. Dickie might have uncovered something big."

"BCCI? I was there with him yesterday."

"No, Bond Corporation."

"Bond Corp? Really?"

"Dickie!" Orson yelled, jabbing a lance of pain into my head. "Dickie!"

Dickie burst through the door, visibly pleased at the prospect of joining our high councils. "Yes, boss?"

"Dickie, tell Jakey about Bond Corp."

"Ah, big, big deal. Ten thousand US per month."

I stared at him, amazed: two US$10,000 deals in one month was unprecedented. Like BCCI, Bond would bring me US$4,000 per month, and all for nothing. I had to do something, anything, to get rid of this Chandler woman and her bloody meddling.

"Regional?" I asked.

Dickie nodded.

"But there’s a problem," said Orson.

"What?"

"Alicia from Hootens," said Dickie. "She propose regional deal."

"Bloody bitch," grunted Orson.

"Just undercut her, like always," said I. "Remember, there’s only one way to win business - price."

"MBA, man," Dickie gave me a thumbs up. "Ebbers MBA number one way to go. I need to make some calls."

"Good work, Dickie," said Orson.

Dickie returned to his desk and Carsolita entered with four large Boddingtons. I took one and drained half of it in one pull. It eased my headache and asthma immediately.

"About this email," said Orson, "You sure you know of nothing?"

"Nothing. You know how little I have to do with those fucking bureaucrats in Chicago."

"Not a word from Caz?"

"Nope."

"Because me livelihood depends on these accounts. I got two families ye know and…"

"Dude, chill. Everyone in that US office is a fucking idiot. They can’t even find Hong Kong on the map, or Asia for that matter. The amount we siphon off is irrelevant. Do you think they really give a rat’s ass? I get their damn newsletters and all they ever talk about is employee’s first, employee’s first, employee’s fucking first. We’re not hurting anybody, and I’m an employee, and I’m putting myself first." I leaned back, adding, "and I’m putting you first, too."

"But with me wives and children –"

Orson’s mobile rang.

"Cockie!" he answered.

Grinning, he listened for a while. "Okay, I’ll be right down. I got some good uns’ lined up today, very first class. I’ve got young Jakey here too. We’ve got some business we need to discuss with ye."

Orson and I went downstairs and down the alley to Hennessy Road. Presently Cockbottom’s black Range Rover appeared. Orson waved and it pulled up to the curb.

In the driver’s seat sat Tika, Cockbottom’s diminutive Gurkha bodyguard, and in the back sat Nigel St. Llewellyn Cockbottom himself, all 300 pounds of him. I climbed in the front (the humorless Tika had to remove his kukri from the passenger seat) and Orson joined Cockbottom in the back. Cockbottom must have been walking outdoors a short while before, because sweat had seeped through the fabric of both his shirt and jacket, and he kept mopping his bald pate and its great red birthmark with a blue handkerchief. His other hand clutched a drink, from the look of it a white wine spritzer.

"Shouldn’t you be working, Stratton?" said Cockbottom as we pulled out into the traffic.

"I suppose, but hell, I need a bit of time off. I was in the office all weekend and until ten every night this week - totally swamped."

"That’s the problem with you Yanks, you don’t know when to stop and enjoy the finer things."

"I guess I’m a workaholic."

"Never mind, I used to be a workaholic too. Pity how time flies."

And if only half of what Orson had told me was true, then Cockbottom had indeed been a prolific workaholic at one time. The two of them had met in Malaya back in the fifties. Cockbottom at the time was a junior officer in British military intelligence, busy fighting the communists, and Orson was a pimp, busy providing young Asian women to British sailors and soldiers.

After leaving the military, Cockbottom had moved to Hong Kong and started the monthly magazine Capital Asia in a Wanchai Hotel, the Nam Kok, with just himself and two reporters. Over time the circulation had grown, the magazine had become a weekly, and bureaus had cropped up all over Asia.

By the late eighties it was the dominant weekly in the region. In 1988 U.S. publishing giant Card Wainright and Co., anxious to break into Asia, had bought out Cockbottom in a deal worth about US$50 million. Hence was Card Wainright Capital Asia born. Cockbottom still, from what I understood, retained a 20% stake in the magazine, and sat on Card Wainright’s board in Chicago. He’d insisted that he remain publisher until his 70^th birthday, something that Card Wainright’s hard-charging U.S. executives had only reluctantly agreed to: as much as they wanted Capital Asia, Cockbottom’s lavish lifestyle was the anathema to their hunger for profits and profits alone.

Tika drove the Range Rover as if he was still in Nepal: very fast with constant pressure on the horn and plenty of weaving in and out. In no time we were out on Gloucester Road passing Great Eagle Center going toward the harbor tunnel. I twisted around to join the conversation. In that position Tika’s erratic driving jerked my neck every few seconds, exacerbating my asthma. As the distance between us and Sun Hung Kai Center grew I thought of the spare inhaler in my desk.

"Are they good ones?" Cockbottom said.

"Nice and young, mate," said Orson. "Just how you like ‘em. And these may come in handy."

Orson dropped 2 blue pills into Cockbottom’s hand. He popped both in his mouth and washed them down with his wine spritzer.

"Don’t know if they’ll be much left for you, Stratton, after I’m finished," said Cockbottom, wiping his quivering jowls with the handkerchief.

"We got five lasses," said Orson. "Enough for all."

"It’s your lucky day, Stratton," laughed Cockbottom. "Anyway, it’s actually fortuitous that you’ve come along. An old friend of mine with the Malaysian police is involved in a narcotics smuggling investigation, and I thought you may be able to help out in light of these recent developments at Card Wainright dot com."

"Narcotics?" I said. Did he know about Thomas and Inksy? And what was this about Malaysia? The Malaysians hung drug smugglers...and what recent developments at Card Wainright.com?

"There’s a syndicate running something very nasty to Malaysia," he continued, " and…"

"What recent developments at Card Wainright dot com?" I said.

He stared at me, surprised. "Haven’t you heard?"

I glanced at Orson. His varicose veins had flushed dark purple, and his cheeks were puffing slowly, as if he was hyperventilating.

"No. What’s happened?"

"Nothing of any great import in its own right. Those people – our esteemed American colleagues, I mean - in Chicago have decided to merge Card Wainright dot com with Hootens dot com."

"What?" Orson and I said.

"Apparently the two can save money if they join forces. Keep it under your hats, chaps, because it won’t be officially announced until tonight. Strictly need to know at this point."

In shock, I twisted around to face forward. We were in the harbor tunnel (which forced Tika, for once, to drive in a straight line) and the traffic stretched away and disappeared where the tunnel rose to Tsim Sha Tsui. Fuck, a joint venture with those bastards at Hootens. Perhaps that was the reason for Janie Chandler’s email. What if I was given a Hootens boss in Hong Kong to watch over my every move? What would happen to my retirement fund?

"What about me?" said Orson. "What about me bloody livelihood?"

"I’ve no idea," said Cockbottom. "But I’m sure things can be worked out. You’ve been an excellent distributor for years, Orsie, and I’m sure Hootens will be delighted to have you distribute Hootens dot com as well."

Not bloody likely: Hootens had their own sales team, and their sales manager detested us. Moreover, Cockbottom hadn’t the slightest clue as to how Orson and I’d been running things.

We emerged into the sunlight of Tsim Sha Tsui and headed for a toll booth, where Tika paid the attendant.

"Will I have a boss in Hong Kong?" I asked.

"I’ve no idea, but a bright young shilling like yourself, Stratton, with an Ebbers MBA to boot, should have no problem working his way to the top. I have every confidence in you. I’m sure you’re relieved to have a chance of escaping the, er, career cul de sac you’ve been in these last few years. As to this narcotics…"

"What about me distributorship?" blurted Orson. "Me bloody livelihood depends on it. How am I supposed to support me wives me children and me bloody lifestyle if…"

Cockbottom’s mobile rang.

"Cockbottom here…sorry, gents, it’s Lavender calling from Dartmouth, have to take this. Yes, my darling, so good to hear from you…"

For the rest of the ride Cockbottom and Lavender, his old bat of a wife, discussed their retirement home in Dartmouth, England. There was little to listen to, though, for Lavender was doing most of the talking, leaving Orson and I alone in silence to stew in our doubts about this most-unwelcome news.

We drove up Nathan Road for a while before Tika pulled off near the Yau Ma Tei MTR station, drove west for a few blocks, and stopped in front of Mid-Nite KTV, a swank-looking karaoke lounge. Chinese crowded the street and there was not a gweilo in sight: Cockbottom was careful to keep his peccadilloes well away from Hong Kong island.

"I say, Lavender, I have to go into an important meeting. Can I call you back, love?"

I stepped onto the pavement. Johnny Ching, impeccable as always, advanced from under the awning and seized my hand. Even though he wore a tuxedo, and had been waiting out in the heat, his smooth complexion betrayed no hint of sweat.

"Jake, long time no see."

"Good to see you too, Johnny. You look terrific."

"Thank you, but wait until you see girls Orson pick today. Very beautiful."

He greeted Orson in similar fashion but absolutely fawned over Cockbottom, who had lumbered around the back of the Range Rover with Tika in tow.

Cockbottom, for his part, was so keen by this point that he dropped his phone when he tried to pocket it. Johnny sprung so quickly I was surprised he didn’t catch it before it hit the ground.

"Where’s the lasses?" Cockbottom said. "Where’s the lasses?"

"Come this way, Mr. Cockbottom," said Johnny, handing him the phone. "Come this way."

Two waiters held the doors open and Johnny led us into a small lobby with mirrors floor to ceiling. In one corner was a fountain. Pissing water into it was a porcelain cupid that looked suspiciously as if it were made of plastic. From here we climbed two flights of red-carpeted stairs – we had to go slowly on account of Orson and Cockbottom, who both muttered about the lack of a lift – and then walked down a long hallway lined with wooden doors with numbers. We came to room 14 and entered, leaving Tika outside – to stand guard, I supposed.

A big U-shaped couch lined 3 sides of the room and in the middle was a large coffee table. The walls and ceiling were again mirrors; at the couch-less end was the door through which we’d entered and a big TV for karaoke, which we probably wouldn’t need. We settled on the couch, ordered drinks from Johnny, and were left alone.

Cockbottom could barely contain his excitement; he kept running his handkerchief over his sweaty skull and fretting with his tie. When his drink came (which was almost immediately) he swallowed about a third in one gulp, as did I with mine, although I drank not from anticipation for women, but from shock at the Hootens news. Orson looked distinctly unhappy, quite unlike him when a fleshy romp with Thai hookers was in the offing.

Orson started to talk about his distributorship, but Cockbottom gave him a cross look, shutting him up. When the girls walked in Cockbottom twisted his bulk around to face them. "My, you’re darling wee lasses," he said.

And lasses they were, 5 prime specimens of Thai womanhood. In sheer black robes they stood in a line before us. Then, smiling, they let the robes slide to the floor. All wore black lingerie, and the full get up at that – bra, panties, stockings, and suspenders. Not one looked a day over eighteen, but it’s always hard to tell with Asian girls.

"You two," said Cockbottom, patting his lap. "Right here."

Giggling, two on the end all but jumped into his arms, two others leapt on Orson, and the last one – she was tall with big tits for a Thai girl – came over and straddled me. She stank of perfume, and I noticed a red mark in the shape of fingers around her throat.

"I lucky you most handsome," she said.

She was right: Across the table I could see the tight bottoms of two teenage girls, and around each of their waists were wrapped Orson’s hairy forearms with their old, leprous-looking tattoos – a cross on the left arm, a sword on the right. I closed my eyes and began caressing her.

"What you name?"

"Jake," I said.

"Jake! Jake! You friend so oooold!"

"Slap her for that, Stratton," laughed Cockbottom.

"Shhh," I said, slipping my hand down the back of her panties. The skin of her bottom felt incredibly smooth. "My friend’s a very important man. What’s your name?"

"Ooyyyy," she said, gripping my erection through my trousers.

"Sorry, gents," said Cockbottom, heaving off the couch with the aid of the 2 girls. "Nini, Bood and I are going for a nap – ha ha."

"Remember to wear a rubber this time," said Orson.

"They haven’t made one big enough yet!"

We had a laugh at this and then Cockbottom & friends were gone.

"We go roooooom," Oy whispered in my ear.

"Oh yeah."

Oy collected her robe and we left Orson, who finally seemed to have forgotten about the joint venture. Out in the hallway a grinning Johnny Ching was walking towards us, having just deposited Nigel St. Llewellyn Cockbottom, renowned Publisher of Card Wainright Capital Asia, and two teenage prostitutes in a well-mirrored bedroom.

"You want bedroom, Jake?"

"You bet."

We climbed to the third floor and came to a hallway above the one we’d just left. It was much dimmer. Outside one of the doors was the dark shape of Tika. I was relieved when Jimmy gave us a room several doors away from him: the walls in such establishments are thin, and listening to Cockbottom’s grunting and groaning, however amusing, would murder my libido.

After Johnny left Oy locked the door. The room was a decent size for Hong Kong; in one corner was a bathing area with a tiled floor, a toilet, and a shower stall in which stood an inflatable plastic raft. There was also a double bed and a coat rack, where I hung my trousers, jacket and shirt. The walls and ceiling were, of course, all mirrors.

Oy undressed and we stepped into the shower. After she got the water adjusted properly – it was a good strong stream like in a hotel room, much better than the trickle at my apartment – I put my hands up against the green tiles and she lathered me up with liquid soap from a dispenser on the wall, paying extra attention to my erection, which she scrutinized for any of the cuts, abrasions, scabs, warts, and other souvenirs single white men in Asia have a proclivity for collecting.

"You very clean," she said. "Very nice…biiiig."

"Why thank you…I fuck you here," I said, running my hand down her bottom shoving my soapy middle finger a good way up her tight anus.

"Ee! Use condom okay?"

"No problem" – I’m not stupid.

After the shower she dried both of us and we went to the bed. I took a condom – a Chinese brand that, worryingly, I’d never seen before - from the box on the bedside table where I also found a tube of KY jelly. I made the girl kneel on all fours before me. Then, nearly bursting with lust, I spent a good 2 minutes juicing up her bottom, sliding in first my forefinger, and then my forefinger and my middle finger together.

When I finally got my dick into her she didn’t like it all and tried to pull away, but I was twice her size: leaning forward I placed my arms on either side of her head, using her shoulders to pen her bottom against my hips. She squealed when I started thrusting, but she was so deliciously tight and it was so fucking wonderful to watch in the mirrors that I couldn’t help myself and thrusted harder and harder and suddenly I was coming like all fury.

Then, finished and disgusted, I jerked my dick out, prompting another squeal. She was so tight the condom had slipped off when I ‘d pulled out. I watched her tugging it out of her rectum.

"That was terrific," I said, laying down and closing my eyes.

Angry, she slapped me on the chest and went to take another shower – the Thais are the cleanest people in the world. I closed my eyes and dozed off; my breathing had become easier and I’d stopped thinking about the joint venture.

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