Ian Hamilton - The disciple of Las Vegas

“Wine is good. Red, preferably.”

Ava ordered everything in one go. Miso soup, seaweed salad, broiled eggplant, seared black cod, and a sashimi platter with yellowfin, snapper, octopus, and shrimp. She ordered the house wine, a California Pinot.

“Is Chief Francis still angry with me?” she asked.

“He isn’t angry; you just confuse him.”

“How?”

“He’s used to getting his own way and sort of takes that for granted. He’s had two meetings with you and both times you got what you wanted. He thinks you manipulated him.”

“What did you say?”

“No more than you were manipulating me.”

“That was an astute comment.”

“He also thinks you have some serious muscle behind you. Is that true?”

“My muscle arrives tonight from Hong Kong. Carlo might weigh 140 pounds, Andy a bit less.”

“What kind of names are those for Chinese?”

Their wine arrived. She watched as the waiter filled two glasses almost to the rims. “Cheers,” she said. They clinked glasses, his eyes trying to catch hers. Shit, she thought.

“Anyway, we were talking about Chinese names,” she said. “We’re given Chinese names at birth, but when we move into Western society, many of us adopt — or in my case are given — English names. Carlo and Andy chose their own names. Actually, Carlo was Billy for a while and then decided he liked Carlo better.”

“What is your Chinese name?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, Martin, that’s my secret.”

He looked up at the ceiling. “You know, Ava, I’m really attracted to you.”

“I know, Martin.” She shook her head.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I’m gay.”

She saw a hint of shock, and then disappointment spread across his face.

“And besides, I’m way too old for you,” she said.

“That’s bull.”

She smiled. “Well, maybe a bit too old.”

“The gay thing?”

She picked up his hand, pulled it towards her, and kissed the back of it. “All very true, since the day I felt my first sexual impulse. Never any doubt, never any regrets.”

“God, I feel so clumsy,” he said.

“I think you’re sweet,” Ava said, still holding his hand. “And I think you’re smart, really smart. You aren’t thirty yet and already you’re a CFO. Chief Francis listens to you as well, that’s obvious. And I don’t blame him. You aren’t afraid to give advice, and when you do, it’s thoughtful and pragmatic.”

He covered her hand with his. “That’s because I’ve told him twice to do what you wanted.”

“See what I mean? Sweet and smart.” She smiled. “Friends?”

“Yeah, friends — I told you that back in Victoria. Even if this Vegas thing hadn’t come up, you would have heard from me again.”

The restaurant was full now, people standing at the door and spilling outside. “I hope you like this,” she said as the miso soup and broiled eggplant were served.

–

It was just past eight o’clock when they left the restaurant. “What’s the plan?” Martin asked as they went down the stairs to the car.

Ava couldn’t help looking around as they walked across the parking lot. “That’s up to you. I have to go to the airport to meet my boys.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Sure,” she said as she climbed into the car.

It was no more than a ten-minute drive to McCarran. They parked the car and jostled their way into the terminal.

“You’ve obviously worked with these people before,” Martin said.

“Once or twice.”

“What is it they do exactly?”

“It depends on what’s called for.”

“That’s vague.”

“As it should be.”

Carlo and Andy came down the escalator side by side. Carlo was about five foot six and 140 pounds. He had shaved his head since she’d seen him last, and added a wispy moustache that only partly hid the scar running down the right side of his nose to his mouth. Andy was an inch shorter and a good ten pounds lighter. His thick black hair was brushed straight back and gelled into place. To her relief they were both wearing long-sleeved shirts buttoned right up to the neck. She could still see the tip of a dragon’s tail on Carlo’s neck, but she had to search to find it.

Their eyes scanned the arrivals hall, looking for her. She waved and Andy saw her. He nudged his partner and they both waved back.

“They don’t speak English,” she said to Martin. “So I apologize in advance for the fact that we’ll be speaking Cantonese.”

They each carried one small bag. Ava knew they always travelled light, getting by with a toilet kit, a couple of shirts, a pair of jeans, and two sets of underwear for a week. When they reached her, they put down their bags and pressed the palms of their hands together in front of their chests, moving them up and down, their heads bent slightly forward. It was a sign of respect, a greeting to a superior. She wondered what Uncle had said to them before they left Hong Kong.

During the entire ride to Hooters, the two men sat in the back of the car talking to each other. “I’d translate,” Ava said to Martin, “but they’re just talking rubbish.”

She checked them into the hotel using her Jennie Kwong credit card. They were, as was their custom, sharing a room.

“Drop your bags off and then meet us downstairs in the bar,” she said to them, pointing towards the Dixie Dam Bar. “We have a lot to go over.”

Ava slept badly, waking three or four times during the night, trying to get rid of a dream that clawed its way back into her head every time she shut her eyes.

She and her father were in a massive hotel. They had a flight to catch in an hour, so he sent her to get the luggage from their room while he checked out. She wandered aimlessly from floor to floor, searching for their room, poking her head through open doors to gawk at strangers. Panic began to set in. She gave up looking for the room and went to tell her father, but she couldn’t find him. She ran outside to catch a taxi to the airport, where for some reason she assumed her father had gone. When she looked back, the hotel had disappeared.

The last time she forced herself awake, she had been sitting in the cab in the middle of a traffic jam, the airport visible on the horizon, unreachable. She sat up in bed, a cold sweat on her brow. This was a recurring dream. She had lost her father in more places than she could count, but it always unsettled her.

She made herself an instant coffee and sat on the side of the bed. Then she lowered her head and said a small prayer to St. Jude, asking that the day go well and end with her and her boys safe and secure. Prayer usually calmed her, but she still felt edgy. She took a bottle of vitamin B from her kit bag and swallowed two tablets, then sat on the bed again, drawing deep, slow breaths.

They had gone over the plan the night before. Ava had presented it to the men confidently, but deep down she wondered if it would work. Sometimes, she thought, you just have to have faith.

She went to the desk, turned on her computer, and typed in david “the disciple” douglas. Ten minutes later she sat back in the chair, frustrated, unable to find anything of substance to add to the information Maynard and Littlefeather had already given her.

Ava turned her attention to Jeremy Ashton. The investment firm he had worked for in New York was the Whiteburn Group. The name sounded familiar to her, and when she accessed its website, she saw why — it was a major player in many Asian markets. She had been going to call Uncle to tell him the boys had arrived; now she had another reason.

“ Wei,” Uncle said.

“Carlo and Andy are here and there weren’t any problems.”