Lee Weeks - Kiss and Die

‘What’s going on, Genghis?’ Ng had called Mann that ever since he had first seen him as a wild-eyed, wild-haired youth, joining the police force to change the world, full of anger and mistrust, his world shattered from the death of his father. He was older now but he was just the same inside.

Mann shook his head, threw some things off the armchair and plonked himself in it. His face was blotchy and his eyes were darker than ever, hooded and haunted. He reached forwards, tapped a Marlboro out of its packet and lit it.

Ng went to snatch the packet away. ‘You quit, remember?’ But a look from Mann and he thought better of it. Instead he began tidying, picking up the scattered papers and piling them on top of one another.

Mann drew on the cigarette.

‘What are these papers?’

‘These are my father’s life.’

Ng looked around at the mountains of paperwork. ‘All this?’

Mann nodded. ‘These files have been like reading a diary for me. They document his life in business. Over there, behind you…’ Ng turned to see that the piles, seemingly indistinguishable from one another, were actually in messy groups on the lounge floor, ‘…that was when my father started out in business. It was a small business, he made some clever moves. By the time he was twenty-one he had bought his first property. He expanded, bought up a few rival companies, made a good profit but it obviously wasn’t enough for him. To your left…’ Ng turned; there was a large triple pile of papers stacked next to one another, ‘…that represents ten years when he made money slowly, steadily, ticked along, some years were good, some bad, until…scan the pile just by your right foot, the biggest piles, this group stretched across the floor. That’s when he decided to get some help. That’s when he turned a corner and suddenly he expanded his business so fast his feet didn’t touch the ground. He had money pouring in. That’s was the year he became a Triad. I haven’t sorted through all of these yet. There is still a load to collect from the solicitors.’

‘What about that pile?’ Ng turned and pointed to a pile left just behind the door of the flat.

Mann stopped, stared. ‘I didn’t make that pile.’

Mann threaded his way through the thousands of people who had come to watch the first race of the season at Happy Valley race course. The noise of thousands of excited Chinese was deafening. He put a few hundred dollars on a horse called Last Chance. Horseracing was the only legitimate form of gambling allowed in Hong Kong. More money could be taken in one night in Happy Valley than a whole year at a fixture in the West.

Mann looked upwards towards the private members’ boxes. People looked down from their balconies and watched the races like Roman dignitaries standing in their amphitheatre, giving their thumbs up or down to the contestants. The race course was an oasis of green surrounded by skyscrapers and tower blocks.

Mann headed upwards through the stands. He had an appointment. He watched the screen as he made his way up. The race began. His horse, Last Chance, was tenth out of the stalls.

He took the lift up to the top floor, the private landing. He showed his ID. He walked on past the bowing hostess, her cheongsam in CK’s colours: black and gold. CK was well known at Happy Valley. He had invested big money in horses. It was a great way to launder money. The private viewing room was in the centre of the stadium, prime position to look down on the races below.

‘Good evening, Inspector. Thank you for accepting my invitation to meet here. The first race of the season is always the most exciting.’ CK stepped forward to greet him. ‘People have contained their eagerness for two months, not a small feat in Hong Kong. I see you have already placed your bet.’ He pointed to the slip in Mann’s hand and then looked up at the large screen that ran along one whole wall of the room. Above it flashed a continuously updated message as to each horse’s position in the race. Last Chance was now sixth. CK spoke to the elfin-faced waitress hovering with a tray of champagne and she bowed, walked backwards and left to fetch his order for Mann’s drink.

‘Yes. Have you got one running?’ Mann looked around the room. Beside him were twenty or so guests, top Triads and their officers, all trying not to stare at Mann and CK as they talked. Mann realized he was being given a rare honour of favouritism that most of these men had probably never seen.

‘Asian Gold.’

Mann looked at the screen. ‘The favourite and in the lead. Foregone conclusion then?’

CK acknowledged Mann’s compliment but made it clear he didn’t take it seriously.

‘And you, Inspector?’ He looked at Mann’s ticket. ‘You have backed Last Hope? When will you stop backing the underdog?’

Mann smiled. ‘I see it as an opportunity. I don’t see the underdog. It’s called Last Chance. There’s a difference.’

‘Walk with me.’ CK led Mann out to the private balcony above the track where they stood alone to watch the race.

The track was lit up like day. The thunder of hooves echoed around the auditorium. The screams of the people became one massive roar. Last Chance was coming up on the outside. Asian Gold was hanging on to first place. The jockey’s whip was flying around its head. A huge scream of dismay went up in unison, a gasp of disbelief. Asian Gold had fallen. Last Chance was in second place. He was gaining on the lead. His head nosed in front. He was ten metres away from the finishing line. He was a nose ahead when he seemed to slow just before he hit the line. He came second. The crowd’s roar dropped to a rumbling silence as they stood and watched the team of vets and medics run across to where Asian Gold lay. The jockey was up and on his feet. There was a few minutes’ wait and then the sound of a shot echoed through the auditorium.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mann said to CK.

‘One more beautiful creature lost to this world. But I must also apologize. The jockey on Last Chance is one that I bought some time ago. He held him back at the end.’ He turned to Mann, the merest hint of agitation in the hard line of his mouth. ‘We will dine.’

The balcony door opened. The jockey who had ridden Asian Gold stood before them, still looking shaky from his ordeal. He was holding his arm. He had hurt himself in the fall. From below came the strange sound of sadness as Asian Gold’s carcass was winched up and onto the back of a transporter.

‘But first I would ask you to excuse me for a few minutes.’

The slight Irish jockey stood with his head bowed. The elfin-faced hostess appeared to escort Mann to his table in the restaurant.

As he entered the last of the customers was being escorted out. The place was being cleared. Three of the customers were glued to the window, their hands over their mouths in horror. Mann saw why. The restaurant overlooked the racetrack. The young Irish jockey in black and gold had fallen from CK’s balcony. His body was being transported away at the same time as the horse.

‘Sorry to keep you,’ CK said as he entered the now empty restaurant and took up a seat opposite Mann at the window table. ‘The death of a horse must be investigated. Everyone involved in the event must take some responsibility.’

‘I see the jockey took it hard.’

‘Ah, yes.’ CK glanced out of the window and realized that Mann must have had a good view of the events. ‘I tried to console him but he was very distraught. He was dedicated. He lived for that horse.’

CK waited as the waiter placed his napkin across his lap.

‘This is not the best restaurant in Hong Kong of course. But I like the traditional decor, the views; I like its atmosphere. I like the silence.’ Now there was just the sound of twenty waiters with nothing to do but cater to two men’s needs as they walked softly over the stone floor and wound their way between the heavy rosewood furniture.