James Church - The Man with the Baltic Stare

“Our manual said ‘when the subject attempts to raise a new topic, it’s a sign of stress.’ Relax, Inspector; no one is going to bite you. And neither of us is a subject, as far as I know. Please, if you wish, assume our man is still in Macau. In fact, assume anything you want. Assumptions are fine. They are like bouquets of flowers, nice to have around. Or should I compare them to the bottled water in your hotel room? Compliments of the house.”

There was no such thing in my hotel room. No bottle, no space for a bottle. “I assume you have a full file, something other than that folder that is on your desk.” It was actually on the floor, the papers fluttering whenever the fan swept over them. Pointing that out seemed unnecessary.

“Of course I have a file. We exist on files. They are like vitamins, like oxygen, like red blood cells. Your department has another approach perhaps? Something more modern? If there is a way to the truth without files, I’d like to know what it is.”

“We swim in paper, same as you.” I surveyed the office. No computer. That was comforting. It meant not having to deal with references to nodes and links and regressions.

“You share your files with anyone who walks in the door, of course.” He walked his fingers up to the edge of the desk and then let them jump off.

“Yes, that is our approach exactly. Files to the people.” I smiled to demonstrate I was not going to be a burden on his day. “I assume you eat lunch?”

The man immediately stood up and buttoned his jacket. He had the figure of a bullfighter. “I do, as often as I can, though the limits of custom and of government regulation dictate I enjoy lunch only once a day. It is my favorite meal. Dinner has considerable freight attached to it. Breakfast is an evolutionary afterthought. But lunch! Just as the day is reaching full potential-the sun scorching, the air heavy, the restaurant cool, the dark glass along the front turning the outside into a dance of vivid color while the leaves of the ficus trees flutter in a breeze God grants only to them. And on the table, a glass of wine, a plate of chicken and rice, a freshly baked roll dozing on its own little blue plate. What could be wrong with life at such a moment?” He shook his head. “Do you favor ficus trees, Inspector?”

“I’d have to think about it.” Actually, I found them despicable trees, twisted around themselves as if they were afraid of the sky. “Why do you ask?”

“There are so many of them in Macau. They are like people.”

“Interesting thought.”

“Look at them closely when you have some time. They grow apart and then together again.”

“My grandfather thought chestnut trees were like people-old people and foreigners. He considered them cranky.”

“Interesting thought.”

“Let me buy you lunch, then.”

He bowed, a little stiffly. “My name is Luís da Silva Mouzinho de Albuquerque.” He paused and observed me through slightly narrowed eyes. “I notice you do not laugh. The name means nothing to you?”

“It’s long, but I can’t say it tickles me.”

“Good. Some people smile when they hear it. Luís da Silva Mouzinho de Albuquerque existed long ago. He was a man of many facets, and had one of those tangled lives that great people in those days lived. He was no relation to me, none that I know of, but it amused my father, who was Macanese, to name me after this man. My mother, a Chinese woman of strong opinions, was not so amused. Worse, there was never room in the space provided for ‘name’ on all the applications necessary for one’s journey through life. Believe me, it was not always a pleasure. It is also, I realize, not as easy to remember as ‘O.’ Please call me Luís.” He extended his hand. “I appreciate your invitation. It is very kind of you, but I fear I can’t accept. It would be against all regulations, in force and contemplated-part of our anti-corruption drive, our fourth in as many years. I cannot go into a casino unless in pursuit of a suspect, I cannot be in the presence of any gaming authority unless there are three other people present, no two of whom can know each other, and I cannot accept a meal if it means sitting down.”

We shook hands warmly. “You have to remain on your feet when you eat?”

“Yes, if someone else buys the meal. Standing is less corrupting, apparently. I can nibble tiny sandwiches by the plateful. I can heap on lobster, eat caviar with a shovel. But only if I stand.”

“Perhaps, Luís, there is a restaurant where we can stand at the bar?”

He bowed, with more grace than the first time. “I have heard of such a place. In fact,” he said as he straightened his tie, “I have heard it is nearby.”

“How did you know my name, incidentally?”

“This is Macau, Inspector.”

The bartender was a woman with a neck as thick as her head. All the more surprising that she had a voice as sweet as the spring breeze across a field of wildflowers. She and Luís exchanged a few words in what I took to be Portuguese. It sounded like Russian, but it was too wet around the edges.

“If you heard her on the radio,” Luís said in English to me, “you’d fall in love, as I already have.” He kissed her hand. “This is Lulu,” he said. “She can do no wrong.”

Lulu blushed, which must have put a strain on her heart. “And what would Senhor Police Captain like to start off with?” she asked. The room was suddenly a meadow in the glories of May. Exactly as Luís had said, the ficus trees rustled in a breeze; the colors of the day flowed through the darkened glass of the long front window.

“A leg, my dear Lulu. Surrender it to me or I shall go mad.” Luís’ voice was low and dreamy.

Next to this woman, Luís appeared frail; the thought of her leg worried me. “I thought you had to remain standing,” I said.

Lulu turned to me. “And you? What can I offer?” She leaned her arms on the bar top and began to remove my clothing with limpid eyes. “You prefer white meat, perhaps?”

I coughed politely. What a voice! It could make a man weak in the knees. “I’ll have what Luís has,” I rasped.

“Good, then it’s settled.” Luís looked around the bar. “I’ll have a drumstick, and so will the Inspector. We’ll hunt for the rest of the chicken another time, eh? Some wine, Lulu.” He clapped me on the back. “See what I mean about lunch?”

“This is completely against regulations, Inspector, taking you to the crime scene.” We were walking through the hotel lobby, a gargantuan, stomach-churning place not conceived for loitering or watching the passing parade. Whenever a parade did pass, it was into the open maw of the casino, where attendants in blazing orange coats kept the money moving in one direction. Most of the state security people positioned around the edges of the cavernous space were easy enough to spot. They might as well have been wearing signs. This wasn’t the result of sloppiness or inattention. It was deliberate, designed to breed confidence in anyone looking to avoid the MSS. The principle at work was simple and well proven-confidence bred contempt, and contempt bred the tiny mistake that led, without exception or mercy, to a quick trial and then a bullet in the back of the head. Some of this effort was aimed at Chinese officials gambling with money they weren’t supposed to have; some of it was a normal screen. You know there are insects, so you put up a net. Some of them you get before they come in the window; the rest you squash when the opportunity arises.

In truth, it didn’t much matter how many security officers were standing around. Every employee and every hotel worked for them in one way or another, sooner or later. A few of those employees also worked for the triads. A few more fattened their paychecks by working for a foreign “friend” who didn’t ask for much and then only once in a while but always had an extra envelope waiting for them. The old man at the Nam Lo’s front desk probably worked part-time for all three. By now, each of his employers knew an unusual guest had checked in. Even if he had waited to tell them, the bored immigration official would have already raised a flag that all three would have noticed.