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THE STORYTELLER FROM HONG KONG

by DAVID FUNG

Table of Contents

  1. THE PREFACE
  2. THE SIGHTING
  3. SOUNDING OUT THE ADVERSARY
  4. THE DEAL
  5. THE COLLABORATION
  6. Chapter one: The First Kill according to The Porcupine
  7. THE NEW VERSION
  8. Chapter Two: The Colombian Adventure according the Porcupine
  9. RUBBING SALT ON THE WOUND
  10. Chapter Three: The Locked Room Murder according to The Porcupine
  11. THE THAW
  12. Chapter Four: The Case of the Sinister Black Glove according to Charles Garcia
  13. THE TOILET FIXER
  14. Chapter Five: The Case of the not so Peaceful Demonstration according to Charles Garcia
  15. FORBIDDEN LANGUAGE
  16. Chapter Six: Close Encounter with the Dragon Lady according to Charles Garcia
  17. THE AIR-CON FIXER
  18. Chapter Seven: Cops and Robbers according to Charles Garcia
  19. OLD FRIEND GONE
  20. Chapter Eight: The Case of the Virgin Patient according to Charles Garcia
  21. OF MARRIAGE AND FISHING
  22. Chapter Nine: The Case of the Missing Jockey according to Charles Garcia
  23. LUST AND EMPTINESS
  24. Chapter Ten: The Men Who Can¡¦t Be Killed according to The Porcupine
  25. MR. JONES AND THE BUTTERFLY
  26. Chapter Eleven: The Case of the Japanese Serial Killer according to Charles Garcia
  27. THE MIRROR DOUBLE
  28. Chapter Twelve : A Tale of Two Lovers according to Charles Garcia
  29. LAST CASES


ONE

THE PREFACE

I AM UNDER GREAT PRESSURE writing this preface. I am struggling to make it entirely my own work. The original title of this book was MEMOIRS OF T.B.C.I.T., the last five letters standing for The BEST COP IN TOWN, which is me, Charles Garcia. But I was told by the Porcupine, whom I have coerced into working with me that this title was no good, a bit contrived, even sounded cheap. Finally, I had it changed to THE STORYTELLER.
But basically, this book is my memoirs, about a police officer's life in Hong Kong and Macao. Personally, I still think the original title is better. Contrived it may be, it serves to reflect the bizzare life here, as the cases in my book will reveal.
I am fifty-four years old, a Portuguese born in Macao, retired and writing my memoirs in Macao.
Macao is a tiny seaport an hour's ride by ferry from Hong Kong. I own a house here.
Both Hong Kong and Macao are on the coast of South China, two famous colonies formerly under British and Portuguese rules respectively. They were made even more famous when China demanded their return to Chinese sovereignty and Britain and Portugal meekly conceded. If you have never heard of these two places, you must be living in a place without television or newspapers. Hong Kong was returned to the Chinese in 1997. Macao followed suit shortly afterwards.
I still believe that I am the best cop ever to emerge from Hong Kong and Macao. I have cracked almost every case I have ever come across. I rose up the ranks to be one of the top twenty men in the police force in Hong Kong. I could have remained in that position if not for the fact that the British government had to hand the colony back to China in 1997 and it was more convenient that the top men be local Chinese. Being a Portuguese had no chance at all.
I have also been in Internal Affairs, the Political Branch and the Anti-corruption Branch where I helped, as a matter of speech, chopped off some heads. I have later also dabbled in security consulting and even politics. No policeman I know of in Hong Kong has done all that.
Now that I'm retired and writing about it all, my memoirs should prove interesting reading material. But there is always this nagging feeling that something is amiss. I realize what is missing the moment I catch sight of Joseph Bickford The Porcupine again. He's the one that got away. My record would be perfect if not for him. He has slipped through my fingers twice. Now I realize that I have been trying not to think about him. That is the nagging feeling.
The sight of him is opening my old wounds.
It must have been over twenty years since I last saw The Porcupine. That was when he eluded me the first time. The second time, I didn't actually see him with my own eyes. This man has never looked dangerous, even less so now. If you were making a movie and needed to cast a jovial, chubby, very harmless looking little man, The Porcupine would be the perfect choice. He could easily be the target of a hit man, certainly not the hit man himself. But he was a hit man, now retired. Life is so deceiving on the surface.
It is so unfair for such a man to survive and live in retirement. But there has been nothing I could do about it. Nobody ever had anything on him. He disappeared a long time ago, not to evade me, just vanished. I heard several years ago that he had retired.
This time when I spot The Porcupine again, I am in Macao writing my memoirs.
The chief breadwinner here was and still is a flourishing gambling industry catering mainly to the Chinese tourists from Hong Kong and Taiwan. Being a Portuguese, I have mixed feelings about both hand-overs. Britain and Portugal helped develop and shape both places and should take credit for that. They don't deserve the humiliation of giving back what they have built. But when you get to the bottom line, life is all about survival for the fittest. China is getting fitter and fitter while Britain is still a lioness but has lost all her teeth, all talks and no bite. Portugal is even worse off. You don't hear Portugal having her say on international matters anymore.
I don't particular like the British but they had provided me with a good life. I was born in Macao and as with most Macao-born Portuguese, is fluent in Cantonese---- which is the common Chinese dialect these parts---, English and of course Portuguese. Which gave us an advantage over the local Chinese majority. That, however, did not mean more opportunities unless you didn't want to look far ahead and content to be a policeman in Macao all your life. That would be a fine job. You could trample all over the local Chinese and get to take the usual bribes. I would say 95% of all Portuguese policemen in Macao were corrupt. This was a colony of which the main industry was gambling. The gambling industry is like an open wound. It breeds maggots. But maggots can grow just so big. All the big shots came directly from Portugal. I guess Lisbon didn't trust us local born Portuguese that much. So the real chance was to go to Hong Kong. The writing had actually been on the wall. The favored currency in Macao was Hong Kong dollars, not the Portuguese issued Patacas. In the casinos here, when you place your bet in Patacas and wins, you will be paid in Patacas. When you place your bet in Hong Kong dollars and wins, you will in theory be paid in Hong Kong dollars. But they will try to pay you in Patacas unless you protest. In Hong Kong, we were useful to the British. We were non-Chinese but were fluent in Cantonese and English. We knew how to step on the Chinese and had no qualms about it. Those days in Hong Kong, the British were first class citizens with the Chinese third class. We were in between. The Chinese were shit to us. We Portuguese and the Chinese were shit to the British. We were just the better shit. We were like slave handlers, respected by neither the master nor the slaves, but we got a better deal than the slaves. The Chinese, who was the majority in Hong Kong, was like a huge sausage sandwiched between two thin slices of bread of different colors. The strangest stories evolved under this extraordinary combination.
I started out as a maggot in Macao but soon found my way to Hong Kong.
I thought my life was successful until The Porcupine appears again.
What am I going to do with him? I can pretend that he does not exist but I know that won't do.
He is to change entirely the way I am to write this book.
His reappearance has caused me to rewrite this preface five times already. In fact, this is the sixth writing.
Later, The Porcupine even suggested changing the title of this book. I have given in to his pressure. But this piece of preface is still mine to write. Maybe I have to keep rewriting it because I am trying to write the preface even before the book is finished. It is only about 3/4 finished at this writing. This man Joseph Bickford has such manipulating power that my book is threatening to become more and more his book. This man can square a circle just by talking about it. This preface must remain mine and mine to write only.

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TWO

THE SIGHTING

IT IS A HOT and humid July night, just after midnight. Charles Garcia is with two old friends at the bar of the Casino Lisboa in Macao when he spots Chin.
One of the friends is Ricky Cruz, formerly a local Portuguese police inspector who has retired just before the hand over. A small dark man in his late forties with a thick black moustache and pimple-gutted face like the skin of an orange, Cruz thinks this a wise move since the Portuguese would no longer be the superior race. "We may actually have to work," he has said earlier, "It's not worth it. Not at this kind of pay." He would pack up and move back to Portugal later. For the meantime, he is just relaxing and indulging in a little gambling. After a losing streak, they have retired to the bar. Cruz said it would be wise to wait for the wind to change. When Macao was under Portuguese rule, they would deliberately let him win some money every time he came. But not any more. Now he has to play it straight.
The third party is Jimmy Parker, a Briton who was a police inspector in Hong Kong. He has also left the force after the hand over, seeing no future for him in police work, but stayed on to do some private security work.
Garcia and Parker do not like gambling but Cruz is to some degree addicted. They tagged along as there was no better place to go and the drinks were free.
Parker is a big man, also in his late forties with reddish close- cropped hair. He has small but intense blue eyes. Several white scars mar his pink face and neck, which make him look tough. Though he has maintained modestly that these are souvenirs received during barroom brawls, which he had lost. He is always loud and sarcastic.
He swirls his scotch, looks around in disgust and remarks, "Looks like they are still doing well. Looks good on the surface anyway. Like we are visiting hell."
"Like hell. And that's looking good?" asks Garcia.
"A prosperous casino should have a hellish atmosphere," joins in Cruz, "lots of people without souls congregate here."
"That, old chap," laughs Parker loudly, "is precisely what I meant."
They have a point here. The ceiling of the casino is designed somewhat like the Sistine Chapel in Rome. Looking down at the tables is a giant dome, hand- painted intricately with angel-like figures. But a chapel would never be so noisy, with so many people cursing, only a few shouting in excitement at their good luck. And most of the people, mainly Chinese, smoke, the cigarette smoke rising like an eternal blue haze, which even a potent air-conditioning system fails to clear entirely. Some parts of hell should look like that.
Having said what he has said, Cruz is a little sheepish. "I only came here to relax," he explains, "I never gamble away my life savings. Not like all those crazy people around us." As his self- defense seems lost on his companions, he quickly changes the subject. "Look at them. All those ugly people with lots and lots of money to burn. It's so unfair, that ugly people get all the money." For it is known that the small people wager huge sums in Macao, dwarfing all other gambling establishments in the world. In return, Macao offers no extravaganzas like those in Las Vegas. The profit margin is astounding.
"That's fairness for you." Snorts Parker, "Those who don't get the money get the looks. Those who get the money look shit. It would be grossly unfair if one gets both. Of course God sometimes slips. We two look like shit without the money while our good friend Garcia here is so handsome he could be the better-looking brother of Sean Connery. He gets all the girls and he's so stinking rich. And he is fifty four years young looking forty five."
Cruz eyes Garcia with some envy. Garcia just smiles modestly. It's not the first time someone says that. That's all true, maybe except for the part about girls. He has never married and does not have a female companion at the moment.
Anyway, Garcia is too busy to comment on that because that is when he catches sight of The Porcupine.
The man is at a blackjack table to their right, contemplating the cards before him.
"See that chubby Eurasian in a grey shirt?" Asks Garcia of his companions..
Being ex-policemen, Cruz and Parker know better than to look directly. Cruz turns right all the way, pointing to the lobby, pretending to talk to Parker about something there. Parker follows his finger and pretends to answer. In the process, both men take a good look at the man.
Cruz turns back halfway, now facing the man but focusing on his left. "A loser," he mutters, "chewing furiously on something, must be a piece of chewing gum. His eyes tell you that his soul is lost. A winner would get his soul back momentarily. If he was chewing gum, he would chew with affection."
"Know him?" Parker is curt.
"I'm not sure." Garcia answers. But what he is not sure is what to do. Then he decides. "I want to know all about this man. Can you do it?"
Parker looks at Cruz, since Macao is Cruz's turf.
"No problem," Cruz promises without looking at the man again, "I still got my connections. I'll find out what he is or what he is not for you."
He fishes out a mobile and begins to dial.
"Once a copper, always a copper." Mutters Parker.
Both have no intention to ask why Garcia wants to know about this man. Between cops, some questions are just never asked.
Cruz gets up, walks in small circles on the lush carpet, speaking softly into the mobile for about two minutes, then returns and retrieves his drink.
Then they see a Chinese youth with hair dyed golden appears behind The Porcupine, puts his hand on the latter's shoulder and speaks into his right ear. The Porcupine chews on his gum some more, gets up and leaves with the youth with golden hair.
"You work that fast?" Parker asks Cruz in awe.
"Not my man," Cruz says, "I think our friend there is in trouble. You just don't put a hand on somebody's shoulder when he's gambling. That is considered very bad luck by the Chinese."
"So that was not a friend." Says Garcia.
"I'd say he's a thug sent by a loan shark," says Cruz, "maybe your friend is behind on his payments."

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THREE

SOUNDING OUT THE ADVERSARY

JODEPH BICKFORD, OR THE MAN Charles Garcia believes is Joseph Bickford The Porcupine and whom we will call The Porcupine at the meantime, has a hotel room above the casino. He did not rent it. The room came with his boat ticket from Hong Kong. Most regular players get this kind of VIP treatment. The policy is to lure you here by every means possible. You usually leave without your money. Regulars joke about a trip to Macao as "taking a bath". You invariably get cleaned up.
The Porcupine has returned to his room about an hour after he left the casino with Golden Hair. He is a rather small Eurasian with dark hair and skin fairer than the ordinary Chinese, is handsome as with most men with mixed blood, but not so handsome as to becoming a heartthrob with girls. Especially now that he is in his early fifties and a little plump, and that he is always a sloppy dresser.
He is handsome in a way that even when he was young, he would give the opposite sex the impression that he is a caring, intelligent man that could be trusted. Women would think that he could be counted on but would not turn on by him in a sexual way. But very few women would be impressed if they have seen him giving away his money like it is going out of style at the blackjack table. He is just one of many Eurasians so abundant in Hong Kong and Macao, the result of over one hundred years of ruling by the British and Portuguese with inter-racial marriages becoming more and more commonplace. Unlike the post war concoctions produced in Japan, these Eurasians are generally not discriminated against by the local Chinese majority who tend to judge on personal achievements rather than the blood or colour of skin. They are discriminated against by the British and Portuguese though. Now The Porcupine's face is glistening with sweat, which also soaks his now very shabby grey shirt. He is still chewing gum and looks very tired.
The room is small, containing just enough furnishing for a guest to have a good sleep. For most people who come to Macao for the gambling, they only go to sleep reluctantly when they have lost their shirts. A sleep yes, but a good sleep is doubtful.
The first thing The Porcupine does is to turn on the air-conditioning. Then he walks over to the window, lifts a corner of the blind, sighs and looks out, waiting for the cool air to take effect. He sees that his room is almost on top of the giant legs. The legs is a famous feature of the casino. They are in the shape of a woman's naked legs, sculpted with cement, several stories high and straddling the main entrance. Meaning that anybody entering would have to pass under the crotch of a giant woman. The Chinese consider the private parts of a woman unclean and passing under it brings extreme bad luck, especially at gambling. The management of the casino must have been the champion believer or they would not have gone the length to build this. Still, people came through between these legs into the casino. Some were skeptics. For others, the lure of gambling was just too strong. Some did complain and over time, side doors were opened to get around the big crotch. Still, people lose their money one way or another. It's actually simple math. The casinos have overpowering odds. They have to be, because they invented all the rules.
The air in the room has begun to cool. The Porcupine takes a deep breath and releases the curtain. He has already unbuttoned his shirt and kicked off his shoes. Now he starts to pull down his pants. He is wearing a pair of washed out blue jeans, which tends to cling to one's legs and usually won't just drop to the floor. He has to stoop to pull each leg off.
His left leg is up in the air and not yet cleared of the pant leg when Charles Garcia silently steps out from the small bathroom behind him. Garcia's right foot whips out, slamming the man's right ankle, which is the only foot supporting his body at the moment. The ankle leaves the floor. The man loses his balance totally. His legs tangled in the jeans are no help. He lands on the floor heavily, sprawling in a grotesque position. His head somehow ended up under the bed and the wad of chewing gum has found its way on the gray carpet, glistening like a pearl.
The Porcupine untangles his head from under the bed, turns and is looking at the muzzle of Garcia's gun.
"No, no, please don't," he holds up his hands before his face and pleads frantically in English as Garcia is obviously an English speaker, "I have no money."
"Prove it." Garcia orders softly, also in English.
The Porcupine gets up on his knees, pulls out the side pockets of his jeans, one of which contained a weathered black wallet. He shakes the contents of the wallet onto the carpet, showing some cards and a few small bills. He pats his back pockets to show they are obviously empty. The pocket of the grey shirt yields a pack of Spearmint chewing gums, half empty.
"The credit cards are all overdrawn. This bankcard is useless. I don't have any money in the bank." Says The Porcupine.
"Get up and sit on the bed," Garcia orders and retreats to sit in a small sofa at the corner between the bed and the door.
The man starts to pull up his jeans.
"No," Garcia again orders, "leave it there, between the legs." Police training has taught him that when no handcuffs are available, this would be a good way to subdue a suspect, especially if the suspect was wearing jeans, which is difficult to fling off in a hurry.
The Porcupine sits down on the edge of the bed, jeans down between his short fat legs.
Garcia suddenly chortles, "Leopard prints?"
He is referring to what the man is wearing under the jeans. The logical guess for such a man would be boxers in plain color. But now showing is a tong in leopard prints.
The man shrugs and waits.
Garcia waves his gun. "Do you really think I'm here to rob you?"
The Porcupine frowns in puzzlement. Garcia, as usual, is immaculately attired. Even at around 3 a.m. on a hot summer's night, he has managed to look fresh in an expensive cream-colored three- piece suit. His grass green silk tie should worth at least three days' rent of this room. His dark hair, which has only a few speckles of silver, is combed tidily back, with not a strand out of place. He moves his wrist slightly and a slim platinum Piaget half shows its diamond-studded face from under the cuff of his pale yellow cotton shirt. He indeed looks like a six-foot version of Sean Connery in his prime. People just don't go mugging dressed like that.
"What do you want?" asks The Porcupine.
Garcia's gun raises slightly to aim at The Porcupine's forehead, his grey eyes hard as metal.
"No," The Porcupine shakes his head in disbelieve, "you are not going to kill me over such a small sum of money. Besides, I have already reached an agreement with¡K." He stops. Garcia certainly does not look like an executioner sent by a loan shark either.
"I'm going to kill you." Garcia says softly.
"Why?" asks The Porcupine, the small dark eyes on his quivering face peering at Garcia, trying to find some hint of an answer.
"You don't remember me?" Garcia asks.
The Porcupine looks hard at Garcia, but his eyes betray nothing. "I don't know you."
"Try going back twenty years." Garcia suggests.
The man ponders a little more. "I still don't know you." He insists.
"I am Charles Garcia, retired police detective superintendent of the Royal Hong Kong Police. You have slipped through my fingers twice before, but you are not going to get away this time. You have put on weight, your voice is deeper, and you have improved your English a lot. But you are Joseph Bickford, nicknamed The Porcupine. The nickname means that you should be approached with caution. Joseph Bickford from an English father and a Chinese mother. The father in fact was an Eurasian who was a British subject. Father and mother separated when you were only a young child. You grew up in Hong Kong and is a Hong Kong citizen. I can recite your file backwards."
"Ah," the man's face brightens, "mistaken identity. I am not Joseph Bradford¡K"
"Joseph Bickford." Garcia corrects him.
"Anyway," the man waves, 'I am not Joseph Bickford. I am Frank Lawson. Here, look at my cards." He stoops to retrieve the cards from the floor. Among them is a pale blue laminated card with his photograph on it. It is an identity card issued by the Hong Kong Government. By law, citizens are required to carry it at all times.
"Means nothing." says Garcia in contempt, "Faked papers is a basic tool of trade for a professional hit man."
"A what?" The Porcupine exclaims incredulously, "I am Frank Lawson, head clerk for Grant & Wasser law firm in Hong Kong. That's why I speak good English. You have to speak good English to work in a law firm in Hong Kong, you know. The laws there are based on English laws and they are still trying cases in English." He selects a business card and offers it to Garcia, which Garcia ignores.
The man sighs and shows his palms, "What can I say, except that you are making a mistake? I am not the man you are after."
"You are Joseph Bickford, and I'm going to kill you." Says Garcia.
"If you are so sure," The Porcupine is suddenly quite calm, "you would have shot me in the back outright."
"You seem to have pulled yourself together quite well." Garcia observes.
"I have worked in a law firm for almost thirty years." The Porcupine explains, "This is not the first time somebody pulled a gun on me. Our firm handle criminal cases. We get our share of nasty clients. A couple hours ago, a thug sent by a loan shark accosted me. He had a gun on him. But we settled over a few drinks. People with guns don't want to shoot unless there is absolutely no other way out. You don't want to shoot me. So, why don't we work this out in a civilized way?"
In Hong Kong, a head clerk in a law firm is a unique position. He does not just do the paper works as his title hints. He is a lawyer's right hand. A lawyer learns his trade in law school, but that is not enough. He needs to know the people, the culture and the dirty tricks. That's where a head clerk comes handy. A head clerk has no formal degree but he knows every trick in the book. A good head clerk is an invaluable asset. He advises the lawyer as to the way a case should be handled and he negotiates the fees. He is always a good negotiator.
If this man is really what he claims to be, a head clerk in a law firm, he would be a good negotiator too.
"I could kill the wrong man just to make sure and then go after the right one." Says Garcia.
The Porcupine shakes his head slowly. "There would be no satisfaction that way," he says, "I don't think you want to do that. Maybe I can help you find this Joseph Bickford. I have my connections."
"What connections?" Sneers Garcia, "You can't even get away from a loan shark."
"That I cannot do." admits The Porcupine, "You owe somebody money, you must pay back. I cannot cancel a debt for you. But my connections can help you postpone payment on a better term. This I have done for myself a short while ago. If you are looking for a man, there maybe something I can do to help you."
Garcia smiles wryly. "You have me there again, Joseph. You slipped through my fingers twice, then vanished. Now when I see you again, you deny that you are Joseph Bickford. What am I going to do with you?"
"Speaking as the head clerk of a law firm," says The Porcupine, "I'd say that you turn me in. "
"You know I don't have any evidence," says Garcia, "You are not on the run. You just got away with it and then disappeared. Besides, I'm retired. I'm not on the force anymore. I can't reopen a case."
"So why are you here?" Asks The Porcupine bluntly.
"I know you are Joseph Bickford The Porcupine." Garcia says.
"If I can prove I am somebody else, would you leave me alone?' Asks The Porcupine.
"No." answers Garcia.
"Can I pull my pants up?"
"No."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"Hey, I'm supposed to be the one asking questions." Snarls Garcia.
The Porcupine throws up his hands, "Okay, go on, ask me questions."
Garcia says nothing.
Somehow, the bastard has again gained the upper hand, like before. How can I beat him at his own game? But I'm still holding some aces. I have sounded him out earlier. He is physically weak now. He is trying to talk his way out. I can kill him now or come back to kill him anytime.
"Can I say something." Asks The Porcupine.
"Go on."
"In the law firm," says The Porcupine, "when a client comes with a case, he does not get to see the lawyer right away. He sees me first. It is not important whether he is on the right or wrong side. I always ask what is it that he wants, then try to figure out a way to get him what he wants. His case may be a sure loser, but I can always manage to let him get something for his money. The most important question in life is what do you want. You don't seem to have made up your mind on that. What do you want?"
"Why don't we all sleep on that?" Garcia says, "Come to me tomorrow night at this address. Half past nine." He hands the man a card. "And don't try to skip town. You leave, you are dead."
"As you wish." The Porcupine shrugs. He is obviously in no position to refuse.
Garcia gets up and walks towards the door.
The Porcupine starts to pull up his jeans.
Garcia whirls around suddenly at the door, gun cocked pointing at The Porcupine. "Changed my mind." He snarls.
"No, wait." Shrieks The Porcupine, hands flying to shield his face.
The gun cracks and the bullet hits The Porcupine on the forehead.
The Porcupine spins around, frantically searching for blood on his face, wondering why he is still alive.
There is no blood.
Garcia laughs. "Toy gun. Shoots plastic bullets. I wouldn't be caught carrying a real gun around. But I can assure you that someone would use a real gun on you if you tried to run."
He throws the gun on the bed and leaves.
Feels so good to scare the daylights out of him. I will beat him. I swear I will.
The Porcupine picks up the gun after Garcia is gone and takes a better look. "Jesus," he mutters "nowadays, toy guns look so real. There should be a law against making this shit."
He tosses the gun into the wastebasket, pulls off his jeans and goes into the bathroom to take a bath.

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FOUR

THE DEAL

CHARLES GARCIA HAS a beautiful place on the top of a small hill, overlooking the tiny city that is Macao. It is a small cream-colored bungalow, single story, built at the turn of the century but has gone through some modern modifications, notably the air-conditioning and a wide picture window overlooking the winding, tree-lined road leading up to the house. The sea is in the back. The best houses here choose not to face the sea because Macao is situated at the mouth of the Pearl River estuary. With the muddy river flowing endlessly into it, the sea always has a dirty yellowish tint.
Garcia's ancestors had bought this house some seventy years ago. The Portuguese still own some of the better properties here. The new government is quite civilized. It is up to the Portuguese to hold on or sell out and leave. Garcia has no money problem so he never planned to sell his house. He is especially proud of the plants. The plants are very old. They are living history. You can spend millions to build a new house but you just can't have very old trees in the garden and very old vines clinging to the walls.
Macao is a very small place. With an area of around 33.8 square kilometers, anywhere is within fifteen minutes' drive. Some 436,000 people, the majority being Chinese, work and live here in laid back style. As it caters to big-spending gambling tourists, most luxurious goods are available and tax-free. It is a perfect place to do some serious writing.
The Porcupine has kept his appointment. This time in a dark red shirt and grey pants, and still chewing gum. He sits in the sitting room, half-sunken in a huge cream-colored genuine leather sofa, his feet resting on lush white carpet, the long hair of which half-burying his gray socks. Across the sitting room is a lavish dining room, big enough for a dinner for eight. The inside of the house is exquisitely decorated and furnished like a picture out of the brochure of a high end Scandinavian furniture store.
The Porcupine looks out of place here, for his shirt and pants are cheap, run-of-the-mill stuff. He has the sense of leaving his unpolished leather shoes out on the porch without Garcia asking. His grey socks, also cheap, though clean, somehow seem threatening to leave stains on the white carpet. Garcia, on the other hand, is at his usual dapper best. He is wearing a beige polo shirt, long-sleeved, a pair of pure white cotton trousers, with a pair of beige socks to match, all expensive stuff.
Garcia has shown The Porcupine around the house. The study with its high-tech equipment, the luxurious bedroom which The Porcupine would have no reason to go in, a playroom with a pool table and an antique pinball machine, the gleaming bathroom and kitchen. Garcia has not, however, shown The Porcupine the garage at the back of the house.
Now The Porcupine is floating in that sofa, relaxed. That he is relaxed, however, could be menacing to the host. For this means that he could become careless and spoil the place any moment. It is a beautiful place all right, but some would not call it comfortable. But then it is Garcia's idea to talk and work here.
The air conditioners in the house are not on to let in the cool natural sea breeze. Garcia has opened a bottle of his vintage wine but has it to himself because The Porcupine would drink only cold beer from the refrigerator, which Garcia considers poor taste. But The Porcupine is at least honest about it.
"Don't waste good wine on me," The Porcupine has said, "I can't tell a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of wine from a bottle of urine."
This Garcia has to admire. He couldn't help telling The Porcupine about the people who passed themselves off as connoisseurs. Garcia would treat them with a bottle bought at the local supermarket for HK$30 (US$4), poured first into a decanter of course to hide the label. They would roll the cheap wine between their cheeks, utter the usual "ahs" and proclaim it excellent stuff. Good body, pleasantly fruity, excellent year, etc.
"There are three kinds of people," The Porcupine has commented, "The gentleman which I am not, the creep which I am. But by far the worst is the hypocrite."
He did not point out which category Garcia belonged to.
He has gone through the outline of Garcia's memoirs on a laptop.
Garcia has been waiting for his comment but all The Porcupine has said was, "Good, very good." Which meant absolutely nothing.
The whole bottle of wine has been consumed. Half a dozen empty beer cans is in a tray on the coffee table. Then Garcia falls asleep on the couch and snores.
The Porcupine slurs, "Hey, wake up. Let's talk some more."
He reaches out for Garcia, but falls short and crashes onto the floor.
He gets up on his knees and tries again.
He gets hold of Garcia's arm this time and shakes it. Garcia snores some more.
Suddenly, The Porcupine is dead sober.
He stands up straight, looking hard at Garcia. Garcia snores lightly.
The Porcupine turns quickly and disappears into the study. He re-emerges two minutes later, stops and looks hard at Garcia again, before turning and slipping out of the front door.
The Porcupine lets himself out of the elegant antique wrought-iron gate of the front garden and starts down the winding road leading from the house in a quick trot.
He has taken three turns when he hears the powerful roar of a sports car. Headlights flood him as a metal gray open top vintage Aston Martin bears down on him.
The Porcupine freezes at the roadside.
The car screeches to a halt inches from hitting him. Garcia is in the car, now sober as ever. He crooks a finger to beckon to The Porcupine. The Porcupine sighs and climbs in beside him.
"Don't tell me you were going out for a walk." Says Garcia when they are back in the house.
"I didn't know I was a prisoner here." Says The Porcupine.
"You don't leave until I tell you to," says Garcia, "especially not with one of my cheques."
"What cheque?" The Porcupine's eyes flash white with innocence.
Garcia waves a chequebook. "This was in my study drawer. You took out the last cheque along with the stub. Very clever, as the remaining cheques are still in consecutive order, it would be a long time before I found out a check was missing. But I was a very good cop and I still am."
The Porcupine fishes out a fresh stick of chewing gum from the pocket of his now sweat soaked shirt, sticks it into his mouth clumsily and starts to chew furiously without saying anything.
Garcia takes a remote control from under the coffee table, flips on the big screen TV in the living room. The Porcupine's image appears on the screen. It is a videotape playing, showing The Porcupine in Garcia's study, opening a drawer in the desk, takes out a checkbook and doing something to it.
"The age of hi-tech," gloats Garcia, "everything is recorded by security cameras."
"So call the police."
"The cheque please." Garcia extends his right palm.
The Porcupine opens his mouth, pushing out the wad of gum with the tip of his tongue. It is not the usual wad of gum. Garcia can see the shreds of paper mixed into it. The Porcupine has put the stolen cheque into his mouth and chewed it along with the gum.
Garcia curses and tries to snatch it. But the wad disappears quickly back into The Porcupine's mouth.
The man swallows, his Adam apple bobs up and down a few times.
"Evidence gone." He smiles.
Garcia snarls as he whips out a gun from under his shirt and points it at The Porcupine.
"A real gun this time, I assume?" The Porcupine says calmly, "But you don't want to shoot me."
Garcia takes a deep breath, turns and goes through a French door out onto the porch, disappearing into the darkness of the garden.
The Porcupine produces a fresh stick of gum and puts it into his mouth.
Garcia is back a few minutes later, gun gone.
The Porcupine spreads his hands, "Why don't you let me go and forget all about this?"
"No." Says Garcia.
"Now we are back where we started. What exactly do you think you want?"
The bastard is playing the game so well. But he is right. Make up your mind about what you really want.
"I'm retired," says Garcia, "and you are retired, right?"
"I'm not retired," The Porcupine says, "I'm still working for my law firm. I'm on annual leave right now."
His story checks. What Cruz has found out for me is exactly what he has told me. I don't know how he does it, but his story checks as the background check performed by Ricky Cruz has shown. Or is he really Joseph Bickford The Porcupine? I can't find out by way of comparison because I have not talked to him that many times before. But he must be Joseph Bickford. The resemblance is no mistaking.
"I can't put you away for lack of evidence," says Garcia, "so you have nothing to fear."
"Except that I'm not Joseph Bickford."
"I'm writing my memoirs," Garcia says, "and I'm writing you in. I want the truth from you. I have found you again after all these years. Now that everything is over, you tell me the truth and I put them in my book."
"Now that would make very interesting reading," says The Porcupine, "but I'm still not Joseph Bickford."
"Like you said," Garcia says, "it all depends on what you want. And I know you need money."
"Now you're getting interesting," beams The Porcupine, "how much are we talking about?'"
"I have bought your debt from the loan shark." Says Garcia, "I can write it off and then pay you the same amount again."
"How about doubling that?" says The Porcupine.
"Done." Says Garcia. The doubling part he has expected.
"Very good," says The Porcupine, "I'll tell you this. I'm still not Joseph Bickford. But I'm an excellent storyteller. Much, much better than you are. We will start tomorrow night. You provide me with some facts and I'll tell you the story."
"Why not now?" asks Garcia.
"I have to make my rounds at the casino," says The Porcupine, "I get bored easily talking to you."
"Okay," Garcia glares at him, "but don't expect me to bail you out again."
"Maybe I'll get lucky this time." Says The Porcupine.
At last I have made him agree to talk. He who talks most eventually slips. I'll get him all right.

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FIVE

THE COLLABORATION

THE PORCUPINE RETURNS TO THE BUNGALOW in a taxi the following night, still chewing gum. He is glowing. He carries with him a small handbag, which is obviously new. The handbag is bulging with, what he can't wait to reveal, cash.
The Porcupine throws stacks of rubber-banded large bank notes on the coffee table. A chunky gold Rolex on his wrist dazzles Garcia's eyes. A gold Rolex is a favorite accessory among gamblers. It can easily be pawned up to 70% of its bought value. You pawn it when you need capital, buy one back when you have won. Maybe too late to get back the original one, but the same thing is widely available in shops next to pawnshops, second or third hand or even more. You can never tell the times each of these watches has changed hands.
"I see you got lucky." Comments Garcia dryly.
"I have won more than enough to pay you back." Laughs The Porcupine.
"And then?" asks Garcia.
"We stick to our deal." Says The Porcupine.
"I'm surprised." Says Garcia.
"Luck is something you can never hold on to," says The Porcupine, "you have brought me luck, I'm going to hold on to you."
"The money doesn't have legs. It won't run away by itself if you quit gambling."
"We all know what we shouldn't do." Says The Porcupine, "Knowing is easy. The hard part is not doing it. What makes life so interesting is that so many things we shouldn't do are there for us to do. Anyway, it's time to go to work." He rips open a can of cold beer for himself and then asks, " Where were we?"
"You have gone through my outline last time and I have asked you what did you think." Garcia reminds him, "Well, what do you think?"
"Like looking at a conveyer belt." Says The Porcupine.
"A what?"
"You have outlined a lot of cases you have cracked, but I see no surprise elements. A crime is committed, you gather the evidence, then put your man away. Everything falls into the right place."
"Well, it's the way it happened." Garcia's face darkened.
"Then it's not worth writing about." Says The Porcupine, "Like I said, the all important question is, what do you want? To whom do you want to sell your book?"
"This is not a commercial project." Says Garcia.
"Ah, you don't need the money." says The Porcupine, "Maybe you are rich enough to publish it yourself, so you don't have to take any nonsense from a publisher or an editor. But still, you want it to be read, right? In order to make it read, you have to make it salable. You watch movies, do you?"
"I've had my share." Says Garcia.
"A movie, a romantic movie for instance. If it opens with boy meets girl, then they fall in love, get married, have beautiful children and then ends with the family living happily ever after, would you be satisfied? No. Because it's like watching a conveyor belt working. The same parts are always transported to the right places. You watch it for a while and you fall asleep, or leave cursing. That's why a good story always has a catch. Boy meets girl, he falls in love with her but she loves someone else. Or maybe she with him but he is married with a wife who doesn't understand him. He can't leave his wife for one of a dozen reasons. And so on. If something is wrong with the conveyer belt, you sit up and pay attention, wondering how things would turn out."
"You mean I should lie about it?" Asks Garcia.
"No. How about putting some more truth in it?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nobody is perfect. How about telling some of your imperfections? Maybe some blunder? That way, the reader will be on your side. That's salesmanship."
"If you are so good, how come you are in such a tight spot?" Garcia's face is red, and not from the amount of alcohol he has consumed.
"Your question answers itself. " says The Porcupine, "I'm imperfect. The one thing that's ruining me is my love of gambling. But I'm a good salesman, and I tell good stories."
"I want to tell true stories." Says Garcia.
"No true story is entirely true," says The Porcupine, "Let's say you have gone to a brothel and a girl there gave you gonorrhea-----"
"I don't go to brothels!" Snaps Garcia.
"Okay. Suppose a writer is writing a success story about himself and he had the unpleasant experience of getting gonorrhea from a prostitute. Or maybe one time he has peeped at the girl in the opposite window changing without his wife knowing, would he write about it?'"
"We are not dealing with pornography." Shouts Garcia angrily.
"What I'm talking about is dramatization. What to put in, and what to leave out. It depends on the kind of a story the writer was writing. For a story about success, he would leave the dirty part out. For a study on the dark side of human nature, however, he would put in the sordid details, even if he had to invent some. You want me to tell you true stories and write about it, but you yourself would throw in only some empty shells. That's no good." Says The Porcupine.
"Why don't you tell me a story first and show what you can do?" Garcia compromises.
"As you are paying me to do so," says The Porcupine, "it is only right for me to start the ball rolling. Yes, I will tell you some really good stories. I will start with my first kill. You can put it in your book as another chapter if you like it. By the way, you must have read that Bible of criminology, THE MIND OF A KILLER by Christopher Van Houten?"
"Of course." Says Garcia.
"Not that I'm so widely read," says The Porcupine, "That book happens to be on the desk of my boss and he sometimes quotes from it. Chapter two, quote, a killing is sometimes born out of necessity, unquote. Remember?"
"Sure." shrugs Garcia.
The Porcupine shuffles through some notes given to him earlier by Garcia. Garcia notes with envy that The Porcupine does not need reading glasses even at his age, which is 51 according to Garcia's source. Garcia himself however does, having tolled with his glasses on to produce these notes in front of his computer, although he has put away his glasses now. No need to let The Porcupine see them. There is no need for him to read anything in the presence of this Joseph Bickford.
"This is also about the first time Joseph Bickford has eluded you." Says The Porcupine, "This case is not in your outline. Not writing about it is lying. Writing about it makes interesting reading. I will tell it the way Joseph Bickford would. A dramatization based on materials provided by you. Just a story of course, since I'm not Joseph Bickford. Now, tell me what you think had happened, then I'll tell you my version and you can write it down. I can tell stories but I'm not good at writing them." ¡@

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SIX

Chapter one: The First Kill according to The Porcupine

ACTUALLY THIS WAS the first time I had killed a man. It was necessary. You would have killed him too if you'd got the guts.
It was a hot, humid summer's night. Just like this night when I am telling this. But time slips back some twenty-three years.
Temple Street. On the peninsula side that was Kowloon. Hot but quiet. It was quiet and peaceful in most parts of Hong Kong then, hardly a soul on the streets after midnight. Nowadays, you can never be more than twenty feet away from people at all hours.
The man was Kwok. He had called me on the phone just before midnight and told me to come to him. I was already in bed. I got up and went hurriedly as he was the Big Brother of our gang.
I ran up the two flights of wooden stairs to this flat. The stairway was pitch dark. There should have been a light bulb on the ceiling but as it was, someone always stole the light bulb and after a while, nobody would bother to put on a new one any more.
I could hear the sound of pounding inside the door, as if someone was doing a serious massage. I found the doorbell by feel and pressed it. It didn't ring. So I knocked.
Inside, someone yelled, "Harder, harder." obviously not to me.
I knocked some more. Then someone opened the battered wooden door with a creak. It was the kind of wooden door that needed to be bolted with a horizontal bar inside, no lock and key.
It was Ho, a member of our gang, who opened the door.
I went in and Ho just pushed the door shut. There was no bar to bolt it.
I had never been to this place before. I didn't know what was going on or why I was summoned.
I walked in further and saw this half- naked man on the floor. He was covered with bruises. Blood seeped from under him. I didn't know who he was as his face was facing the wall. But he groaned and I knew he was still alive.
The place was bare and had a musty smell. Must be a vacated flat. Kwok was sitting in a battered folding chair, which was the only furniture.
It was the kind of old fashioned flat with no rooms except the bathroom and the kitchen. Oblong in shape, one end of it comprised the front door with the other end opening to a veranda facing the street. There were no windows on both sides.
There was no light on. The only light was the streetlight coming from outside the veranda. The electricity probably had been disconnected. That's why the doorbell had not rung. I guess we were just trespassers here.
Another man was standing to the right of Kwok. He was Poon, whom I knew but was not particularly friendly with. We had played soccer together a few times in the public playground.
"Kick him! And this time harder." Kwok ordered in a high-pitched voice.
Ho and Poon proceeded to kick the man on the floor. The man just groaned but did not move. He seemed too weak to struggle.
Lucky for him, Ho and Poon were not working very hard and were just going through the motions.
"Harder!" Kwok screamed and clapped his hands.
He looked drunk to me but I could smell no alcohol in the air.
"You too." Kwok turned suddenly and yelled at me.
I was startled and ready to run. Then I realized that he was ordering me to join in the beating.
"Er-----"I hesitated. This was not my cup of tea. Besides, I didn't even know the man on the floor.
"Do it or you will join him on the floor." Kwok screeched. He seemed to have trouble with his breathing. Some part of his respiratory system was obstructed somehow. What was certain was that he had a heavily stuffy nose. Much later, I learned from books that some people have this problem when highly excited. The common example is that when a person is sexually aroused, his or her nose would become stuffy as small vessels in the nose are dilated. Some actually get drunk.
Kwok was drunk with the violence he was incurring.
I quickly decided on a way to get around this. I retched, rushing into the toilet and pretended to be sick. It turned out I didn't need to pretend. The toilet was so dirty and the smell so foul my whole dinner tumbled out.
The trio almost bowled over with laughter.
Kwok called me a coward loudly.
Well, better to be a coward.
Fortunately, the water supply was still intact and I could clean up before going out again.
My cowardice was a welcomed interruption for the man on the floor too. For the beating had stopped. He turned weakly to face the ceiling and I could see his face for the first time.
I was horrified to see that he was Tam, a young man from our neighborhood. Tam did not know me but I recognized him because he had been dating a girl I secretly admired. He used to ride a bicycle to the small store she worked to visit her. Her parents owned the store. They would chat and she would smile her sweetest. I was not his competition, mind you. Tam was a decent kid and I always thought he and the girl were just right for each other. The girl didn't even know I existed. I just watched her from a distance. I mean, you would love to look at something really beautiful but never wanting to possess it too.
"What has he done?" I asked.
"He stared at me," said Kwok, "and I brought him here to be my guest."
It was then that I realized that Kwok was totally mad. Mad enough to kill with the scantiest of excuses.
He was the bully at the playground we used to play soccer. He would chase away others so we could have the soccer field all to ourselves. Kwok was not a particularly big man, in fact no bigger than me. But he was known as "Crazy Kwok" as he would go berserk at the slightest provocation. People didn't think it worthwhile to fight him. Besides, it was rumored that his old man was a big shot in the triad. This had never been proven. He just used to boast about it, and this was not the sort of thing people would press for proof. I have watched Kwok in a couple of playground fights. He won both times, chasing away bigger opponents. Years later, a boxing coach explained to me that it is fearlessness that counts most in a fight. "If you show you are not afraid for your life and would kill to win, your opponent would lose the will and back off. He would not think it worthwhile to stay on."
I had met this Kwok and Poon and Ho and a few others playing soccer at the playground. We were all young men in our early twenties with nothing much to do. We drifted together and Kwok sort of adopted us and became our leader. Probably because we were lazy and Kwok was aggressive enough and we were content to let him do the hard work to lead us, and because Ho and Poon were stupid. That they were all Chinese and I was the only Eurasian made no difference. As long as we could communicate. I was fluent in Cantonese because I had grown up among the locals. My English was acquired and polished later. We had not been up to anything evil, just play soccer and tell tall tales, not until tonight.
"Well," I said, "looks like he's had enough."
"Yes," Kwok laughed, "now we're going to give him a treat."
He waved and Ho picked up a thin red plastic bag in the corner on the floor. He shook out the contents and I saw they were plain breads. Ten in all, each about six inches long in the shape of a large mango.
"Now eat, " Kwok ordered Tam, "Eat them all. You would be insulting me further if you leave one crumb."
I was again horrified. A big man would be very full eating three of these. Tam had to eat ten, and without water.
Tam was obviously in no mood for eating, nor was he in shape to eat by himself.
"Feed our guest," Kwok ordered, "you too, Joe."
We proceeded to force feed Tam with the bread. He was too weak to refuse. We just stuffed chunks into his mouth. He swallowed sometimes, but threw up from time to time, creating a mess. Ho and Poon were stupid morons. They thought this funny. Earlier, they had been reluctant to beat Tam simply because it was too much hard work. They were mocking Tam the whole time. I was even more horrified to hear that they had earlier force-fed Tam six hardboiled eggs. There were eggshells on the floor. And they had been torturing Tam at the whims of Kwok for twelve hours, starting at about noon.
Tam was going to die. Kwok was far from finished with him.
It was then that I remembered the times Kwok had boasted about killing several people in this manner. I had never taken him seriously, but now I realized that he must have told the truth. He had talked about torturing a man this way. The next step would be to burn the victim with cigarettes. And the most horrible part was that he had talked about killing one person who refused to help him with the torturing. He had talked about disposing the bodies in an old mine. I didn't know where the mine was but he had said there were numerous bottomless pits in the mine. He would throw the bodies into the pits and they would never be found.
He would kill me too if I tried to stop him. Ho and Poon was stupid and would listen to him. Maybe I could escape but Tam would certainly die. Tam did not deserve to die. But Kwok must die.
Any other person in the same situation would probably be just thinking of running away or going to the police somehow. But I decided that Kwok must die. Maybe it was the killer instinct in me.
"Now you believe me, do you?" Kwok was addressing me.
It was chilling. He was proving it to me. That's why he called me here.
Tam threw up again and I deliberately cupped my hands to harvest the vomit. Then I flung my hands in disgust. The filth splattered all over the faces of the three men. They swore and tried to wipe it away. I ran into the toilet, yelling at them that the better way would be to wash it off with some water.
Ho and Poon followed me but Kwok ran into the kitchen. It was too crowded in the small toilet and besides, he instinctively wanted to be in a class of his own.
I cleaned my hands while Ho and Poon stooped to wash their faces. I rushed out to grab the folding chair. Ho and Poon didn't know what hit them. I hit both of them from behind, hard on the back of the head with the chair, first Ho and then Poon. They collapsed like sacks of flour.
Kwok had finished cleaning his face and was coming out of the kitchen. He was pulling his shirt up to wipe his face so he didn't see me waiting for him.
"You okay?" I asked.
He thought I was there to help him and was off guard. "Sure I'm okay." He answered.
He let go of the shirt and I slit his exposed throat cleanly with the knife. The knife was extremely sharp. One swipe and his throat split open. Blood spurted out as if from a burst pipe. He flailed blindly, unable to find his own throat. He fell to his knees, eyes opened wide, the eyeballs threatening to pop out of their sockets. Then he collapsed on the floor, twitched and died.
Tam had been facing the wall again, so he didn't witness all this. Anyway, he was semiconscious and was oblivious to what was happening around him.
I ran out the front door, taking the knife with me.
It was at this moment the police arrived. Sirens were wailing downstairs. Why were they here? Why hadn't they arrived sooner?
Boots were thundering up the wooden stairs.
There was only one way for me to go. Up.
I ran up the remaining flights of stairs silently and came out on the roof of that five-story building. I looked around and cursed. That particular building turned out to be standing alone so there were no adjacent buildings to provide alternative stairs for me to run down and escape safely.
I would not jumped off the roof to my death.

THE POLICE FOUND me some twenty minutes later, unconscious on the roof, a bump in the back of my head bleeding.
When I was patched up and released from hospital, I was face to face with Charles Garcia for the first time. He was with homicide then and it was his job to interrogate me.
I maintained that I was forced, along with Ho and Poon by Kwok to torture Tam when a big stranger barged in, killed Kwok and knocked out Ho and Poon. I escaped to the roof but the stranger caught up with me. The last thing I knew was a blow to the back of my head.
Of course you can guess by now that I had bumped my head against the wall myself and pretended to be unconscious.
Garcia did not believe me but he did not beat me into confessing, as was the normal practice then, probably because my lawyer had arrived.
Garcia said he was certain I had killed Kwok but they could not find the knife even after a thorough search. Without a murder weapon to tie me in, he had to let me go. It was because of this incidence that I got the nickname The Porcupine. I looked a little plump like a porcupine, but not defenseless as I was covered with quills. Press me and I would shoot out my quills. You don't approach me with caution, and you get hurt too.
Tam recovered with no permanent damage. A few weeks later, I watched, from a distance of course, that he was well enough to ride his bicycle to visit his girlfriend. They talked and she laughed happily. My heart glowed with warmth. I had done the right thing. They did not have to know what really happened.
Three questions would pop up as you are reading this.
Where did the knife come from?
Where had it gone afterwards?
How come a street-delinquent like me could summon a lawyer so quick? At that time in Hong Kong, a lawyer was a luxury only the rich and powerful could afford.
These are also the questions Mr. Garcia puts to me when I am telling him this story. After more than twenty years, I can finally disclose the secrets.
The knife was taken from Ho after I knocked him out. It was a spring-handled stiletto. I knew he carried this knife with him at all times. He was extremely proud of it. "Blow a hair against the blade and the hair would break in two," he had used to boast. This was never put to test, but the knife was very sharp all right, he used it to shave his legs. He was stupid, but not stupid enough to admit he had the knife after what had happened. Besides, he was not sure it had been his knife that had killed Kwok as the murder weapon was never found.
When I got to the roof and discovered there was no escape route, I knew I had to get rid of the knife. Throwing it down into the street would not do, as it would surely be found. I did not know enough then that I could wipe my fingerprints off. But in hindsight, this might not have been a good idea as the police was very powerful at the time. They could press my fingers onto the handle to get my prints if they had gotten hold of the knife.
I knew I still had a little time. The police would search the roof eventually but not immediately.
I looked around and saw a pipe standing on the opposite roof about 15 feet away. It was a pipe that led straight down under the building and connected to the toilet pipes of each floor. When a toilet was flushed, the air would rush up through this pipe to release the pressure. This pipe also led to a septic tank underground. The building I was on top of was an older building with no flushing toilets, so it did not have a similar pipe. ¡@
The opening of the pipe was about six inches across.
I carefully gauged the distance and threw the knife over. There would be no second chance. It was a stroke of luck. The knife dived squarely into the pipe. There were clinks as it slid down along it, to sink into the septic tank underground. It would still be there if the building has not been torn down to give way to a new high-rise. Anyway, it should be rusted beyond recognition after all these years.
As to the lawyer, I really can't explain it. To this day, I still don't know who sent him. The lawyer himself probably knew but he would not tell me. Maybe it was someone who had seen the killer instinct in me and decided I had the potential. I became a professional hit man after that. The lawyer arranged some training for me but essentially, the ability emerged itself. I did several jobs for him in five years. Then the lawyer died, he was a very old man. I was never contacted by the same source again and I was on my own.
I can see that Mr. Garcia does not believe me as I tell it now. But what the hell, I'm just telling a story.

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SEVEN

THE NEW VERSION

GARCIA IS WITH Parker and Cruz again. They are drinking but this time in a small Portuguese restaurant. Garcia has chosen not to go to the casino because he knew that The Porcupine would be there. The Porcupine is taking a break again. Work a little and play hard, he has said.
Cruz strikes up conversation after a long silence and asks Garcia, "My information of any use to you?"
"What?" Garcia pretends to have forgotten about it, "Oh, that. I made a mistake. I thought it was a man I knew."
Must drop the subject entirely, for I may kill The Porcupine eventually. I have checked his story. The septic pipe part may be true. An old colleague working in the police archive department has reviewed the file and did find an old photograph showing such a pipe on the opposite roof. However, the building in question has been torn down long ago. An office building is standing at the site now, twenty stories high. I have taken his fingerprints from the beer cans and have them checked. They are different from those on Joseph Bickford's old file. But he must be Joseph Bickford. ¡@
As for the Bible of criminology, a forensic criminologist I know in Hong Kong has returned, "Never heard of the book THE MIND OF A KILLER, nor a writer named Christopher Van Houten in this field. Is this a practical joke? If this is the Bible of criminology, then I must be an infidel."
Garcia's face flushes once more with hidden anger.
The bastard, playing me for a fool. But I'll play him with his own game. He will get carried away sooner or later. And he will slip.
"Let's get laid." Parker suggests suddenly without shame.
"Yeah," Cruz grins, "why not? Same place?"
They have chosen not to ask Garcia.
The two men begin to brag about their previous sexual adventures. Macao would be an ideal place if you were looking for cheap flesh. Pretty girls come from all over the world holding tourist passports, others illegal immigrants from China, all hungry for cash and willing to do almost anything for a modest price. Then the two men start to argue angrily because Parker wants to try a new place he has heard about and Cruz is against it.
Garcia puts down his glass. "You boys go ahead. I got work to do."
The two men make no effort to persuade Garcia to go along. They know that he is not into this kind of thing.
Garcia drives around in his Aston Martin for a short while and decides to go home. There is not much to do in Macao at night if you don't like the casinos and the prostitutes.
He is surprised to find The Porcupine waiting for him, sitting on the front porch, this time in a plain white shirt. The Rolex on The Porcupine's wrist is gone. But even with the Rolex, he would still be lengths behind Garcia comes to dressing. Garcia is all black tonight, long-sleeved black silk shirt and black trousers and black patent leather shoes, all made to measure. His Piaget is much more expensive then a gold Rolex too. But The Porcupine is the kind who never tries to dress up to impress.
"Poor luck?" asks Garcia as he opens the front door with his key.
The Porcupine spreads his hands, "Easy come, easy go."
"You are not here to ask for money, are you?" Garcia is suspicious.
"Not tonight," says The Porcupine, "how about play a little and work hard for a change? Let's get to work."
Garcia turns on the laptop to let The Porcupine review the written version of The Porcupine's first story. While The Porcupine is at it, he opens another bottle of wine for himself.
"Good stuff, right?" The Porcupine grins when he is through.
Garcia shrugs.
"I've been thinking," says The Porcupine, "it may be a good idea to put in some sex. I can tell you a lot of----"
"Leave that out." Garcia snaps.
"Nowadays, Every movie has it."
"I said leave that out!" Garcia's face is red.
"What's wrong with you?" asks The Porcupine, "You don't like women or something? You married?"
"That's none of your damn business."
"Okay, okay" The Porcupine again spreads his hands, "no sex. I was thinking about this at the casino. Maybe that's why I couldn't win a single hand. It's not a good idea after all."
"You have stories to tell, tell." Garcia says impatiently.
"Well, about the story last time, about my first kill," says The Porcupine, " I think I want to change something. About that knife I said I threw into the septic pipe, didn't you find it hard to believe that I did it at the first try?'
"I'm skeptic all right," Garcia says, "but you couldn't get a second chance as it was."
"Actually, it's like this." The Porcupine gestures, his hands like indecisive butterflies, "There were coils of old wire on the floor of the roof, discarded by some electrician when he put in new ones long ago. I took a length of wire, tied one end of it onto a piece of loose concrete which could be found all over the floor as the building was old and crumbling. I used a piece of concrete because the knife was not heavy enough for this purpose. I swung this piece of concrete and tried to land it into the opening of the pipe. Every time I missed, I just collected the wire and retrieved the piece of concrete. You know, just like a fisherman casting and reeling in. I succeeded on the third try. The piece of concrete dropped neatly into the opening of the pipe. I held on to the wire, tied the other end of it onto the handle of the knife and then let go. The piece of concrete sunk and pulled the knife over and down with it. Done. Period."
Garcia glowers at him.
"Isn't this better?" asks The Porcupine.
"I prefer the truth." Answers Garcia.
"There is no truth or untruth in this," says The Porcupine, "I'm just telling a story, remember?"
"All right," says Garcia, "I'll put down the first version, and note that you have changed your story later."
"Now that's realism for you." Smiles The Porcupine broadly.
The slimy cunning bastard, two versions, even though I have this on tape, it could not be held as a confession. But as long as he keeps talking, he will slip.
"Now tell me," Garcia changes the subject, "how many times have you killed?"
"I don't remember," says The Porcupine, "probably close to a thousand."
"Please." Says Garcia resignedly.
"It is like this." The Porcupine explains, "When I was a kid, I lived next door to a man who operated a chicken stall in the market place. You know how it was. Stacks of wire cages crammed with live chickens. A customer, usually a housewife or a woman servant responsible for the family cooking, selects a chicken. She turns it around, blows apart the fine hair around the ass hole to see if it is fat enough. She pays the man and the man kills the chicken for her. He must have been killing fifty chickens a day. I once asked him whether it bothered him killing chicken day in and day out. He told me not a bit. He was just doing a paid service. Anyway, a chicken would be better off meeting an early death than lived to be cooped up in a dark and crammed wire cage. Later, I worked for him part time for pocket money. I killed maybe ten chickens a day. It is easy. You bend the chicken's neck and cut its throat, then let the blood run into the gutter by the curb. But the cut must be clean and swift though. You show some mercy, not cutting deep enough, the chicken would struggle out of your grip, flutter around, spewing blood and feather all over the place. That would turn your stomach. I worked there for maybe three months. That would be close to a thousand kills. I slit Kwok's throat the same way, clean and swift. I had good practice."
Garcia is silent.
"I know," The Porcupine continues, "What you asked was how many men have I killed. Well, I have lost count. It's like the money you make. The first month's salary in your life, you would remember where every cent has gone. After that, it would be just money earned and spent."
"But certainly not more than two figures." Garcia surmises.
"I'd say more than ten, under fifteen. I'll tell you about them as each comes to mind. But, back to my first story. I told it based on the information you provided." The Porcupine gestures at the written notes still on the coffee table. They are now neatly clipped. Garcia is meticulously clean and tidy. "You have never mentioned how come the police got to the scene so fast."
"I got an anonymous tip on the phone, that someone was going to be killed at that address." Garcia says, "Honest. I don't know who the caller was"
"I hadn't known I was going to kill Kwok." Shrugs The Porcupine, "Maybe the man who saw the killer instinct in me also predicted that and wanted to see how I could get away. Or maybe the caller simply meant that he was afraid Tam would be killed."
"Maybe." Says Garcia.
"Anyway, it's an interesting case." Says The Porcupine.
"Now about the second time you got away from me." Starts Garcia.
"All in good time," The Porcupine waves one hand while holding up a magazine he has been fingering. It is one of the TIME magazines Garcia has kept under the glass top of the coffee table. It is an old issue, the cover of it announcing a feature story about Colombia. "Ah, Colombia. I must tell you about the time I worked for Escober."
"Escober who?" Garcia's eyes bulge.
"The notorious Colombian drug lord." Says The Porcupine.
"Oh, that Escober." Garcia squints at him.
"I see you are not going to believe me. All right, forget about it." Shrugs The Porcupine.
"No," says Garcia, just a little short of pleading, "you are here to tell your stories."
I have to hand it to him. I'm beginning to like to see how he spins his tales.
"I'll tell you about this Colombian adventure of mine. If you like it, it could be one more chapter in your book." Says The Porcupine.
"Good." Says Garcia.
"That was in my free lancing days," begins The Porcupine, "I had my reputation. Like the old Chinese saying, a large tree attracts the wind. Escober contacted me. He flew me to his estate in Medellin. He's crazy, you know."
"I've heard." Says Garcia.
"I can never forget him," says The Porcupine, "He almost finished me off with his crazy ways. With him, craziness acquires a new dimension. Maybe he's with Satan now. He showed me a piece of Holy Relics he owned when I met him. It was a piece of bone from the body of St. Margaret Castelle of Italy. He didn't kill her though. She died in 1320. He bought it on the black market. By the way, the trading of Holy Relics is called simony."
Another trap, this time with an obscure word? Another headache, I'll have to check it out later. I have
to remain noncommittal. I'll never step into this kind of trap again.

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EIGHT

Chapter Two: The Colombian Adventure according the Porcupine


IT WAS EXTREMELY COLD. Winter in Seoul, Korea. Heavy snow covered everything outside. It was the first time I was exposed to ice and snow, not counting the times I opened the refrigerator. People pay for packaged tours to come here to watch the snow. But for me, it only added up to four letters: C-O-L-D.
I was cooped up in my hotel room, miserable. I did have some illusions about the snow before the trip. I had seen the pictures and it was really beautiful. I had sat in front of the window looking at the beautiful snow. After a while, I was bored stiff. It was like looking at a painting before the artist got to work, just the frame and an empty canvas. Some good things only look good at a distance. Night had fallen and I couldn't even see the empty canvas.
The room had central heating and was quite warm. But the heating made my skin chap and itchy. I couldn't sleep and I had little to do. I should have been gone in the afternoon but my contact failed to show on time. He did fax me an apology though. So I decided to wait one more day.
I felt lost. Like an orphan. And in the middle of a snowstorm too.
I finally exiled to the lobby downstairs at about midnight. It was heated by the same system but at least it was big and the ceiling quite high, allowing the air to flow more freely.
I sipped at a beer and longed for the sunshine at home.
Then there was sunshine.
Maybe it was the perfume. Or maybe it was the effect of pheromone, which was all the rage in recent years. I actually felt her presence behind me before I saw her.
The room sort of brightened. Then she walked around me and stopped in front of me.
"Is this seat taken?" she asked in English. She smiled at me and the room brightened even more.
The lobby was almost empty. She had the choice of several dozen seats and she was asking about the one beside me.
"Please." I gestured as gracefully as I could. I had seen James Bond do this in the movies and had practiced it at least a thousand times in my mind, though this was the first time I had the chance to actually do it. It somehow didn't come out right.
But she sat down all the same.
She continued to smile at me. "Buy me a drink?" she asked.
I bought her a drink.
She was a young Korean woman in her early twenties. Must be the most beautiful woman in Korea, certainly the most beautiful woman in this hotel. She was wearing a black gown that seemed to have a life of its own, clinging where it should and not clinging where it shouldn't. Or maybe it was just her body. As if molded with the finest cream, soft yet vibrant, the slightest movement sent her flesh rippling but never lose shape. The gown was a Versace. But no clothing can do that to my body. I guess she was making the Versace look good more than it was making her look good.
And she had an angel of a face. Except her teeth, which was pearly white but slightly crooked. But I wouldn't have preferred it otherwise. A perfect set of teeth would only remind you of a tube of toothpaste.
I didn't speak Korean. She started out in English so we conversed in English.
She just sat there sizing me up, smiling her mysterious smile and fondling her drink, which was a Perrier, saying nothing. I also didn't say anything, for I'm never good at talking to an extremely beautiful woman. It was like a dream come true. Only dreams don't come true for me, not this kind of dream anyway. So I stopped dreaming fast.
Being an unattractive man has it merits, you can always be dead sure it's not your body a woman is after.
But what was she doing here? What did she want?
She could not be a high priced prostitute as this was a five-star hotel where this kind of thing was strongly discouraged. I had chosen this hotel because I didn't want some prostitute to solicit me and I might mistake her as my contact. Not that this temptress needed to solicit, she would be too busy saying no.
She must want something.
I didn't ask. She wanted something, she won't just leave without saying it.
So I just sat there returning her smile.
She didn't even tell me her name, nor did she ask mine.
She was finished with the Perrier about five minutes later without ever touching it to her lips.
She stood up, leaned down and whispered into my left ear, "Ten minutes. Your room."
Then she was gone.
I sat there without moving for four minutes as I suspected my left ear was on the verge of melting down and I had to give it time to harden again or it would be in danger of falling off.
Then I returned to my room.
The air was much better somehow. I was tingling, nothing like the beginning of a new adventure.
There was a knock on the door three more minutes later. She was late.
I was sitting on the couch. I told her to come in, half expecting it be somebody else. But it was she.
She walked in and locked the door, still smiling her mysterious smile.
I noticed she was carrying a large handbag, which was not with her before, with something heavy and bulging inside.
"What do you want?" I asked harshly.
I had to be harsh to break the spell or I just might fall for whatever she was up to. The power of a beautiful woman should never be underestimated.
"I'm Susan." She introduced herself, standing before me, the handbag slung over her right shoulder.
"So pleased to meet you, Susan. What do you want from me?"
"A game." She said, licking her slightly crooked front teeth with the pink tip of her tongue.
I was silent.
She let down the handbag, put one hand inside and came up with a bunch of cord, scarlet red, tied neatly into a roll like a fat sausage. "You know what this is?" she purred.
I knew. You can find these in anyone of those sex shops. The kind you use to tie up your lover. Actually just ordinary nylon cords in unusual colors with a huge price tag.
"You want me to tie you up?" I asked.
"No," she said, "I tie you up."
I didn't think that after I'd been tied up, her boyfriend would charge in and rob me. This was not the kind of place this kind of thing would happen. I was not a worthy target either. But I said, "Thanks but no thanks." I had no wish to be in a vulnerable position.
"Then I have made a mistake," she pouted, "You are no fun at all."
"That you are right," I said, "How about watching TV together?"
She replaced the cord, slung the handbag back over her shoulder and headed for the door.
I said nothing. I didn't think she would give up on me so easily. There was something else heavy and bulging inside that handbag.
She went out and closed the door. Then she opened it again and stepped back in, again locking it.
"You are not easy to yield to temptation." She smiled again.
"I never believe anything too good to be true." I said.
She sat down on the bed, took a gold lighter and a pack of cigarettes out of the handbag and lit up after I refused her offer of one of those. Smoking somehow fitted her more now that she had shown she was no angel.
"I would be disappointed if you fell for the cord thing." She blew a stream of smoke in my face.
"So what do you want from me?" I asked again.
"I'm a messenger," she sad flatly, "Mr. Escober sent me."
"Who?"
"Mr. Escober from Colombia." She said, "You do cocaine?"
"No," I said, "but I don't have to to know who you are talking about."
"Though Mr. Escober prefers people to associate him with emeralds." She said flashing the large diamond emerald ring on her finger.
I looked at her in silence. You would be skeptical too. Here we were in the middle of a snowstorm in Korea and she was telling me she had come from half a world away to solicit me.
"Of course there is proof." She said.
She opened the handbag a little wider and let me had a glimpse of its content.
There was something else inside all right. That something else were stacks of American currency bound by rubber bands.
She threw the bag on the bed. "Fifty thousand dollars up front. Want to count it?"
"No." I said. I didn't think she would cheat me on that when she was giving me $50,000 without me asking for it.
Cash is still the second most persuasive thing in the world. I have yet to decide on the first.
"That's only half," she said, "Fifty thousand more afterwards."
"What afterwards?" I asked, trying to get a hold of my racing mind.
"Mr. Escober wants you to do a job for him." Said Susan.
"What kind of job?" I asked.
"The kind you are so good at." Susan said.
"But I'm not available at the moment." I said.
"The Dolphin is not coming," she said, "We have bought him out."
Now I knew she knew what she was talking about. The Dolphin was the contact I was expecting, and she came up with the code word.
I said, "Still, I have to know what the job is about."
"People don't refuse an offer from Mr. Escober." She said, "There will be a private jet waiting for you at the airport tomorrow morning, 9 a.m., be on it."
"Well," I said, "It's still a long time from 9 a.m., so why don't you fill me in? Is it asking too much to want to know more about this job I'm going to do?"
"It is," Susan said, "because I don't know. Mr. Escober will tell you about it himself. I only know what I need to know."
She got up and walked to the door.
I said, "You just leave fifty thousand dollars like that? What if I disappeared with it?"
"You will want the other half." She smiled. She stopped at the door and turned. "By the way," she asked, "Were you not even a little tempted by me? Or am I getting too old?"
I sighed. "Believe me, my dear, resisting you was the hardest thing to do in my life. Consider it a monumental achievement on my part."
"That's better," she smiled, "we'll get together afterwards. That's a promise."
She turned and left.
I locked the door and started to count the money.
There was $50,000 in the handbag, or $100,000, depending on which way you looked at it. For each bill had been cut neatly in half. I only got half of each bill.
I understood what she meant by the other half.

THE PLANE WAS at the airport in the morning as she had said.
A big black guy about four inches taller than six feet greeted me at the arrival hall and took me on board.
Susan was on the plane smoking.
I returned the money, which she accepted with a small smile.
The plane took off and soon the snow was left behind.
The inside of the plane was like nothing I'd ever seen. It was more like the inside of a hotel if you didn't choose to look out the window.
I had a whole suite to myself. If I wanted to stretch my feet, I could go outside to a lounge which had a bar tended by the big, black guy. Susan had told me to get some sleep or watch the latest movies on the big wide screen occupying one wall of the room.
"Or you could prefer to watch me." She had said.
I tried to chat up the big black guy in the lounge but he answered in Spanish of which I knew only about ten words. He didn't speak English or didn't want to.
I retreated to my room. Having nothing to do, I flipped on the screen. A list of titles appeared.
There was a lot to choose from but the most interesting one had no words, only a small animated face of Susan smiling at me. I clicked on to it and a video was on.
The star was Susan. She was sitting on a huge bed in a bedroom undressing. She slipped out of her negligee and my heart thumped. She was completely naked underneath. She had such a beautiful body, the sure thing to kick-start my journey to heaven if I were a heart patient.
She changed position several times, smiling at me, leaving nothing to imagination. Then the big black guy came into the room. He was stark naked too. He was twice my size and that went for every part of his anatomy. He started to do unspeakable things to her that made that scarlet cord looked saintly. And she appeared to enjoy it.
I flipped it off.
Maybe Susan meant this as a preview of coming attraction, giving me a taste of what was to come. But she was wrong. That was completely not my cup of tea. I had a difficult time getting rid of the unpleasant taste in my mouth.
I just slept.

THE JET TOOK me to Bogota. There we switched to a small plane, which flew us to Medellin, 6,000 ft. high up in the mountains, where the headquarters of the drug cartel was supposed to be. We landed on a small airfield, switched again to an army helicopter.
Half an hour later, I was in the hacienda of Escober.
Night had fallen by then. Susan told me the Big Man would see me in the morning. I was treated to a dinner of sushi. Sushi, in the mountains of Colombia! But these were crazy people. Maybe I was lucky it was not a dinner of cocaine.
I got to see Escober, or I should say get to be seen by him, late the next morning.
Susan had led me through a maze of courtyards. Armed guards were present every step of the way. We entered a huge room that was straight out of Arabian Nights. A small, dark South American was waiting, lounging lazily in a couch. I had never met Escober and had not a clue what he looked like, but instinct told me I was not looking at him.
I wasn't. Susan introduced me to the man. He was called Lotto.
As Lotto shook my hand, a chill ran down my spine. His grip was very strong, but what bothered me were his eyes. His eyes never stopped shifting, like kois in a pond. And he looked at me the way a sushi chef would look at a fish he was about to carve. He had a heavy belt on his waist with seven scabbards, each holding a knife. They were not sushi knives but no less deadly. For they were throw knives.
He did not utter a sound, just released my hand and left.
Then Susan presented me to Escober. We were facing a large piece of smoke tinted glass that separated the room. It was obviously a one way glass. Escober could see me from behind but not I him.
I didn't know what to say.
There was silence and I focused on a small box covered with blood red satin perched on a black wrought-iron pedestal near the chair I was sitting. It was better than looking at a piece of glass seeing only my own reflection.
"Open it and have a look." A dry crackling sound from behind the glass, no doubt through a speaker system, advised me. He spoke with heavily accented English. I pictured a Mexican. The Mexicans in the movies had that same accent, they too were Spanish speaking people.
I stepped forward and lifted the lid of the box. Inside the box, nestling on black velvet was an odd object about an inch long, ash gray in color. I couldn't tell what it was. Looked like a splinter of old drifting wood.
"Pick it up." The voice behind the glass ordered.
I picked it up but still couldn't tell what it was. I hoped he wouldn't order me to eat it.
"It's a piece of human bone." The voice declared.
I dropped it abruptly.
Laughter echoed in the room.
"I didn't kill her though," the voice informed me, "I bought it with a chunk of emerald. This is a piece of Holy Relics, a piece of bone from the body of St. Margaret Castelle of Italy who died in 1320. It is said that to buy and sell this kind of stuff brings on eternal damnation. But I'm already on the side of Satan."
I wished he wouldn't ask me to kill God for him.
I didn't say anything. I had the feeling I was here to listen, to be told.
"That has nothing to do with the business at hand," said the voice behind the glass. "I have you brought here because I heard you are one of the best. I want you to kill a man for me."
But why me? I wondered. There must be at least a hundred other hit men at his disposal right here.
"You have just met Lotto. He is one of my best killers, and I want you to kill him for me." Said the voice behind the glass.
"But¡K" I had to protest. Surely he could have Lotto shot anytime.
"It will be a fair fight between you and him." The voice behind the glass announced, "You will be given seven knives too. You two will be let loose in the jungle outside. Only one should come back alive to collect a reward of one hundred thousand dollars."
"But, but I don't work that way," I panicked, "I'm not a knife fighter. I'm not even a fighter."
"You can refuse and try to leave here on your own. But Lotto would still be after you."
I felt like drowning in an icy pool. The icy water was my own sweat. This must be a bad dream, only there was no waking up from it. I wanted to kick myself for giving in to the temptation of half of $100,000 to come here.
"Show time high noon." The voice behind the glass declared.
Then I somehow sensed that the speakers had gone dead.
There was a loud thud. A knife handle suddenly grew out of the red wooden column on my right, as if to remind me this was not a joke.
I turned. Lotto was smiling at me at the entrance, his small eyes still shifting. Then he vanished.
Susan gave me her hand. "Come," she said, "I'll take you to lunch."
Food was the furthest thing from my mind but I went along. If I could talk some sense out of these people, she was the only channel.
But there was no arguing with them. They were all mad.
"It's not that bad," Susan told me, "you are not asked to do anything you haven't done before."
"Lotto is not that good really," she told me again as we walked along, "he's just crazy. He has no fear of death, and people fear him for that. Just keep calm." Sounded like that boxing trainer. Only her life was not at stake.
"Why do you call him Lotto?" I wanted to know.
"Lottery," Susan answered, "can you ever predict the outcome of a Lotto draw?"
¡@
LUNCH WAS a T-bone steak, American style. What does the Colombian eat? But then I 'd never heard of any restaurant serving Colombian food. Maybe it was not worth finding out. I had no appetite but I sucked the juice of the steak. I might need the energy.
I had no way out. I was in a strange place and there was little time. Susan was with me all along. She could or would offer no help. She just promised that she would go to bed with me if I came out of this alive. This would have been an incentive had she not shown me that video of hers.
Then it was noon and Lotto came.
We were on the porch facing the jungle. Several armed guards came with him.
Guns were pressed against my head. One of the guards produced the scarlet cord. He started to tie my hands behind my back with it.
"What is this?" I protested.
Susan giggled. "You get tied up after all."
Lotto gestured with a wide grin.
"It is sign language," Susan informed me, "he said he would be the hunter and you his prey. You run, he hunts."
Lotto was a mute.
"But your boss said it would be a fair fight." I screamed, first at him, then at her.
Lotto told me with his hands that it was not his decision, that the guards were doing this at their own free will.
Susan said apologetically, "I don't have the authority to interfere."
They strapped on a belt for me. A belt with seven scabbards and seven throw knives. But with my hands tied, they would be just more dead weight.
Lotto gestured again, still grinning.
Susan translated, "You have a one hour start. Then he will come after you."
She pointed at the thick, dark jungle ahead.
I argued, shouted, screamed, even challenged Lotto that he was too chicken to fight me hand to hand. They just ignored me.
Then I was marched out by the armed guards and propelled into the jungle.
I ran.

THE JUNGLE WAS hot and humid. Sunlight sometimes streamed down through the canopy overhead and stung my eyes. Where there was no sun, it was too dark for comfort.
But the worst part, at least for the moment, was the mosquitoes. I wonder if they could tell my hands were tied and couldn't swat at them. It was unspeakable to be itchy all over and not able to scratch with your hands. The best I could do was to deliberately let the small branches thrash my face, to drive off the mosquitoes and to relieve the itch temporarily.
I ran for about twenty minutes, then stopped. Anywhere would hardly make any difference. I had better conserve my energy and at the same time try to get the cord off.
But the man who had tied the cord knew what he was doing. The more I struggled, the tighter the knot. It was a sailor's or a boy scout's knot.
I could not scrape it off with the branches and tree trunks so abundant. Give me a whole day, I could have it worn to threads. But I had next to no time.
Then I heard Lotto coming.
A rustling to my left, a glint in the sunlight, I ducked. A knife thudded into a tree trunk one foot from me.
I hid in the shades.
Lotto's face appeared in a lighted spot, grinning. Then he vanished.
I moved cautiously, in a direction I thought would be difficult for him to circle behind me.
Fifteen minutes more of silent movements. The silence was unnerving. I wished Lotto would laugh, would mock me. But he was a mute.
Then a bird screeched in fright and took off. Another thud, a second knife grew out of the tree trunk next to my face.
I ran again.
An hour passed. I had been able to keep my distance. Lotto had thrown five knives at me and missed. He had only two knives left. But that was no consolation. Any one of them could kill me the next second. Besides, he was making up the rules. He could be carrying more knives or could decide to use a gun instead.
Then we were face to face.
We were at the edge of a clearing under the golden sun. I was squatting behind a clump of bushes and he stepped from the trees on the opposite side, a knife, the point of which held between the tips of his thumb and index fingers, poised to throw at me. He was sporting his widest grin.
It was his last grin.
I threw my knife at him. The knife glinted like pure gold in its flight under the sun.
His eyes widened with astonishment and his mouth popped open. Then the blade of the knife went straight into his mouth. He fell back. Somehow a scream escaped his mouth. Then he twitched and died.
I was lucky. I had aimed for his heart.
In the end, the knives he had thrown had proved his undoing.
Ten minutes before that, I had doubled back to one of the knives still embedded in a tree trunk. It was at just the right height. I turned my back to it and was able to push the cord against the blade. The cord was sliced apart like butter under a hot knife. When he came again, I was waiting for him with a knife from my own belt.
The first thing I did after that was to scratch my itches and to swat about ten thousand mosquitoes.
I was back at the house in twenty minutes. I did not trust these people, but where else could I go?
Susan greeted me with a big hug and kissed me a hundred times. She seemed genuinely pleased I had won.
Then she asked, "What happened to Lotto?"
"I tried to open up his vocal cord to give him back his voice," I answered, "the operation was successful but the patient died."
Then she offered me, of all things, a stick of chewing gum. I chewed it with relish, finding it pleasant and relaxing. That was when I fell in love with the stuff. Can't leave home without it.
I got to see Escober or that piece of smoke tinted glass again after I had washed, changed and eaten.
He congratulated me on my success and explained, "Lotto was completely insane. I was worried he would kill me someday. But I had to get rid of him on his own term. Because we would meet again in hell someday and I don't want him to have any excuse."
Not much of an explanation, I'd say.
But he did give me the money and had me flown out back to civilization. He even offered me that piece of Holy Relics, which I declined politely.
I didn't stay for that rendezvous with Susan either.
This is the only case in which I would reveal the identity of my employer. But then, to this day, I still don't know whether it was really Escober I dealt with that day. And I don't care, as long as I won't have anything more to do with these people.

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NINE

RUBBING SALT ON THE WOUND

THEY ARE DRINKING AGAIN, Garcia his vintage wine and The Porcupine his usual beer, chewing gum in between.
The night is cooler and the breeze just about right, cooling but never strong enough to scatter the papers.
The porcupine is reviewing the pages Garcia has written, this time on paper. He has complained the laptop tired his eyes too easily, something to do with radiation, he said. The radiation part was nonsense to Garcia. Some people are just not comfortable reading computer displays. Anyhow, Garcia has had the pages printed out.
Nothing like black and white on paper, The Porcupine has said.
Garcia has suggested the first two chapters of his book would be the two stories The Porcupine has told. Let the reader decide whether his stories are believable.
Garcia looks on at The Porcupine with hidden hatred. This man, who has outsmarted him twice, is still making him uneasy every second. Everything The porcupine says has to be checked and double-checked.
Garcia has no way of checking out the Colombian adventure but has inquired about the Holy Relics part. Failing to find the word "simony" in a dictionary, he asked the priest of his church about it over the phone. The priest was vague. He did not know the word but it seemed to ring a bell. He gave Garcia the phone number of a religious scholar. The learned man has returned, "Simony refers to the trading of Holy Relics, which is rampant in the black market. It is after the biblical sorcerer Simon Magus who tried to buy spiritical powers from the apostle Peter. Pieces of bones from the body of St. Magaret Castelle of Italy do exist and are available on the black market. She died in 1320. Her grave was dug up several hundred years later and a nun smashed her bones with a hammer to distribute the pieces to appropriate Catholic establishments."
How does The Porcupine know so much if he made up his story? I have checked that copy of TIME but that feature story about Colombia did not contain the details in The Porcupine's story. Is he really Joseph Bickford? The fingerprints didn't match. But he must be Joseph Bickford The Porcupine. How could he not be?
"Good," The Porcupine finally puts down the papers and comments, "that's what I call good reading, right?"
I have to admit that he's got something there. He is changing my book entirely, but for the better. I'm an open-minded man. I can take criticism and accept useful contributions. Yes, what I want is to write an attractive book.
"You know," Garcia says, changing the subject, "you are not in very good shape. You are overweight. You exercise?"
The Porcupine smiles mischievously, "I do run between the blackjack tables."
"Care for a game of squash tomorrow morning?" Asks Garcia.
"A new way to murder me?" Laughs The Porcupine.
"What about some light jogging?" Suggests Garcia.
"No thanks. Don't worry, I promise I won't keel over before finishing this." Says the porcupine. "I prefer not to stretch out the limits of my body with strenuous exercises. It's the only body I have and I want it to last as long as possible."
Excuses, excuses, but I know the real reason behind this. He has developed arthritis in his right elbow. His medical report in the files of his law firm told me. I have acquired it through my connections. I have not been a security consultant for nothing. What with the Personal Privacy Act all the rage, this kind of information is supposed to be impossible to get. But the reality is that you can still get it, only at a much higher price. It must be painful not to be able to move so freely anymore. Maybe that's why he has retired, the price of an unhealthy lifestyle. I will bring this up from time to time. Rub salt on the wound, to put him in his place.
"You don't seem to do any physical work at all." Says Garcia.
"Oh, no, don't underestimate me," says The Porcupine, "I can do very hard work when necessary. And I have worked hard. Which reminds me of the Tiger Fu case."
"The what?" Garcia's eyes widened.
"The Tiger Fu case, a classical example of the locked room murder." Says The Porcupine.
"That---ah, yes," says Garcia, "But the killers have been apprehended, though not charged for lack of evidence. Don't tell me you have anything to do with that."
"I haven't," Says the Porcupine, "but Joseph Bickford has. He did it."
"Well, that's a new story." Says Garcia.
"I'll tell you about it," says The Porcupine, "but only after you. I have already contributed two stories but you have yet to tell one."
"I will, I will," says Garcia, "but I'm not ready yet. Tell me about this Tiger Fu case first. I can insert it later in my book if necessary."
"Okay." Says The Porcupine.

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TEN

Chapter Three: The Locked Room Murder according to The Porcupine


IT WAS IN THE WINTER of 1985, before the Colombian incident, that I got a job at the Jade Dragon Restaurant, which was an old-fashioned Chinese restaurant in Hong Kong. It was bitterly cold, a particularly chilly winter. And it might as well be. For the job was as an apprentice in the kitchen, which meant I had to do anything the chef told me to. And the chef told me to do everything, except learning to cook. That was the normal practice then. You do cheap labor the first year. Cheap labor is harder in the hot summer, especially around a kitchen with huge stoves. That I was a Eurasian was again no problem, unless I didn't speak the dialogue, which was Cantonese. I was fluent in Cantonese, I was still young enough to be an apprentice and my slightly fairer skin was not such a standout.
I lugged crates of beverages around. You know, the kind of plastic crates each holding dozens of beers or soda pops, some in bottles and some in cans. They were piled high in the storeroom, in the corridor leading to the toilets and even out in the back alley, any space they could find. And they were moved around constantly.
I ran errands, I cleaned the kitchen and even cleaned the toilets. I ran out to the betting shop to place horseracing bets for the chef and others, including myself. They all liked gambling in the industry.
After the restaurant had closed at night, they would gather in one of the VIP rooms to play cards. A VIP room is a room reserved for the better customers. A customer gets a room to himself, complete with TV and karaoke to entertain friends or relatives.
The favorite game for the guys was 'thirteen cards'. Four players each get thirteen of the fifty-two cards in a deck and each arrange his cards in three tiers, three cards followed by five and another five. When there are more players, the odd ones out could place side bets. The bigger players get to hold the cards.
I always joined in on the game but never got to hold the cards because I was meagerly paid and usually lose.
When we were done, some of us just slept in the VIP rooms until the new shift began. I almost always slept in because I had no home to go to. At least that was my story.
I saw Tiger Fu for the first time the second night I started working there. For this was his favorite restaurant and he came four nights a week. His favorite dish was, of all things, the heads of roast geese, necks included. People in the food business call this 'the stick' because it looks very much like a walking stick. The stick is sold cheap or simply discarded. But Fu would have them chopped to pieces and served with some soy sauce from steamed fish. I had tried it once and I must admit it was the best food I'd ever tasted. Good things don't always come with a big price tag. Not like the raw goat's eye I had eaten in Ethiopia. But that's another story. Anyway, Fu would have a plate of the stick himself while treating others with expensive dishes such as shark's fin soup or braised abalone or steamed live fish.
Apart from that, Fu was a nasty man. He was the known boss of one of the biggest triad gangs and controlled a big slice of the pie that comprised of narcotics, prostitution and bookmaking. He had risen to the top by the time-honored way of kill or to be killed. In the underworld, you don't go to court to settle disputes. You kill. The more you killed, the more visciously you killed, the more you are feared and the bigger you grow. But you also become a bigger target yourself.
That's why Fu always came with four bodyguards.
The night Fu came, I was just rounding the corner of the corridor between VIP rooms. Two bodyguards were in front of him with the other two behind. Even if I didn't know who they were at the time, I started to retreat just because of the nasty looks on their faces.
It was too late. The two big guys in front just bumped me back as if I wasn't there at all. It was lucky for me that Fu's favorite room was just around the corner, or I would have been bowled along until I ended up inside the washroom.
Fu was not apologetic either. He also seemed not to have even seen me. I have heard that some underworld bosses were quite nice, but Fu certainly wasn't one of them. And he was ugly.
The two bodyguards in front went into the VIP room to check if it was safe. Then Fu went in. The remaining two stationed themselves outside the door.
The next time I came out of the kitchen to the corridor, I saw all four of the bodyguards were outside the door of that room. I was told later by the boys that Fu was left alone in the room to hold important conversations over the phone.
You could never be sure how many guests would come to Fu's room. They come and go, but never more than five at a time. Fu held court in his room while he wined and dined. Later in the night, heavily made-up girls would come. They were from the nightclubs.
Fu's room was a peculiar room. It was a testament that politics raises its ugly head as long as there are people.
The walls of this room were laid with bare bricks. You can see the rough cement binding each brick. No painting or even whitewash. It was supposed to be a kind of avante-garde style of inner decoration. It would be fine with modernized structures but got along poorly with this restaurant, which was one of the oldest in town. It just looked like the decorator had forgotten to put on the finishing touch. I was told this was the work of the owner's son who had studied abroad and had come back to help run the business. He insisted on modernization but was allowed to do only this one room. His father was too old to tend to the business and his stepmother was in power. The son was referred to as the Crown Prince while the stepmother the Dowager Queen. This room was the Crown Prince's first stake of claim in the ongoing power struggle.
That brick room stuck out like a sore thumb but it was okay with me. As long as Tiger Fu stuck to this one room, I had a good chance of killing him. For that was the reason I got this job.
Politics were rife among the employees too. Some of them were loyal to the Crown Prince while others the Dowager Queen. I was too unimportant and too new to take sides, which often got me caught in the crossfire. They gambled together but the differences were obvious. Sometimes, when I tried to place a side bet, I would be told by each side to place it on the other side because of my poor luck.
The chef was loyal to the Dowager Queen. When I went out to place horseracing bets for him, secret reports would be made and when I came back, the manager, who was on the other side, would reprimand me for doing personal things on company time.
I could do no right.
Then there was Doris. She was the PR for the restaurant. Her job was to wear a jade green embroidered cheongsam with extra high slits showing her long legs to station at the entrance of the restaurant greeting the customers. She was quite a good looking girl but that was all she was good for. She had an intense hatred for me. I was rumored to have tried to date her but was told off. Which wasn't true. The real reason was that once I had the misfortune to catch sight of her coming out of the men's room with Tiger Fu. I didn't try to explain to anyone. It would do me no good.
Life is like that. If there were only two people left on this planet, they would still scheme to control or eliminate each other.
All this gave me ample reason to leave after about a month.
One day, the manager told me to move all the crates inside from the back alley. I told him I had sprained my ankle and couldn't do it. I resigned on the spot.
I ran into the chef, or let him run into me across the street from the restaurant a week later. He grabbed hold of me and asked me to help him out as they had still not found someone to replace me and they were desperately short of hands. I was still on good terms with him and his side when I had quit mainly because I made the other side lose face.
I agreed to help him out because I had nothing to do at the moment anyway, but made it clear that I had to leave around midnight because I had to catch the last ferry to visit my parents who lived on an outlying island.
The manager turned a blind eye because they were so short of hands.
They never dreamed I would carry a gun inside. I hid the gun in a small windowless storeroom, which was actually a small cubicle in the wall. It was built to house cleaning equipment and only the cleaning lady and I would go into that room. That night the cleaning lady was not there because she had quit her job the day before. That's why they needed me so desperately.
Tiger Fu also came that night. My timing was perfect.
Around 10 p.m., I turned the corner of the corridor and saw all four of the bodyguards were outside the door of the brick room.
I slid quietly into the storeroom, took out the gun and fitted a silencer over the muzzle. Then I carefully removed a loose brick on the back wall and was able to peer into the brick room and looked at Tiger Fu.
That brick had taken me a whole month of hard work to fix. I had the chance to go to work the nights I slept in. I had to loosen it bit by bit so as not to show any give away sign. The old cement on the edges was still in place.
The storeroom was directly in back of the brick room. In fact it had been a small part of the room before that wall was erected. I could see Fu but Fu could not see me. There was a wooden cupboard by the wall on the other side. The lower portion of the cupboard was used to place some slippers for customers who cared to use them and had no backboard. The opening left by the loose brick was inside this portion of the cupboard, at the height of about twenty inches from the floor up. I could see through it only the lower half of Fu's body and as his eyes were on the upper half, he couldn't see me. Besides, it was dark down there.
Fu was sitting in an armless chair, clear of the table, half facing me, talking on the phone. I aimed at him through the opening and pumped all the bullets into him.
The slight pop pop of the gun did not escape the storeroom.
All the bullets went into Fu's chest and abdomen. He slipped from the chair and I could see his face, dazed and bewildered as his blood sucked his life from him rapidly. He didn't have time to figure out where the bullets had come from, and he couldn't move. He became even uglier, a squat, crewcut, toad of a man in his early fifties with a face only a mother could love. And he always wore clothes too loud.
The trickier part of my job was replacing the brick in a way that nobody would suspect later.
I had brought along a tube of instant cement bought at a hardware store. Lovely hi-tech stuff, not available just a few years before. I squeezed just enough cement on the top of the brick and pushed the brick carefully back in place. The cement would harden in a few minutes, making that brick immovable. They would have to tear down that wall to find out there was a different kind of cement. But there would be no reason to tear down that wall.
I placed the gun and the tube of cement into a red plastic bucket and covered them with a dirty washcloth. Then I came out of the storeroom calmly, through the kitchen and went out the back alley. Nobody suspected anything. I was performing one of my usual tasks, carrying dirty water out to pour into the gutter.
The alley was deserted. The night was still bitterly cold. I walked to a dumpster, took from it a black plastic bag I had placed inside before, put the gun and the tube of cement into the bag and placed the bag back into the dumpster.
Then I returned to the inside of the restaurant to work.
Ten more minutes had passed before all hell broke loose.
The bodyguards were slow to discover something was wrong because they dared not go into the brick room without their boss calling for them.
I could imagine their panic, going into that room to find their boss shot dead. Nobody else was inside that room and they had been guarding the only door the whole time.
When they were sure the killer or killers were not in the room, they rushed out and charged around waving guns and choppers. But they were like flies with their heads cut off, not knowing who or what or where to look for.
Lowly me was the last person they would look at.
Then the police came.
I excused myself to the chef since I had made it clear I had a ferry to catch.
I could have stayed longer and be safe but I was worried Charles Garcia might come. Though he was no longer with homicide then.
I retrieved the plastic bag from the dumpster in the alley, carried it to the seaside, which was two blocks away and threw it into the dark water.
The four bodyguards were instant suspects. They seemed the only ones who could have killed Fu. But the bullets that killed Fu hadn't come from their guns. They could have disposed of the murder weapon in the melee but that could not be proved. Although the police believed they were the killers, the murder weapon was never found and they were never charged.
But I heard afterwards that all four of them vanished without a trace sometime later. The underworld was not so forgiving and they needed no proof.

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ELEVEN

THE THAW

THE PORCUPINE IS CHEWING GUM AGAIN. Four empty beer cans are on the glass top of the coffee table, not littering but placed neatly in a row in a tray lined by a paper towel. Garcia winces again at the thought of chewing gum going along with beer. But he doesn't understand beer drinking anyway.
Garcia looks distraught. It may have something to do with the rain. A slight rain has started in the morning and has never let up since. The air-conditioning in the house is in full blast because the drizzle, instead of cooling the air, has only made it even more oppressively hot and humid.
Or it has a lot to do with Cruz. For Ricky Cruz has left Macao abruptly this afternoon. It has not been his plan. Cruz's wife and children has left for Portugal weeks ahead, leaving him to sell off or give away the things they could not bring with them. But Cruz misses them so much, he has decided to leave for Lisbon to join them ahead of schedule. He just gave everything away. Garcia has driven him to the airport.
Cruz has been a precious friend but he has now gone, never to return. There is no reason for him to return.
The phone rings. Garcia takes it on the cordless.
It's Jimmy Parker. Would Garcia care to come out for a drink? He is lonely, lost without Cruz. Garcia declines again. He is in no mood going out. He seems to be in no mood for anything.
He puts down the phone and looks at The Porcupine.
The Porcupine is going over what Garcia has written again, rustling the growing stack of paper.
I have checked on his story about the Tiger Fu case. Nothing could be verified as the Jade Dragon Restaurant has folded for more than five years. The building has been torn down and rebuilt. The old employees could not be located. But his story is plausible.
"Something eating you?' the Porcupine asks without looking up. He could sense it.
Garcia says nothing. He unbuttons the top of his pale green sports shirt. As usual, he is immaculate even in casual wear. The shirt is one of the best money can buy, but it still is not comfortable, not now.
Failing to get a response, The Porcupine reads on.
"You know, Joe, I'm beginning to like you." Garcia suddenly remarks.
"That's a huge improvement," The Porcupine puts down the papers, "what have I done right?"
"You seem a messy guy," says Garcia, "yet you put down every page you have read neatly. You chew gum and drink beer nonstop, but you put away every piece of used gum on a piece of tissue paper and goes into the kitchen to discard it in the rubbish bin. You clear away beer cans methodically without leaving even a little moisture on the glass top of my coffee table. You must have consumed a hundred cans of beer but have managed not to spill one single drop on my carpet or my sofa."
"Glad you appreciate that." Says The Porcupine, "It's been hard work for me too because I am in fact a messy guy. But I always have this respect for other people's lifestyle, and especially their home. A home is a man's fortress. You have told me on the outset that you live alone here and do all the cleaning yourself, not even using a part time maid. I guessed you must be the kind that would defend your fortress staunchly."
"It's no trivial thing really," says Garcia, "couples are known to divorce over this. And I have shown people the door for trivializing my house rules. I must thank you for respecting my lifestyle. You are the first person to do that."
"Not counting the checkbook thing?" The Porcupine asks dryly.
Garcia smiles, "At least you didn't spit the scraps on my carpet."
"Thank you," says The Porcupine, "but you are still not yourself tonight."
Garcia shrugs, "A good old friend of mine has left Macao today, gone for good."
"That's sad," says the Porcupine, "one usually has many acquaintances, but one you can call a good old friend is rare."
Garcia gulps down some more wine.
"You have something to say, say it," says The Porcupine, "downing it with wine won't make it go away. It's like the pit of a cherry. You don't swallow it, you spit it out."
"I'm about to tell you a story of my own." Says Garcia.
"Good, and it's about time," says The Porcupine, "but you don't have to tell it to me first. Just write it down directly. You are the writer."
"Two things," admits Garcia, "one, it's not in my original outline."
"That's not against the law." Says The Porcupine, "Anyway, your outline will not be published."
"Two," confesses Garcia sheepishly, "I've found out that I'm not good at telling stories. That's why I let you tell yours first."
"No problem," says the porcupine, "great men have employed ghost writers to pen their memoirs or biographies. You have already hired me. Why don't you tell me the facts and let me arrange the story? You can make alterations later. Two heads are always better than one."
"That's what I have in mind." Says Garcia, "I've discover this a very good way for me to work. You arrange the story and tell it, then I put in on paper."
" Good, and that's the way we will work." Says The Porcupine, "By the way, this story of yours, it has anything to do with this good old friend who has just left?"
"In fact it has." Says Garcia.

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TWELVE

Chapter Four: The Case of the Sinister Black Glove according to Charles Garcia


I HAVE KNOWN RICKY CRUZ since my early days in Macao. He was a few years my junior. We grew up together and used to fish and catch mud crabs on the beach. Now the fish and the crabs are all gone, leaving only polluted mud. Time seems to poison everything in its path.
We had been partners in the Macao police force for some time before we went our separate ways. I went to Hong Kong while he stayed on.
We had the chance to work together again when I was 45.
That year, on an overcast, chilly, winter morning, Judge Michael Harrison called me on my mobile. He told me to wait for him in a parking lot. He arrived in a taxi and got into my car.
He said, "We will talk as we drive along."
That was odd. He had a chauffeur driven Rolls Royce at his disposal but he wanted to ride in my modest sedan. He could also have summoned me to his chamber in the courthouse where we could talk undisturbed.
Harrison was British, as most powerful judges were those days in Hong Kong.
I could see right away that he was scared. He kept turning around to look as if he was afraid he was being followed.
I had to grip the steering wheel tighter every time he turned around. For he was a very fat man, close to 300 pounds at 6 feet 1 inch. I was afraid any sudden movement on his part would shift the balance of my car and cause an accident. My car was already sagging lower on his side due to his big weight.
He was sweating, which was not unusual for him even in the winter. He was just too fat. We had sometimes wondered if he was ever cold at all. But he was sweating even more this time.
We had driven along for some time and he still had not opened his mouth. Then it dawned on me that it was difficult for him to begin.
I said, "I think we should park on the top floor of that multi-story car park. We should be safe and not disturbed up there."
He agreed. He would not feel free to talk when we were in motion.
We stopped in the middle of the top floor, under a weak sun. There was no other car in sight. We could see well in advance if another car was coming up. It was a good place to talk in secret.
Harrison had been a lawyer and then a prosecutor before being appointed a Judge. Yet, despite his verbal skill and experience in court, his story tumbled out in almost incoherent fragments. That's what happens when you became a victim. We are all only human.
It turned out he had a mistress in Macao. A girl named Michelle. Michelle had called him at the courthouse early this morning. She was in hysterics.
She had woken up to find one black-colored man's glove on the night table next to her bed. Just that, but it was menacing enough. It meant that someone had broken into her bedroom last night while she slept, did something and then left.
Nothing was lost or disturbed. She was sure she had not been touched. The man, as it was a man's glove, could have left without her knowing it. But he wanted her to know. So he left a glove, a sinister calling card.
"He could have stood there watching her sleep," the Judge almost sobbed, "and she likes to wear very little in bed."
"Blackmail?" I asked.
"Not yet," said the Judge, "she has not received any call. Neither have I."
"She has a boyfriend?" I asked.
"What do you mean?" The Judge's eyes bulged.
It was not a good question. I've seen it too often. The husband would always be the last to know and to believe. When you love a woman enough, even with all the evidence stacked against her, his first explanation would be that you've got it wrong, you don't understand her. But I had to ask the question. Some husbands do know and tolerate.
"You don't understand her," Harrison said as if to mirror my thoughts, "she doesn't even have a male friend. She has only me."
Looking at Harrison, you would find it hard to believe. That a young woman would be loyal to this huge slab of fat, 65 years old, balding with a face closely resembling an English bulldog. What could she see in him? And he had very bad breath. The stench in the closed space of my small car was overwhelming.
But Harrison was a powerful man. He had helped put me where I was. You need a powerful man behind you to leapfrog over your competition up the ladder. Judge Harrison had been behind me all along. Of course I had to scratch his back from time to time. Like the time he had been drunk driving and slammed a car off the road down a slope. The other driver was in a coma for three days and his family was crying bloody murder. The Judge called me in and I fixed it for him. I