“Yes.” She put on a halfhearted smile. “My friend Herman is a member here. He’s a local rep for Heineken beer. We swim once or twice a week.” She tilted her head. “Are you meeting someone?”
“Yes.” Alan knew she expected to be told who he was meeting, but he didn’t say. The less anyone knew about his activities in Singapore, the better. He directed the conversation back to her. “What made you stay on after Jack’s death?” he asked. “You’ve family in the U.K., haven’t you?”
“Not really. Not close, anyway. Singapore has always seemed more like home. Daddy and Mum are both buried here. And I’ve got a super job at the Jurong Reptile Farm, out near the bird park. There didn’t seem much point in going back to England. Anyway, I hate the cold.”
A waiter approached and said to Alan, “Excuse me, sir. Mr. van Leuck telephoned to say he was just getting on his way and would be here in a quarter hour.”
“Thank you.” So much for secrecy, Alan thought. When he turned back to Wendy, she was looking at him curiously.
“Is that Louis van Leuck you’re meeting?” There was a hint of accusation in her voice.
“It is.” A hint of defensiveness in his.
“Oh, Alan. Must you get involved with that sort when you’re just back to make a new start? Louis van Leuck is one of the shadiest characters in Singapore. He’s involved in everything from drugs to gun smuggling. To — to — to white slavery.”
“Is there still a white-slavery trade?” Alan asked. “I’ll have to look into that.”
“It’s not funny, Alan.”
He sighed quietly and fixed her in a steady gaze. “Would you like to know what’s really not funny?” he asked evenly. “A forty-four-year-old man just back from five years in a Thai prison after being caught transporting jade illegally. That, after having failed at running an import-export business into which he had put his life savings. Before which he had two failed marriages, two other failed businesses, and one bankruptcy. At the moment, all he has to show for his life is a bleeding ulcer. That’s not funny.” He shook his head, the momentary hostility gone. “It’s all well and good for you to denounce Louis van Leuck as a social undesirable, but the fact is, he’s the only person in Singapore willing to talk to me about future employment.”
“Yes, but what kind of employment?” She was not about to relent.
“At this point,” Alan said flatly, “I can’t really be selective, can I?”
Their eyes were locked in a mutually accusing stare when a handsome young Dutchman, his hair wet like Wendy’s, walked up to them. Wendy broke the stare to introduce him as Herman Ubbink, the Heineken beer rep she had mentioned earlier. Herman reminded her that they had to meet people for lunch.
“Where can I reach you, Alan?” she wanted to know.
“I haven’t found a permanent place yet,” he said. It would have been too embarrassing to tell her he had a seedy little room on Serangoon Street in the Little India quarter.
“Please ring me up,” Wendy said. “I’m listed.”
“Of course.”
Alan watched them leave, two vibrant young people with good tans, good posture, good prospects, and all the time in the world ahead of them.
Deep inside, his ulcer began to churn.
Louis van Leuck reminded Alan of Sydney Greenstreet. He wore a white linen shirt with a Nehru collar and sat bent very close to the table so that he could keep an elbow on either side of the plate while he ate. They were in the Swatow Restaurant high up in Centrepoint, an ultramodern, multilevel shopping center to which van Leuck had taken Alan after leaving the Dutch Club. They were eating dim sum, a kind of rolling buffet in which trolleys filled with numerous Chinese dishes passed continuously among the tables.
“Try some of that baked tench, my boy,” van Leuck prompted. “It’s the best fish to come out of China in years.”
“I don’t have much appetite for fish after eating boiled fish heads every day for five years.”
“Try the duck skin, then. It’s wrapped around spring onions and cucumbers, coated in black bean sauce. Delicious.”
“I’ll just have a little boiled chicken and rice,” Alan said. “I have a minor stomach problem.” Minor. When it wasn’t causing him nausea, excruciating cramps, or bleeding.
The food trolleys were being pushed by slim Chinese women wearing sarong kabayas slit on one side up to the thigh. They served whichever dishes the patrons indicated they wanted. One of the women had a slight overbite that made Alan think of Wendy Travers. Presumptuous little bitch, he thought. What did she expect him to do, starve? Beg? How simple life always looked to the young.
“Do you have anything for me. Louis?” he finally asked when they were halfway through their second course.
“I wish I did have, my boy,” the overweight Dutchman said. “But things are very, very slow right now. There’s lots of official pressure about. Election year and all that.” He lowered his voice. “If you’d care to get involved with the, ah — snow, shall we call it? — I might be able to arrange something. It would mean moving to Manila, of course. I don’t fool around with that trade in Singapura — too dangerous. Mandatory death penalty, you know.”
Alan shook his head. “I don’t care to get into that sort of business.” Hadn’t he just told Wendy he wasn’t in a position to be selective? Now here he was, being exactly that.
“Locally,” van Leuck said, “I’m expanding my chain of sexual massage parlors, but I really like to have women managing them — they’re so much more reliable, especially Chinese women.” He stuffed his mouth with food and talked around it. “I dabble in contraband ivory here, but only on a small scale — not really enough profit there to share. Stolen airline tickets bring in a little. Counterfeit designer purses and other items make a modest amount, despite some really aggressive competition from Malaysia. And then there’s my pornography operation: magazines, video tapes, uncensored books. Again, the tight customs controls make that a limited-profits enterprise. I expect things to loosen up by this time next year, however.”
“How nice,” Alan said. “If I’d known there was a business recession, I would have arranged to stay in prison an extra year.”
“That’s very funny, my boy,” van Leuck said, a bit of orange yam falling to his chin as he spoke. Then his eyes narrowed to slits that could have held matchsticks. “There is one venture currently in the planning stages,” he said hesitantly. “It could be a bit out of the ordinary for you, as well as somewhat risky, but the reward would be considerable. I myself am involved only in marketing the project and, ah — shall we say, converting the acquired product. The actual planning and operation is being done by someone else, but I understand he’s a man short. I could recommend you, if you like.”
“What’s the venture?” Alan asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say. That would have to come from the man at the other end, once he approved you.”
Alan rubbed his chin, his interest piqued. “Considerable reward, you say?”
“Very.”
“But risky?”
“To some degree.”
Alan was silent for a long moment, but finally nodded. “All right, Louis. I’ll accept your recommendation, with gratitude.”
“Excellent, my boy.”
Louis van Leuck smiled and waved over another trolley of food.
That evening, Alan walked slowly up Sago Lane in Chinatown. It was a narrow road, vibrant with streetside activity, sounds, and smells. The fragrance of incense mingled with the smell of frying noodles. Street hawkers chattered among themselves, quieting down and watching as Alan passed to see if he had any interest in their candles, citrus, dry goods, or beansprouts. The cackle of seven Chinese dialects punctuated the night as old women in samfus and homemade clogs gossiped in street stalls and tenement entries. Chinese children, spotlessly clean even at play, dashed about, giggling at their simple games.