answer to all her prayers. God knows, she deserved it! He could get her out before Chan had any chance to look for her. Big Frank had big bucks, Lucy could tell – she was used to men with money – she’d known many. He was generous and eager – that was a good sign. Lucy would work hard on him, devote everything to winning his heart and soul. But she’d better hurry up: the clock was ticking and the debt was mounting.
29
It was gone two a.m. when Mann arrived at the Bond Bar in Wanchai. The area was number three on his list, and probably the same number in order of importance in the nightclub world. It used to be number one, but the smarter clubs across the water, in Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon side, had taken that slot.
The bar’s theme was Bond girls: Honey Ryder, Holly Goodhead, Plenty O’Toole. It was in the guidebooks as one of the ‘must see’ bars and was described as ‘intimate’. It was certainly that: small, cramped, and with a definite exchange of body heat going on. But it didn’t matter what the place looked like. The fact that it had half-decent, half-naked girls in it was all that mattered.
The doorman, Sam the Sikh, was in his usual pos ition – a genie in the shadows in his red silk – guarding the entrance to the club. He stepped forward and greeted Mann.
‘Good evening, Inspector.’
‘Hi, Sam. How’s it going?’
Sam screwed up his face and rocked his hand in the air. ‘So so. Business is not bad but I’ve seen better.’
‘Not like the old days, huh?’
Sam clapped his hands together and laughed. ‘The old days – before the Handover. Before we all changed into Chinese.’
‘This place hasn’t changed, that’s for sure – still as disreputable as ever. Still, I’d better make an in spection, Sam – see if it passes the health and safety regulations.’
Sam laughed. ‘Very good, Inspector. Say hello to her from me.’
Mann passed the wall of famous faces – an array of framed and signed photos of those well-known visitors who had been caught – some off-guard and obviously regretting it, others past caring. A few looked almost grateful. No new ones, though.
He scanned the room as he entered. There were about thirty punters in. It should have been busier than it was, but Hong Kong was still reeling from one global catastrophe after another. It had only just emerged from the SARS epidemic and, before that, the stock-market crash. Visitor numbers were down. The punters were distributed around the room, according to their preference in women. They sat at individual bar stations and were served by a topless Bond girl who sat or knelt at eye level in the centre of their bar on a raised rotating island, a metre in diameter.
All eight podiums were up and running that night.
Mann passed a group of nervous-looking Japanese who were hovering just inside the door. They’d probably wandered in looking for something more explicit and were too polite to move on when it hadn’t mat erialised. Across the room there were a few Indonesians around Honey Ryder’s station. They were probably dignitaries back home, now getting their first glimpse of a semi-naked white woman and trying not to giggle. The rest of the podiums had small groups of Europeans and Americans, just getting going for the evening. They wouldn’t be staying there for long. The Bond Bar was just an appetiser – pure titillation and completely harmless by Hong Kong’s standards – nothing like the real deal. In Hong Kong, money could buy the darkest of desires and everything and everyone had a price.
On the way through, Mann passed Honey Ryder entertaining the Indonesians – she looked up and gave him her endearing gap-toothed smile. She was dressed in black rubber hotpants and sported a cute blonde bob. She had an expectant look on her face and he was tempted to say a quick hello. She looked like she was waiting for him to come over. They’d had something going a while ago but it had never quite got off the
29
It was gone two a.m. when Mann arrived at the Bond Bar in Wanchai. The area was number three on his list, and probably the same number in order of importance in the nightclub world. It used to be number one, but the smarter clubs across the water, in Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon side, had taken that slot.
The bar’s theme was Bond girls: Honey Ryder, Holly Goodhead, Plenty O’Toole. It was in the guidebooks as one of the ‘must see’ bars and was described as ‘intimate’. It was certainly that: small, cramped, and with a definite exchange of body heat going on. But it didn’t matter what the place looked like. The fact that it had half-decent, half-naked girls in it was all that mattered.
The doorman, Sam the Sikh, was in his usual pos ition – a genie in the shadows in his red silk – guarding the entrance to the club. He stepped forward and greeted Mann.
‘Good evening, Inspector.’
‘Hi, Sam. How’s it going?’
Sam screwed up his face and rocked his hand in the air. ‘So so. Business is not bad but I’ve seen better.’
‘Not like the old days, huh?’
Sam clapped his hands together and laughed. ‘The old days – before the Handover. Before we all changed into Chinese.’
‘This place hasn’t changed, that’s for sure – still as disreputable as ever. Still, I’d better make an in spection, Sam – see if it passes the health and safety regulations.’
Sam laughed. ‘Very good, Inspector. Say hello to her from me.’
Mann passed the wall of famous faces – an array of framed and signed photos of those well-known visitors who had been caught – some off-guard and obviously regretting it, others past caring. A few looked almost grateful. No new ones, though.
He scanned the room as he entered. There were about thirty punters in. It should have been busier than it was, but Hong Kong was still reeling from one global catastrophe after another. It had only just emerged from the SARS epidemic and, before that, the stock-market crash. Visitor numbers were down. The punters were distributed around the room, according to their preference in women. They sat at individual bar stations and were served by a topless Bond girl who sat or knelt at eye level in the centre of their bar on a raised rotating island, a metre in diameter.
All eight podiums were up and running that night.
Mann passed a group of nervous-looking Japanese who were hovering just inside the door. They’d probably wandered in looking for something more explicit and were too polite to move on when it hadn’t mat erialised. Across the room there were a few Indonesians around Honey Ryder’s station. They were probably dignitaries back home, now getting their first glimpse of a semi-naked white woman and trying not to giggle. The rest of the podiums had small groups of Europeans and Americans, just getting going for the evening. They wouldn’t be staying there for long. The Bond Bar was just an appetiser – pure titillation and completely harmless by Hong Kong’s standards – nothing like the real deal. In Hong Kong, money could buy the darkest of desires and everything and everyone had a price.
On the way through, Mann passed Honey Ryder entertaining the Indonesians – she looked up and gave him her endearing gap-toothed smile. She was dressed in black rubber hotpants and sported a cute blonde bob. She had an expectant look on her face and he was tempted to say a quick hello. She looked like she was waiting for him to come over. They’d had something going a while ago but it had never quite got off the
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