Free The Year of the Woman by Jonathan Gash Page B

abdominal wall and bent it over his scrotum. The man screwed his eyes tight shut in agony, stayed silent. “Why is it not on Government lists?”
    “The temple belongs to the Guild of Builders and Contractors, First Born.”
    “I thought so. Whom do they pay?”
    The suited man grew uncomfortable, found wanting. “Not known.”
    “Look into them.”
    Mister David, the victim, slumped, his eyes protuberances of horror. The two killers waited for instructions, facing each other awaiting new orders, quick or slow. Old Man dusted his long black garb and smiled at his assistant.
    “You are unhappy at my remark?”
    “No, First Born. Whatever you decide.”
    The gaunt man did not smile. “You are wiser than your years.” He turned to the victim and inspected his plight with detachment. He said in a quiet voice, “You caused me a deal of trouble, and took my valuable time. You now know what you ought to have known long ago.”
    A terrified hope lit the victim’s countenance. He tried to focus, but it proved too much.
    “You should not have stolen my money.”
    He moved slowly to the door and paused.
    “Another half hour,” he told the killers. “Then end it.”
    “Yes, First Born.”
    Old Man sighed and left. Two suited threat-men waited outside with his limousine. He stepped into it, pleased by the air conditioning. There was none indoors in that dreadful place, an omission he would have to rectify . He felt quite worn out. Soon it would be time for wine and a little grilled salmon, with possibly a few large Sydney Harbour oysters flown in daily by CathayPacific and Quantas.
    He worried about his ancestors. No wonder he had been so furious with HC’s disrespectful cousin. Disrespect was a cancer. No escaping its effects. The taint wasn’t merely a stain; it was contagion setting up malignancies of its own. Now, he felt, that balance was righted. HC would realise. Terror would spread manners , and the criminal world would sail on.
    But what to do about ancestors? He had made his minions interrogate that girl while he’d watched behind his two-way glass. He had actually shied away from asking that girl’s advice. KwayFay had been so frightened she might have said anything, and what good was that? Later, he might summon the fortitude to ask outright, and see what she said. You did not disturb the spirits with impunity.
    Her advice had better be sound, trustworthy, and correct . In short, worthy of his ancestors. He would not like to become annoyed twice in one month. It took it out of him so.
    Oysters, he needed those big Australian oysters.

    That afternoon, all the Australian jockey’s efforts failed to get his mount to the line. He finished a disappointing fifth. He heard the abuse as he went through to the weighing room. The aggro was the usual punters’ suspicion that he’d been bribed. Punters everywhere had the same thoughts: if you won, jealous losers knew you’d bribed the rest to trail on the run-in. Lose or win, you were at risk among Hong Kong’s gamblers.
    Coming from the weighing room, the jockey found his next seven races cancelled. He would lose a fortunein race fees. He swore under his breath as he changed.
    In the car, he found a parcel under his steering wheel. It was adorned with a gold-edged red ribbon. Inside he found a fortune, twice what he would have made had he won all his cancelled races. He had only been in Hong Kong four months, but already he knew when to speak out and when to drive home silently to Chai Wan as if nothing had happened. He did not smile, until he closed the door on his fourth-floor apartment in Cheung Lee Street. It was the only time he’d arrived home not cursing the bastard-awful one-way traffic system.
    HC’s wife Linda was furious. She had shouted the same allegations among the abusive punters. She lost five out of her six wagers, the paltry winner an odds-on filly hardly paying enough to bother with. She considered the numbers:
five
, out of
six
. Were