Jade Woman l-12 Read online

  The problem: If you’ve an antique for sale, then, sad to relate, the world isn’t your oyster. It’s not that easy. Even if somebody gives you the National Gallery, your options are still very, very limited. Okay, you can sell the Old Masters, set up a trust, buy your favorite brewery. But that’s strictly it. You’re limited by honesty on the one hand and law—that hobble of sanity—on the other.

  Now, here I was in thrall to the Triad (and I still wasn’t sure what one was; a gang anyhow so murderous they made Big John Sheehan’s seem Samaritans). They drained genuine Chinese antiques from the mainland plus their own output of fakes. They made a steady fortune, increased when international dealers hove in town. My worry was that I had to multiply their steady reality into a dream percentage, or I’d be for it.

  Which meant forgery had to raise its beautiful head.

  Antique forgers have dedication like fundamentalists have beliefs. There the similarity ends, because by forgers’ works thou shalt know them. And all forgery is tangible, not to say dead obvious. Its one aid is humanity—by which I mean greed, aspirations, lust, all the stuff I call “graspiration.” Everybody has it, and can’t control it. Proof? Well, everyone—meaning every single solitary one of us—just knows that old pot Grandad used to feed his pet tortoise from should never have been given to Cousin Velma, who said it was worthless, because who paid for her sudden holiday in the Bahamas, the cunning bitch? And every time you open the paper, there’s some thoroughly undeserving clown grinning beside a Ming vase or a Velazquez found in a coal hole.

  Also, forgery has to be superb for its time. Why? Because forgeries go out of fashion.

  Not forgery; note: forgeries. The Vermeer fakes by Van Meegeren won stunning fame, and Van Meegeren’s life in the 1940s. Look at them now in Amsterdam without falling down laughing and you deserve a medal. The Billie and Charley pewter Victorian fakes are ridiculous, but at the time they convinced hordes. The Chelsea porcelain fakes by Samson of Paris have worn well, but present us no real problems, whereas last century they baffled national experts. The fabled Thailand “Chinese” ceramics are already becoming discernible to most, even though On is still turning them out like Ford cars at a few thousand dollars a dragon/lion/whatever.

  So into the equation went Time. And beside it went Number—of forgeries, that is. This was a special problem because Johny Chen’s tour had proved that Hong Kong, tiny as it is, surpasses everybody. It outbids China, out-replicates Japan, out-manufactures Taiwan, out-tourists Europe. I’d seen little enough, but knew I could grab a taxi and return in an hour having successfully placed an order for ten thousand anythings. To the Hong Kong Triad, therefore, a one-off would be derisory. In short, my scam had to be a well of plenty. So Number had to equal Infinity. Hong Kong does that to dreams, brings them nearer to reality. What was it Ling Ling had said, at that curious moment when I’d caught the little sampan toddler? “All Chinese dreams die of size.” Well, this dream had better not, because I was in it.

  When your head’s zipping full of ideas, I find the thing to do’s go for a walk or lie down unthinkingly. But the thought of reeling from one minuscule patch of shade to another outside in almost audible scorching heat daunted me so much I stayed flopped down.

  An hour and I’d found the one ingredient I lacked.

  “Phyllis,” I said aloud. The apprehensive gray lady who lusted so wistfully outside the pales of her own erection, so to speak. Pleased, I rolled on my side and nodded off.

  Even gods decay. Like, in 1890 somebody sold off thousands of mummified Ancient Egyptian sacred cats—for fertilizer. Get the point? Constancy isn’t.

  As a rule antique dealers, knowing the full worth of intangibles, change their minds quicker than Lafayette. Like politicians, popes, all businessmen really, I suppose.

  Criminals are the opposite. Unswerving creatures they, of indelible convictions. Justice, police, and law can be as arbitrary as they like, but crooks are reliable to the point of obsession. You know where you are with black-hat buddies. It’s the saints who do you.

  The one good omen was that in Hong Kong I was friendless. No tender loving Janie to help me to within an inch of my life, for example, so the outlook wasn’t all despond.

  By the time Steerforth breezed in, I was brewing up. I’d had a bath and was padding about in a towel loincloth. He was twenty years fresher from the Double Eight bathhouse.

  “Got my new shirts, Lovejoy.” He flung a shoal of colored cellophanes on the couch. I eyed him, teapot in hand. Was he a possible ally? Testing time.

  “How long’ll you keep going, Steerforth?”

  “What d’you mean?” All actors challenged on looks zoom to the mirror, as he did. “I look twenty-five.”

  “By morning you’ll look ninety.” I poured, neffie powdered milk of course. HK’s trade mark.

  He stomped across to poke my chest. “I survive because I’m superb at my job.”

  “Gigolo?” I shrugged, gave him a mug to stop that prodding digit. “Some job.”

  “Yours any better?” he cracked, which really stung. I wanted to clout him, but my scheme might need him so I smiled my sincerest smile.

  “Tooshay. But we’re living hand-to-mouth, right?”

  He eyed me. One thing about this nerk, he wasn’t thick. “What’re you up to, Lovejoy?”

  “Me?” I tasted the tea, grimaced. Horrible. “Nothing. Honest.” Pause. We looked at each other, him suspicious, me pure innocent. I cleared my throat. “Well… almost nothing.”

  “Oh, no, Lovejoy! Oh, bloody no!” He was instantly up, pacing, shouting. He scared me, so many gestures at nothing.

  “You’re spilling your tea.”

  “Fuck the tea!” He practically marched at me, glaring, a ferocious hot sweaty plum suddenly terrified out of its life. “I frigging know you by now, you crazy burke!”

  I was amazed, doing it really well, raised brows and everything, going, “Me? What have I done?” into his apoplexy.

  “Done? Done?” he bellowed. “It’s what you’re going to do, you frigging lunatic! You’ll kill us sodding both, that’s what you’ve done!” Syntax to pieces.

  He grabbed me, hauled me away from the window in agitation, sank his voice to an urgent croak. “Listen, you fucking maniac. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on in that batty cranium of yours. You’re thinking to outscam the Triad? Oh, no—I’m going to get on that blower and let them know you’re sick as a pig. I’ll admit you to Queen Mary Hospital for the cure—”

  Quarter of an hour before I got him coherent. I upped the fan to such a speed the room nearly took off into China. I got his favorite drink. I played dim—what on earth’s got into you and everything? Two tumblers of whiskey and he was reduced to watching me warily while I swigged my tea catechizing.

  “What did Ling Ling say when she let you go, Lovejoy?”

  “I told you. Said to come here, keep up the good work, to report in two days at the Flower Drummer.” I’d described the party, our trip to the floating restaurant in Aberdeen Harbor. I’d told him about Johny Chen. I said nothing about having any antiques scheme for the Triad. He had too big a part to play to be trusted.

  “Anything about working the tourists with me?”

  “Nope. In fact she gave me to Marilyn.”

  “She did?” Steerforth nodded, marginally less suspicious when I showed him a phone number beautifully engraved on a gold malachite slice.

  “I’ve to ring Marilyn’s number every four hours.”

  He was still unconvinced, sly devil. Why is it people never trust me? “Then what’s the question about living hand-to-mouth, Lovejoy?” I said nothing. He went on, “You’ve seen how Hong Kong is. I’m a miracle survivor.” He rose and stared out, turned back.

  “How old am I, Lovejoy?”

  Good heavens. “Dunno. Thirty?”

  “See?” He swigged at his tumbler. “I’m forty. Some days I look thirty, even twenty-eight. Don’t think,” he threatened, “I’ve not had real offer
s, wealthy birds taking such a shine to me they want marriage, the lot.”

  Nodding agreement at this figure sweating in the sunshine slabbing through the window, I warmed to the man. After all, he’d rescued me—from self-interest of course.

  But rescue is rescue. And I felt pity for his terror of the Triad, fear of approaching age.

  How must he have woken feeling like death warmed up, yet raised his game and go bouncing out, playboy of the Eastern world?

  He got another refill and sat staring. “Bastards like you never worry, Lovejoy. Not properly. Too stupid. But learn from women. They know appearances are paramount.

  Youth’s everything…”

  Narked, I switched off. I quite often listen to women, even when they’re being daft. It’s pretty tiring, but I’m always fair, nearly almost always. I poured myself more tea, wondering why Hong Kong has no biscuits. Humidity too high, probably. They’d get soggy. I’d ask Ling Ling.

  “… in the night hours. Sometimes, just lying thinking.” He gave me a glance. “Maybe I’ll start widow hunting soon.” He chuckled. “The Chinese say: ‘Man beware widow—horse thrown rider.’ ”

  “How did you start?”

  “Jumped ship.” He shrugged. “Ran out of money, but not before I’d got to know the Wan Chai bars. A mate struck lucky. Some Chinese muscle showed me kung fu persuasion, forty percent basic, forty over the top for squeeze.”

  “Squeeze? You mean your profit?”

  “Squeeze is illicit percentage. The whole place runs on it. Commerce, shipping, retail, wholesale, and you’ve read of our police scandals. At least you know where you are with the Triads. They regulate squeeze down to the last drop of drug and plastic flower.”

  I thought, something here. “Do we pay squeeze?”

  He stared. “I didn’t believe anyone could be as thick as you. Of course we pay squeeze.

  On everything. Rumors to rubbish. Horses to heroin.”

  “To Fatty?”

  “Naturally. Look carefully. You’d see that street collectors are every ten yards. How do you think I keep the concession at the ocean terminals, at the Digga Dig? Independent, I’d last less than a minute.”

  “Answer a couple of questions, Steerforth?” He said nothing. I asked him about the little leper. “He’s everywhere I look. Once or twice I mistook a look-alike, but mostly I’m sure it’s the same bloke.”

  “On the cadge. You were an easy touch. Stay around and you’ll lose that vulnerable aura. Then beggars’ll leave you alone.”

  “He doesn’t beg. In fact I had to catch him to give him some money.”

  He could offer nothing sensible, or wouldn’t. Nor would he be drawn on Dr. Chao, Marilyn, Fatty, the Triad societies. I already knew that it was his obsession with Ling Ling that kept him clinging to the China Coast.

  “Do we have any leeway?” It was the most casual question I’d ever asked in my life. My heart was in my mouth. A lot hung on it. He slightly misunderstood.

  “Hardly. We’ve two escort jobs booked tonight—we’ll have to take them back to the ship by eleven o’clock.”

  “I meant afterwards.”

  He seemed pleased at my enthusiasm. “Pick up spare clients? Yes. As long as our percentage goes in.”

  “What if I fancy a go on my own?”

  Surprised, he said fine. “Got one lined up?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. One other thing. About a library.”

  Curious but reassured, he told me about the excellent City Hall library, Hong Kong side.

  It had good reference sections and quite a lending program. I thought while he went to shower himself ready for the evening.

  Antiques, to be faked at the uttermost, must be gigantic. Not in size, I haste to add, but in concept. I mean, if you’re going to risk your life on one throw of the dice, better forge the crown jewels than a Woolworth tiepin. Like, when Konrad Kujau decided on forgery, he really went for broke and produced Hitler’s entire diaries by his own lily-whites and nearly fooled everybody. I approve. Fakes are horses for courses, true, but the rule is “think big.”

  That’s why I thought first of George Chinnery. He was the famed Victorian Artist of the China Coast. Even in 1970 you could get his lovely water-colors of Hong Kong and Canton life for fifty pounds. Now the prices are astronomical. Faking a Chinnery might therefore bring fame and fortune, since he’s not well documented. Fake him twice, still okay. And thrice. After that, well, dealers would begin questioning. You can see the dilemma. If Chinnery was more prolific than had been thought, they’d argue, then his works are overvalued. If not, then the newly appearing Chinnerys are possibly fakes, and the legitimate demand goes kaboom. Fakery is self-limiting. Therefore, no. I was downcast at my decision to ditch a scam based on Chinnerys or some similar antiques.

  It was tempting, but fear stiffened my willpower. Still, at least I’d started cerebrating in the right direction. This calmed me so much I remembered to phone in to Marilyn’s malachite number on the dot like a parolee.

  “Wotcher, Marilyn,” I said. “I’ve been hearing all about your Cantonese superstitions.”

  “Indeed?” she said.

  “You’re all ghosts and gambling.”

  “Mr. Steerforth has a very slanted view of our world, Lovejoy,” she said sweetly. “Thank you for ringing.”

  As we left to report for escort duty and collect our clients from the ocean terminal, Steerforth mentioned quite casually that the Typhoon Two signal was up on Stonecutters Island.

  “Oh, aye?” I said, and thought nothing of it.

  21

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  LOVING’S generative in every sense. I catered for a lovely Colombian lady—God, talk about talkative—who between conversations made businesslike love, drenching us both in scent. Her earrings, gold scythes, nearly had my ears off. It was a mess because I couldn’t understand a word and she knew no English. It didn’t stop her talking. During round two I began remembering Montgomery. He’s an old bloke in Suffolk who prints fake old maps—mostly Cotterell’s 1824 editions from Bath—honestly almost as good as the originals. It’s his regular income. In fact he does so well I’m occasionally astonished to come across collectors without a set.

  Not quite the sort of scam I was looking for, but getting closer. I showed how pleased I was to Carmelita. She was still expressing her pleasure in words as she left two hours later. A real pro. She left me an LP record, signed, with her exotic photo on the sleeve, and tipped me a gold bracelet. I’ve never worn anything like that in my life. Could sell it, I suppose. Don’t women surprise you? A world-known pop singer, it seemed. I knew her job would have been something with vocal cords.

  Then again, I thought before tottering down to rejoin Steerforth’s next assignment, fake-jewelry scams can be stupendous. The trouble is they’re easily spoiled. I remembered a bloke we call Willynilly, from Norwich, nice chap with a pot leg from a farm accident. Willy had this idea of finding a medieval hoard of jewels near Saxmundham. It’s called a rainbow job in the trade, after the leprechaun’s pot of gold.

  Five of us contributed gold pendants, rings, pins. I made a pair of lovely Anglo-Saxon beast-and-bird brooches, using the original medieval goldsmithing techniques. Willynilly made a killing, selling to unscrupulous dealers. He was assisted by law, of course—he put word around that he wanted to avoid a coroner’s Treasure Trove court so had to sell without invoices, all money in used notes, a right carry-on (meaning no legal comeback if the purchasers recognized the fakes). Willynilly was rumbled, though. It was his own fault. So impressed was he with the success of his neffie scheme that he started making crude casts of our fakes. Silly sod. This turned his unique “antiques” into a mass production rip-off. Angry German dealers exacted restitution, so police became aware of the uproar, so Willynilly’s still doing time for tax evasion, forgery, heaven knows what.

  Sadly, I rejected the notion of a rainbow job. Too vulnerable. Moreover, I couldn’t risk any comebacks such as exposure of the fakes by ho
rrid laboratory investigations. I gulped and decided to think again.

  Thoughts of my survival scheme came to haunt me in every post-loving doze, every dance at the Digga Dig. The clients acted as stimuli. Resting, after a matronly Singaporean lady, prompted thoughts of a possible scam in relics.

  About relics.

  There are churches dedicated to Christ’s foreskin—believers argue that, given his corporeal ascension, it logically constitutes the only earthly remains. Ancient monasteries fought, sued, stole, purloined, and invested fortunes (plus even, I daresay, a little prayer) in saintly relics. Without being blasphemous, an antique dealer could be forgiven for thinking of holiness. Behind all that medieval mayhem of course lay money and power. Reason? Why, it collared pilgrimage, the ancient world’s tourist trade.

  Destitute peasants grubbing a feudal living couldn’t afford to travel, but barons, their ladies, and entourages could and did. Wealth meant mobility back in those days, as now. Attract enough pilgrims and you convert shabby little hamlets like old Lourdes into, well, new Lourdes in all its ghastly glitterdom. Or any patch of modern wasteland into a money-spinning airport. In the Middle Ages churches hired squads and did secret deals to nick relics and attract endowments. Sounds familiar? It ought to—it’s exactly our nowadays game of museum funding, endowing colleges, pulling crowds by the fame of an institute’s art paintings, academic publications, whatever. So instead of kneeling at a tomb praying pious prayers for a chapel’s benefactor, one pays to see an art collection in the Joe Soap Wing of this or that gallery. It’s called progress. If I seem cynical, hang on, because relics get grimmer.

  I drove my somber thoughts on, into ancient China and the sacred bones of the Compassionate Buddha.

  Remember 1974? Reports came of that staggering terra-cotta army of thousands of warriors excavated near Xian City. It was at a time when mainland tourism was nil, on account of bothersome political ideologies. But little stands in the way of true lust.