The Water Rat of Wanchai + The Dragon Head of Hong Kong by Ian Hamilton

Author:Ian Hamilton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Anansi Press Inc
Published: 2013-12-17T00:00:00+00:00

( 18 )

Since her meeting with Antonelli, Ava had been debating how to approach Seto. She had thought of phoning him first, maybe pretending to be a seafood buyer and setting up a meeting on that basis. There were a couple of problems with that idea. First, she didn’t really know enough about the business to survive any rigorous questioning. And second, why would anyone come to Guyana to buy seafood without making preliminary arrangements?

No, her first contact had to be incidental. It hadn’t worked with Antonelli, but he was into ladyboys. Not many heterosexual men could resist showing interest in Ava, so she had to find a way to get next to Seto and take it from there.

She walked down to the lobby and looked for the concierge or the doorman, neither of whom was on duty. She asked the front desk clerk where they were. “They’re on break. Be back around one,” the woman said.

“I need to buy a few things. Is there a mall around here?”

“The best place would be the Stabroek Market. It’s just down the street to the right. You can’t miss it — look for the tall clock tower.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it.”

“I wouldn’t go dressed like that,” the woman said.

Ava was wearing her running shoes and a T-shirt and track pants. “Why not?”

“I mean the jewellery. You should leave it here.”

Ava had on her gold crucifix, her Cartier watch, and a green jade bracelet. “It’s the middle of the day,” she said.

“Don’t matter. That watch — it’s real?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. It’s a magnet. You’ll get all kinds of unwanted attention, and if they go for the watch they’ll take the necklace and bracelet too.”

Ava took them off and put them in a pocket that zipped closed. “Better?”

“Just be careful.”

Outside the front entrance the heat was brutal and oppressive, and Ava thought about using the hotel Jeep, but she could see the clock tower and figured that Stabroek Market wasn’t much more than a ten-minute walk. She was fine until she had gone about a hundred metres and the ocean breeze had dissipated. The sky was cloudless and the sun beat directly down, radiating off the tarmac; the heat seemed to penetrate through the soles of her shoes. She began to sweat, her eyes burning, beads dripping from the end of her nose, her panties absorbing what they could and then sending the excess down her legs. It was hotter than Bangkok, more humid than a Hong Kong summer. And then there was the smell. She held her breath as she walked past the decaying garbage and dog shit on the sidewalk.

When Ava was about twenty paces from her destination, she heard a buzz in the air, a mixed symphony of voices haggling and car horns blaring. It wasn’t until she stepped onto Water Street that she had a full view of Stabroek Market. The building encompassed a large area of about sixty to eighty thousand square metres; it was, as advertised, completely encased, including the roof, in red iron.

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