CHAPTER TWENTY
4:01 P.M.:
Sir Dunstan Barre was ushered into Richard Kwang’s office with the deference he considered his due. The Ho-Pak Building was small and unpretentious, off Ice House Street in Central, and the office was like most Chinese offices, small, cluttered and drab, a place for working and not for show. Most times two or three people would share a single office, running two or three separate businesses there, using the same telephone and same secretary for all. And why not, a wise man would say? A third of the overhead means more profit for the same amount of labor.
But Richard Kwang did not share his office. He knew it did not please his quai loh customers—and the few that he had were important to his bank and to him for face and for the highly sought after peripheral benefits they could bring. Like the possible, oh so important election as a voting member to the super-exclusive Turf Club, or membership in the Hong Kong Golf Club or Cricket Club—or even the Club itself—or any of the other minor though equally exclusive clubs that were tightly controlled by the British tai-pans of great hongs where all the really big business was conducted.
“Hello, Dunstan,” he said affably. “How are things going?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Very good. My horse had a great workout this morning.”
“Yes. I was at the track myself.”
“Oh, I didn’t see you!”
“Just popped in for a minute or two. My gelding’s got a temperature—we may have to scratch him on Saturday. But Butterscotch Lass was really flying this morning.”
“She almost pipped the track record. She’ll definitely be trying on Saturday.”
Barre chuckled. “I’ll check with you just before race time and you can tell me the inside story then! You can never trust trainers and jockeys, can you—yours or mine or anyone’s!”
They chatted inconsequentially, then Barre came to the point.
Richard Kwang tried to cover his shock. “Close all your corporate accounts?”
“Yes, old boy. Today. Sorry and all that but my board thinks it wise for the moment, until you weath—”
“But surely you don’t think we’re in trouble?” Richard Kwang laughed. “Didn’t you see Haply’s article in the Guardian? ‘… malicious lies spread by certain tai-pans and a certain big bank.…’”
“Oh yes, I saw that. More of his poppycock, I’d say. Ridiculous! Spread rumors? Why should anyone do that? Huh, I talked to both Paul Havergill and Southerby this morning and they said Haply better watch out this time if he implies it’s them or he’ll get a libel suit. That young man deserves a horsewhipping! However … I’d like a cashier’s check now—sorry, but you know how boards are.”
“Yes, yes I do.” Richard Kwang kept his smile on the surface of his face but he hated the big florid man even more than usual. He knew that the board was a rubber stamp for Barre’s decisions. “We’ve no problems. We’re a billion-dollar bank. As to the Aberdeen branch, they’re just a lot of superstitious locals.”
“Yes, I know.” Barre watched him. “I heard you had a few problems at your Mong Kok branch this afternoon too, also at Tsim Sha Tsui … at Sha Tin in the New Territories, even, God help us, on Lan Tao.” Lan Tao Island was half a dozen miles east of Hong Kong, the biggest island in the whole archipelago of almost three hundred islands that made up the Colony—but almost unpopulated because it was waterless.
“A few customers withdrew their savings,” Richard Kwang said with a scoff. “There’s no trouble.”
But there was trouble. He knew it and he was afraid everyone knew it. At first it was just at Aberdeen. Then, during the day, his other managers had begun to call with ever increasing anxiety. He had eighteen branches throughout the Colony. At four of them, withdrawals were untoward and heavy. At Mong Kok, a bustling hive within the teeming city of Kowloon, a line had formed in early afternoon. Everyone had wanted all their money. It was nothing like the frightening proportions at Aberdeen, but enough to show a clear indication of failing confidence. Richard Kwang could understand that the sea villages would hear about Four Finger Wu’s withdrawals quickly, and would rush to follow his lead—but what about Mong Kok? Why there? And why Lan Tao? Why at Tsim Sha Tsui, his most profitable branch, which was almost beside the busy Golden Ferry Terminal where 150,000 persons passed by daily, to and from Hong Kong?
It must be a plot!
Is my enemy and arch-rival Smiler Ching behind it? Is it those fornicators, those jealous fornicators at Blacs or the Victoria?
Is Thin Tube of Dung Havergill masterminding the attack? Or is it Compton Southerby of Blacs—he’s always hated me. These filthy quai loh! But why should they attack me? Of course I’m a much better banker than them and they’re jealous but my business is with civilized people and hardly touches them. Why? Or has it leaked somehow that against my better judgment, over my objections, my partners who control the bank have been insisting that I borrow short and cheap and lend long and high on property deals, and now, through their stupidity, we are temporarily overextended and cannot sustain a run?
Richard Kwang wanted to shout and scream and tear his hair out. His secret partners were Lando Mata and Tightfist Tung, major shareholders of Macao’s gambling and gold syndicate, along with Smuggler Mo, who had helped him form and finance the Ho-Pak ten years ago. “Did you see Old Blind Tung’s predictions this morning?” he asked, the smile still on his face.
“No. What’d he say?”
Richard Kwang found the paper and passed it over. “All the portents show we’re ready for boom. The lucky eight is everywhere in the heavens and we’re in the eighth month, my birthday is the eighth of the eighth month….”
Barre read the column. In spite of his disbelief in soothsayers, he had been too long in Asia to dismiss them totally. His heart quickened. Old Blind Tung had a vast reputation in Hong Kong. “If you believe him we’re in for the biggest boom in the history of the world,” he said.
“He’s usually much more cautious. Ayeeyah, that would be good, heya?”
“Better than good. Meanwhile Richard old boy, let’s finish our business, shall we?”
“Certainly. It’s all a typhoon in an oyster shell, Dunstan. We’re stronger than ever—our stock’s hardly a point off.” When the market had opened, there had been a mass of small offerings to sell, which, if not reacted to at once, would have sent their stock plummeting. Richard Kwang had instantly ordered his brokers to buy and to keep buying. This had stabilized the stock. During the day, to maintain the position, he had had to buy almost five million shares, an unheard of number to be traded in one day. None of his experts could pinpoint who was selling big. There was no reason for a lack of confidence, other than Four Finger Wu’s withdrawals. All gods curse that old devil and his fornicating, too smart Harvard-trained nephew! “Why not le—”
The phone rang. “’Scuse me,” then curtly into the phone, “I said no interruptions!”
“It’s Mr. Haply from the Guardian, he says it’s important,” his secretary, his niece, Mary Yok said. “And the tai-pan’s secretary called. The Nelson Trading board meeting’s brought forward to this afternoon at five o’clock. Mr. Mata called to say he would be there too.”
Richard Kwang’s heart skipped three beats. Why? he asked himself, aghast. Dew neh loh moh it was supposed to be postponed to next week. Oh ko why? Then quickly he put aside that question to consider Haply. He decided that to answer now in front of Barre was too dangerous. “I’ll call him back in a few minutes.” He smiled at the red-faced man in front of him. “Leave everything for a day or two, Dunstan, we’ve no problems.”
“Can’t, old boy. Sorry. There was a special meeting, have to settle it today. The board insisted.”
“We’ve been generous in the past—you’ve forty million of our money unsecured now—we’re joint venturing another seventy million with you on your new building program.”
“Yes, indeed you are, Richard, and your profit will be substantial. But they’re another matter and those loans were negotiated in good faith months ago and will be settled in good faith when they’re due. We’ve never defaulted on a payment to the Ho-Pak or anyone else.” Barre passed the newspaper back and with it, signed documents imprinted with his corporate seal. “The accounts are consolidated so one check will suffice.”
The amount was a little over nine and a half million.
Richard Kwang signed the cashier’s check and smiled Sir Dunstan Barre out, then, when it was safe, cursed everyone in sight and went back into his office, slamming the door behind him. He kicked his desk then picked up the phone and shouted at his niece to get Haply and almost broke the phone as he slammed it back onto its cradle.
“Dew neh loh moh on all filthy quai loh,” he shrieked to the ceiling and felt much better. That lump of dogmeat! I wonder … oh, I wonder if I could prevail on the Snake to forbid any lines at all tomorrow? Perhaps he and his men could break a few arms.
Gloomily Richard Kwang let his mind drift. It had been a rotten day. It had begun badly at the track. He was sure his trainer—or jockey—was feeding Butterscotch Lass pep pills to make her run faster to shorten her odds—she’d be favorite now—then Saturday they’d stop the pills and back an outsider and clean up without him being in on the profit-making. Dirty dog bones, all of them! Liars! Do they think I own a racehorse to lose money?
The banker hawked and spat into the spittoon.
Maggot-mouthed Barre and dog bone Uncle Wu! Those withdrawals will take most of my cash. Never mind, with Lando Mata, Smuggler Mo, Tightfist Tung and the tai-pan I’m quite safe. Oh I’ll have to shout and scream and curse and weep but nothing can really touch me or the Ho-Pak. I’m too important to them.
Yes, it had been a rotten day. The only bright spot had been his meeting this morning with Casey. He had enjoyed looking at her, enjoyed her clean-smelling, smart, crisp Americanness of the great outdoors. They had fenced pleasantly about financing and he felt sure he could get all or certainly part of their business. Clearly the pickings would be huge. She’s so naive, he thought. Her knowledge of banking and finance’s impressive but of the Asian world, nil! She’s so naive to be so open with their plans. Thank all gods for Americans.
“I love America, Miss Casey. Yes. Twice a year I go there, to eat good steaks and go to Vegas—and to do business of course.”
Eeeee, he thought happily, the whores of the Golden Country are the best and most available quai loh in the world, and quai lohs’re so cheap compared to Hong Kong girls! Oh oh oh! I get such a good feeling pillowing them, with their great deodorized armpits, their great tits and thighs and rears. But in Vegas it’s the best. Remember the golden-haired beauty that towered over me but lying down she …
His private phone rang. He picked it up, irritated as always that he had had to install it. But he had had no option. When his previous secretary of many years had left to get married, his wife had planted her favorite niece firmly in her place, of course to spy on me, he thought sourly. Eeeee, what can a man do?
“Yes?” he asked, wondering what his wife wanted now.
“You didn’t call me all day.… I’ve been waiting for hours!”
His heart leapt at the unexpected sound of the girl’s voice. He dismissed the petulance, her Cantonese sweet like her Jade Gate. “Listen, Little Treasure,” he said, his voice placating. “Your poor Father’s been very busy today. I’ve—”
“You just don’t want your poor Daughter anymore. I’ll have to throw myself in the harbor or find another person to cherish me oh oh oh….”
His blood pressure soared at the sound of her tears. “Listen, Little Oily Mouth, I’ll see you this evening at ten. We’ll have an eight-course feast at Wanchai at my fav—”
“Ten’s too late and I don’t want a feast I want a steak and I want to go to the penthouse at the V and A and drink champagne!”
His spirit groaned at the danger of being seen and reported secretly to his tai-tai. Oh oh oh! But, in front of his friends and his enemies and all Hong Kong he would gain enormous face to escort his new mistress there, the young exotic rising star in TV’s firmament, Venus Poon.
“At ten I’ll call f—”
“Ten’s too late. Nine.”
Rapidly he tried to sort out all his meetings tonight to see how he could accommodate her. “Listen, Little Treasure, I’ll se—”
“Ten’s too late. Nine. I think I will die now that you don’t care anymore.”
“Listen. Your Father has three meetings and I th—”
“Oh my head hurts to think you don’t want me anymore oh oh oh. This abject person will have to slit her wrists, or….” He heard the change in her voice and his stomach twisted at the threat, “Or answer the phone calls of others, lesser than her revered Father of course, but just as rich nonetheless and m—”
“All right, Little Treasure. At nine!”
“Oh you do love me don’t you!” Though she was speaking Cantonese Venus Poon used the English word and his heart flipped. English was the language of love for modern Chinese, there were no romantic words in their own language. “Tell me!” she said imperiously. “Tell me you love me!”
He told her, abjectly, then hung up. The mealy-mouthed little whore, he thought irritably. But then, at nineteen she’s a right to be demanding and petulant and difficult if you’re almost sixty and she makes you feel twenty and the Imperial Yang blissful. Eeeee, but Venus Poon’s the best I’ve ever had. Expensive but, eeee, she’s got muscles in her Golden Gulley that only the legendary Emperor Kung wrote about!
He felt his yang stir and scratched pleasantly. I’ll give that little baggage what for tonight. I’ll buy an extra specially large device, ah yes, a ring with bells on it. Oh oh oh! That’ll make her wriggle!
Yes, but meanwhile think about tomorrow. How to prepare for tomorrow?
Call your High Dragon friend, Divisional Sergeant Tang-po at Tsim Sha Tsui and enlist his help to see that his branch and all branches in Kowloon are well policed. Phone Blacs and Cousin Tung of the huge Tung Po Bank and Cousin Smiler Ching and Havergill to arrange extra cash against the Ho-Pak’s securities and holdings. Ah yes, phone your very good friend Joe Jacobson, VP of the Chicago Federal and International Merchant Bank—his bank’s got assets of four billion and he owes you lots of favors. Lots. There’re lots of quai loh who’re deeply in your debt, and civilized people. Call them all!
Abruptly Richard Kwang came out of his reverie as he remembered the tai-pan’s summons. His soul twisted. Nelson Trading’s deposits in bullion and cash were huge. Oh ko if Nels—
The phone jangled irritably. “Uncle, Mr. Haply’s on the line.”
“Hello, Mr. Haply, how nice to talk to you. Sorry I was engaged before.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Kwang. I just wanted to check a couple of facts if I may. First, the riot at Aberdeen. The police w—”
“Hardly a riot, Mr. Haply. A few noisy, impatient people, that’s all,” he said, despising Haply’s Canadian-American accent, and the need to be polite.
“I’m looking at some photos right now, Mr. Kwang, the ones that’re in this afternoon’s Times—it looks like a riot all right.”
The banker squirmed in his chair and fought to keep his voice calm. “Oh—oh well I wasn’t there so … I’ll have to talk to Mr. Sung.”
“I did, Mr. Kwang. At 3:30. Spent half an hour with him. He said if it hadn’t been for the police they’d’ve torn the place apart.” There was a hesitation. “You’re right to play it down, but, say, I’m trying to help, and I can’t without the facts, so if you’ll level with me … How many folks wanted their money out at Lan Tao?”
Richard Kwang said, “18,” halving the real figure.
“Our guy said 36. 82 at Sha Tin. How about Mong Kok?”
“A cupful.”
“My guy said 48, and there was a good 100 left at closing. How about Tsim Sha Tsui?”
“I haven’t got the figures yet, Mr. Haply,” Richard Kwang said smoothly, consumed with anxiety, hating the staccato questioning.
“All the evening editions’re heavy with the Ho-Pak run. Some’re even using the word.”
“Oh ko….”
“Yeah. I’d say you’d better get ready for a real hot day tomorrow, Mr. Kwang. I’d say your opposition’s very well organized. Everything’s too pat to be a coincidence.”
“I certainly appreciate your interest.” Then Richard Kwang added delicately, “If there’s anything I can do …”
Again the irritating laugh. “Have any of your big depositors pulled out today?”
Richard Kwang hesitated a fraction of a moment and he heard Haply jump into the breach. “Of course I know about Four Finger Wu. I meant the big British hongs.”
“There’s a strong rumor that Hong Kong and Lan Tao Farms’s going to change banks.”
Richard Kwang felt that barb in his Secret Sack. “Let’s hope it’s not true, Mr. Haply. Who’re the tai-pans and what big bank or banks? Is it the Victoria or Blacs?”
“Perhaps it’s Chinese. Sorry, I can’t divulge a news source. But you’d better get organized—it sure as hell looks as though the big guys are after you.”