Chapter Six

By the end of the first day, Jeanne Kyaw had decided she liked the American boy enough that she would keep him for as long as she could get away with it. He was the ideal companion for her work in Singapore.

For starters, he was handsome. Jeanne considered herself a bit of a connoisseur, as far as pretty faces went. And Nick fit the bill. He had blue eyes and reddish blonde hair that curled on the top of his head though the sides were kept clipped short. The scattering of freckles across his nose was adorable and he had a beautiful, almost pouting mouth. But he was saved from being too pretty by the breadth of his shoulders and the fact that at some point in his life his nose had been broken and so it had a little crook in it.

When he smiled, she had the impression of a much younger man. A younger man who got into his share of trouble. Someone’s little brother, perhaps an only son.

“You’re right! I do have an older sister. And I’m twenty-eight,” he answered when she asked. “I used to have a real baby face though—got carded all the time.”

“What is carded?” Jeanne asked. “Pass me the blue vase, please.”

He handed the vase up to her, holding the ladder in the crook of his elbow. It was so nice to have a spare set of hands!

“In the States you have to be twenty-one to drink, and so people would ask to see my ID,” he said.

“How strange,” she said. “The red one now. No, the other one—with the green splash.”

They were arranging the display of art glass to go with the theme of the room. Nick was an excellent assistant. He had no opinions whatsoever. He simply did what she said and asked questions. His questions were genuine and reflected his curiosity about her work. It was charming.

She gave him a new phone where he kept a list of things to look up on his own time: terms, artists, even art mediums he had no clue about. Nick learned quickly and kept his mouth firmly shut about things he didn’t know enough about. But he was eager to learn. Jeanne encouraged him.

“Add this to your list, cheri!” became her frequent comment.

“So is this going to be a big party?” he asked as she climbed down the ladder.

“Oh, tiny,” Jeanne said. “No more than a hundred people. But I want Julian’s sculptures to sell, so I have invited a very specific list.” She hopped off the last rung and leaned over to Nick’s ear.

“Margo wants them out of the house,” she whispered. Nick snorted.

“So it’s okay that I don’t understand these…objects?” He gestured to the sculptures.

“It certainly is. Now let’s set up the textiles in the other room,” she said. “The people who are coming have the income and the…taste…to buy them.”

“Like Graves?”

“Certainly not,” she laughed. “He thinks they are hideous.”

“So he isn’t coming then,” Nick said, as she stacked bolts of colorful fabric in his arms. Jeanne tried to see his face around the pile.

“Are you interested in Nelson Graves?” she asked. The poor boy blushed to his hairline “Oh don’t misunderstand, cheri. He and I are not together in that sense. You may certainly sleep with him if you wish.”

“What? No! I’m not… I don’t…” he said. “I’m straight. And anyway—this is Singapore—isn’t it illegal for men to be together?”

“Don’t be silly, Nick. Singapore’s laws don’t apply to people like him,” she said. “I only wanted to warn you that if you decide to sleep with Graves you should cancel your other plans. The man is a hedonist. I love him dearly, but I am a week behind on work because of him!”

Nick sputtered another protest, but she heard her name being called and had to let it go. For now. She would be sure to ask again.

*

Nick tried to pull himself together as Jeanne ran to greet her friend. He didn’t know what to make about her description of Graves. It was true he had hoped Graves would return, but it wasn’t for the reason she implied. He probably has a stable of supermodels he dates. Or other rich people. Some countess in a castle somewhere…

Jeanne and her friend hugged and kissed on both cheeks, without touching, so extravagantly it had to be an inside joke. Setting the pile of fabric where she had indicated, Nick stuffed his hands in his pockets, unsure if he was intruding. Jeanne solved his unease by grabbing his arm and drawing him forward.

“Roger, this is Nick Erickson,” Jeanne said. “Nick, this is Roger Yeung, another, what did you call it? Patron. His mother and I are dear friends. He works for Energen but somehow still has excellent taste.”

“Nice to meet you,” Nick said. Roger Yeung was actually the CFO of Energen, but didn’t look it. He was wearing tight jeans that showed off his legs and a cropped military jacket over a deep V-neck T-shirt. His blue-black hair was swept backward. He looked like a TV star. He gave Nick a long, slow, up-and-down look that had Nick staring at his feet.

“What on earth is this, Jeanne?” Roger asked.

“Isn’t he lovely?”

“He is! But he isn’t one of yours. Where did you find him?”

“A friend of mine almost ran him over and then got him fired. So we brought him home,” Jeanne said.

“Well, if we are going to keep him, then we had better fix”—he gestured to Nick’s clothes—“all of that.”

“Hey,” Nick said. “I’m not a stray dog! And this is my friend Tony’s shirt. I think it’s nice.”

“It is very nice,” Jeanne said. “But you cannot come to one of my events in Antoine Zidane’s shirt.”

“You’d better take him to Colette,” Roger said. “It will save time.”

“I was going to do that after lunch,” Jeanne said. “Join us?”

In another setting Nick would have resented being steamrolled this way, but their goodwill was obvious, and anyway, he didn’t think they would pay him any mind if he protested.

Nick’s stomach was already reminding him of the time, so he was glad they had said lunch first. He, like everyone in Singapore, including oil company executives and Asian Peace Prize winners, ate street food in a hawker pavilion.

Hawker pavilions were Nick’s favorite thing about Singapore. A series of stalls of varying kinds of street food, most specializing in only one or two dishes. You could fill a tray and sit under a canopy at plastic tables and eat a variety of incredible foods made by chefs that had perfected their recipes. There were hawker center chefs with Michelin stars, and some who had been cooking the same dish for decades. Big places like this one, with more than a dozen vendors, were busy at any time of day, with lines for the more famous chefs. But even small ones with only one or two stalls had devoted followings.

They sat in a shaded arcade at a plastic table that was almost sagging with the amount of food they had ordered. Or rather, Roger had ordered.

“Are we really gonna eat all this?” Nick asked. He had ordered his favorite, sesame paneer, deep-fried over coconut rice. It had to be eaten on the spot, the crunchy coating protecting the melting curd inside. It reminded him of the state fair, despite the lack of cold beer. Drinking on his first day of the job didn’t seem like a good idea.

“We will taste everything,” Roger announced. “They change the menus seasonally. I need to keep up.”

“Roger is planning the food for all our events, Nick,” Jeanne said. “He is as much of a patron of chefs as I am of artists.”

Nick missed what was said next in the haze of hearing Jeanne say “our” events.

“And so, now, she has a Michelin Star, and it’s about bloody time,” Roger said. “Nick, you are not afraid to try new foods, are you?”

“No, sir,” Nick said. “I eat everything.”

“Sir. I like that,” Roger laughed. “Even spicy foods?”

“Yes, sir,” Nick laughed. “There’s a little Louisiana in my family.”

“I have no idea what that means, but it sounds good,” Roger said. “Try these.” He indicated a stack of tiny shrimp, fried whole and tossed in a dusting of spices.

“Gross,” Nick said, “too much salt.”

Roger’s eyes narrowed.

“Philistine!”

“I have no idea what that means,” Nick quipped. “Taste them!”

“Oh! You’re right,” Roger said. “What has he done?”

Their tasting lunch ended up being the best part of an otherwise overwhelming day. Roger pulled a tablet from his bag, and he and Nick talked about food for the event. This was the first real excitement Nick felt in a long time. Roger asked Nick’s opinion about everything and took his answers seriously, jotting notes as he went. Jeanne left them to it, spotting a friend and going to talk to them at another table. Nick could see she was pleased though, giving him a discrete wink.

“Thanks for answering all these questions,” Nick said, hastily typing names of dishes into his phone. Roger leaned over and kissed his cheek. Nick blinked in surprise.

“This was the nicest conversation I have had in a long time,” Roger said. “People are always asking me about business and work and what Energen is planning for this quarter’s derivative, blah-blah… I never get to talk about my passions except with Jeanne and my chefs.”

Nick nodded, embarrassed and pleased all at once.

“Ah, here she comes,” Roger said. “Now let’s get you out of those horrible clothes so we can admit we know you. Some Yves, some Oscar, some Ralph…”

Nick had no idea what any of that meant. But it didn’t matter. Shopping was completely one-sided. Jeanne and Roger hooked Nick’s arms and brought him straight into a store with strange white minimalist art. The woman behind the counter took one look at them and closed the store so they would have it to themselves.

All of Nick’s protests fell on deaf ears. In fact, Nick’s opinion wasn’t required for anything.

He was pushed in and out of changing rooms until he had a nice suit that fit, a couple of pairs of slacks, and a pile of shirts. Other than telling him to turn around a few times, no one even asked him what he thought. They even bought him underwear and shoes. It would have been embarrassing if they had even given him a moment to think about it.

“That is an excellent beginning. Nick, go put on the gray trousers and the green shirt, and we will go back and see if the movers are done with the space.”

“Jeanne, this is too generous,” Nick said after they said goodbye to Roger and were back in the car.

“Nonsense,” Jeanne said. “Consider it a business expense. You simply cannot be seen with me in anything less. It isn’t possible. And I want you with me. I like you. Roger likes you and even Graves likes you—and he doesn’t like anyone. So you must look the part. You simply must.”

“Yes ma’am,” Nick said. “A business expense. That makes it a little easier to think about.”

“Good,” she laughed. “I promise you will earn it by the time I am done with you.”

*

Fucking Luzon. Broiling hot and looming clouds. Graves moved from helicopter to car without stopping. He had left all four horsemen in Singapore but the Luzon team was one of David’s best. They moved him from jet to helo to car smoothly, as if Bishop were there.

The armored Range Rover barreled down the roads like a military convoy. Graves didn’t even look up from his phone as they blew through traffic, wailing sirens blocking roads for them. They reached the ministry in record time.

Joe Stinton didn’t look like a mobster. This was one of the secrets of his success and one of the reasons Graves liked him. He looked like someone’s father-in-law. The nice one who helped out when there were repairs needed on the house. Of middle height with a round, smiling face, he had just enough Southeast Asia in him, from a Pakistani grandmother, that he didn’t stick out too badly in his usual areas of operation. He was the guy who helped the neighborhood kids with their kites and fixed the shaking ceiling fans for the granny down the hall. Graves could send him anywhere, and no one ever batted an eyelash.

But Joe Stinton was a mobster. A high-ranking mobster. He ran Red Sky in Hong Kong and Macau. Which meant he handled the largest share of their black-market shipping contracts, moving drugs and arms all over the world from his immaculate little office atop one of the port’s gantry cranes.

He had turned Hong Kong into an operation that rivaled Yangon. But most importantly, he had saved Nelson Graves’s life in 2012 by picking up an attacker and tossing them out a window before David Bishop even drew his gun. One minute they were being charged, the next they were all standing there with their mouths open, staring at Joe Stinton, who simply shrugged, his round face wreathed in smiles. Killing someone was no different from fixing granny’s fan, or repairing the local kids’ kites.

Joe was waiting outside the banking office where they were meeting, looking uncomfortable in his suit. Graves smiled and shook his head. He could practically see the hard hat on Joe’s head. By any measure, he is a wealthy man. But he still looks like a longshoreman in his Sunday best.

“Joseph Stinton!” Graves said, shaking his hand. “How are you, old boy?”

“Well, m’lord,” Joe said, his honest face shining with sweat. The poor man hated coming to Luzon. “The wife sends her regards.”

“Lovely Sophie,” Graves said. “Be sure and return the courtesy. Now let’s go in before we melt.”

“Thanks, Boss. I’m like a bowl of ice cream out here.”

In the lift, Joe caught Graves up on their other plans.

“Alex Benitez is loyal, I think. But I am going to keep an eye on him anyway.”

“I am sure he is,” Graves said. “If he wasn’t, we’d be in a bad spot. Seeing as he manages the money. After the ship, I’ll move him to Sri Lanka.”

“Ah, here we are,” Joe straightened his jacket as they made their way to the gleaming glass-walled room.

Graves spent most of the meeting silent, listening closely as Joe managed their buyers and laid out the plans for bringing in the ship. He let the words flow over him, trusting his memory to pick it all up. He was more interested in the tone of the meeting, the way the various people present spoke, moved—all the little signals they didn’t know they were giving.

Generally, Graves never thought of his foster father with anything but loathing, but moments like this he was grateful for his education in ruthlessness. He could almost hear the old man’s voice: Joe is nervous about this ship. The Filipinos are frustrated. They are losing patience with the pace. But they have no choice.

“Gentlemen,” Joe shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s Hong Kong or nothing.”

“Louis Tang is breathing down our necks! Why should we trust your pilot to bring the ship in safe?”

“The window to bring this ship in is narrow,” Joe said. “But the profit from this venture will be considerable. For everyone. We’ll handle the ship. You worry about Quezon.”

They seemed mollified, but Graves was left with an uneasy feeling. They were shooting him suspicious looks. Theroux’s words came back to him: You abandoned us. He trusted his instincts. Something was wrong. He let it go for now, waiting for the solitude he needed to think about it.

*

The solitude came in the form of a villa overlooking the sea. As much as Nelson Graves was ever alone—which meant there were armed men in the garden, on the roof, down on the road. The sun slipped below the horizon, and Graves wandered back indoors.

“What in the blazes do they want now?” he asked, seeing a dozen or so texts from David. He finished his drink and loosened his tie. He opened their secure app as he made his way through the dark house.

His surprised shout of laughter startled the guard in the hall.

“Christ, he’s really done it this time.” Graves laughed as he scrolled through the videos of some kind of exploding foam filling Russ’s suite, Tony running away, the camera bouncing and Russ’s enraged bellows chasing him across the lower deck.

The last video stopped Graves in his tracks. It was Russ and Nicholas Erickson, flinging a shouting Tony into the harbor. Nick was laughing so hard he could barely stand but was still strong enough to hold Bishop back with one arm while swinging Tony by one skinny ankle. Graves took a screen shot. Then another. Nick was in nothing but very small swim trunks. That was the body hiding under Erickson’s ill-fitting suit?

“Christ,” Graves said, surprised at his own reaction. He made himself toss the phone onto the bed. “No. Absolutely not.”

Showered, out of his legs and caps, he watched the video again, took another screen shot.