Mr Wong Goes West Read Online Free PDF Page B

break break. Sock-it-to-me sock-it-to-me sock-it-to-me, yeh! Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.’
    He opened his eyes. Pounding rock music was playing in his office and shaking the floor of his tissue nest. This could only mean one thing. Joyce McQuinnie was back.
    Aiyeeah
. Why did the gods hate him so?
     

     
    ‘Oh hi, CF. What were you doing in the toilet roll cupboard?’
    ‘Meditation room. That is the meditation room.’
    ‘Whatever.’
    ‘I was meditating.’
    ‘Cool.’
    ‘Hard to meditate with loud music on.’
    ‘What? Oh sorry.’ She turned the volume down. ‘This is the new CD from The Rogerers. It’s called
Biscuit Dunked in Death
. Cool title, no?’
    Wong was no expert on rock album names and was disinclined to offer an opinion.
    ‘I bought it to celebrate our new assignment.’
    ‘Oh.’
    He pondered for a moment on whether he should try to return to his place of transcendence but he quickly dismissed the thought—it would be futile. Whether her music machine was on or off made little difference; Joyce herself was intrusive in every way—physically, aurally, visually and spiritually. Dressed in shapeless, garishly coloured clothes, and stinking of expensive perfume and bitter coffee, her arrival immediately tainted every centimetre of the office. His vision of a mountain idyll was gone, swept away as if a flood had burst into a valley and pulverised a village made of paper.
    What to do? Life was hard. He owed money. He shared an office with unhelpful people. He had received no high-paying jobs for weeks. He may be knifed to death by the friends of the world’s only Indian Chinese triad in ten days’ time. This was not shaping up as one of his better months. He needed distraction. He needed something else on which to focus.
    An idea struck him. From his top drawer, he pulled out his journal, deciding to spend a little time writing some notes on stories he remembered from his days in Kunlun Shan. An hour or two lost in his book might help him regain his composure. Then he noticed Joyce was still staring at him. She was restless about something. She seemed to want his attention.
    ‘Did you hear what I said? I bought the CD to celebrate
our new assignment
.’
    Wong looked up from his tatty volume with undisguised irritation. ‘What?’
    ‘While. You. Were. Out,’ she said, spacing the words like a nanny speaking to a newborn, ‘on that ship this morning, someone called with an assignment. A majorly nice one. We’re going to make some dosh.’
    ‘Dotch? Dutch?’
    ‘Dosh. Moolah. Greenbacks.
Money
.’
    ‘Someone call with a job?’
    ‘Yes. Winnie was late this morning, surprise, surprise, so I took down all the details. It was such a nice one that I went out to HMV to celebrate. It’s classified as “urgent” so we can charge the express service surcharge. And the guy giving us the assignment sounded totally swanky. So I think it could be like
major
bucks. You should be happy. This is a good news day.’
    Wong listened without getting excited. It was too much to hope that easy money should arrive just when he needed a massive injection of cash. The fact that something had got Joyce excited did not fill him with confidence. She sometimes got things so muddled that good news was bad and vice versa. Nevertheless, he might as well hear her out.
    ‘So, this assignment, easy and big bucks, is it?’
    ‘Not only. The guy had been given our number by the British Trade Commission. He wants us to feng shui something for them in Hong Kong on Thursday. They’ll pay the airfares and the hotel and everything—and our fees, of course. They reckon it will take between six and ten days.’
    Wong, despite himself, started to become interested. The British Trade Commission sounded like a proper organisation with proper budgets. And international trips could often be profitable, if one spun out the expenses on top of the fees.
    ‘Thursday? This week? In Hong Kong? Better be plenty big money. I don’t have