overseer, a balding middle-aged man who runs the house.
“You behave, or I have you beaten again,” he says, spitting and jabbing a fat finger in my face. “Until Sir comes for you, you work for me now.”
Since every man who enters the house is called “Sir,” this doesn’t tell me anything.
The only thing I can do is keep breathing — no matter how painful it is.
After my escape attempt yesterday, I’ve come to realize that I need to learn
as much as possible about my surroundings before I attempt another escape.
Lying alone on the floor of this tiny, stuffy, closet with only a pillow, blanket, and my thoughts for company, I try to piece together what is happening to me and why. The rest of the day I sink into despair and silently cry myself to sleep unable to control my emotions. But I quickly realize that this isn’t going to help me escape.
The next day no one will tell me why I am being held captive. And I have asked, repeatedly. The other inhabitants of the house barely speak to me, unless to issue an order in broken English, although they jabber away behind my back.
And by their tone and gestures, I know they aren’t saying how much they love
having me here. So why am I?
All the women, from the maids who cook and clean to the girls who service
the gentlemen, all seem to be here of their own free will. They smile, laugh, and eagerly greet the men who visit. None of them are locked in at night to prevent their escape.
As the days pass, I’m able to piece together several things, one being my location. After hearing one of the gentlemen talking to another I’ve figured out that I am now in Hong Kong. How I got here from Paris I still have no fucking clue. I don’t dare ask any of the men who visit for help. They barely acknowledge my existence, except to try and cop a feel or order a drink.
Nothing makes sense .
At first, I thought that I was being held captive for ransom. My late father’s company, MacKay International, is a multi-million dollar corporation and one of the largest textile importers in the country. Clearly, this isn’t the case otherwise I would be free.
My throat tightens and my chest painfully seizes whenever I think of my family. They must be going crazy wondering where I am and what has happened
to me. I imagine my stepfather, James, and cousin, Peter, are frantically scouring the globe looking for me. And my poor mother, who’s already lost so much, is
probably sick with worry and pretending nothing is wrong.
I need to get home to them. Now, all I have to do is figure out how!
2
FINN
The tiny doorman pushes open the heavy, solid wood door. Upon
entering the cold interior of the McMansion’s large entryway, I am met
by my host Robert Ban who says jovially, “Mr. Finch I’m so glad you
were able to make it.”
I have no desire to be in a Hong Kong brothel, but it is important that I meet with Robert and ingratiate myself with him. No matter how distasteful I may find my surroundings.
“Call me Finn,” I tell him, reaching out to take his pudgy hand in a firm handshake. You can tell a lot about a person from their handshake: whether they are weak and easily manipulated, or if they are aggressive and overly self-assured. Robert’s handshake is a happy medium.
“Let’s get business out of the way, and then we can relax and enjoy the night’s entertainment.” He smiles, leading me into a small sitting room and flopping down on the overly stuffed couch. I sink into the chair kitty-corner to him and attempt to relax.
My business partner, Peter Stein, had put me in contact with Robert, who is
now the Chief Operating Officer (COO) of his family’s tech firm, Ban and Sons, telling me he would make an excellent contact for the private deal we have been working on.
Peter and I have known each other since our days at Cambridge and have recently been working on combining some of our business interests. His uncle,
who he’d been like a son to, passed away five years ago, but he’d verbally and privately promised Peter a piece of his company, MacKay International.
Although Peter is now a large shareholder and member of the board of directors, the new CEO limits his power thus complicating our efforts to merge. The company’s manufacturing interests would pair perfectly with my transportation company, and it’s been our goal to combine them into a new, larger, more powerful corporation.
We haven’t given up. After several years, despite the complications, we have
raised the capital we need and are working on finding some struggling manufacturing corporations we can take over at a discount price. We also need a state-of-the-art tracking system for our new company, to more efficiently track our products from manufacturing to transport and distribution. That’s where Robert and his company come in.
But right now I’m exhausted. Since I left Boston, the last two days have been non-stop traveling and meetings. It started with a contentious brunch in DC with several overpaid lawyers, followed by unproductive cocktails in Chicago, and then a red-eye to San Francisco before flying here to Hong Kong only to be swept up into more mind-numbing meetings where nothing ever seemed to be accomplished.
I am beginning to seriously question the viability of several of the companies whose CEO’s I met with over the past two days. These men had very little interest in actually discussing anything business related unless I came prepared to agree with them carte blanche, and instead of negotiating they attempted to impress me with their golf handicaps. If you have time to play enough fucking golf to have that good a handicap, then you must not take your company too seriously. And I won’t be giving you any of my fucking money or contracting you to work for my company.
Not surprisingly, it was the women-run textile companies I met with this morning over breakfast which had their fucking shit together and came to the table ready to actually negotiate. With them, I was able to make several lucrative deals. Afterward, they probably went out to buy knockoff handbags and shoes, because every smart businessperson knows when to cut corners, and I got ready
to meet Robert and come to this fucking overpriced brothel.
This isn’t your typical low-rent establishment. For security and secrecy, you aren’t even told where you are. A driver picks you up at your hotel, and then you are driven in a dark sedan with blackened windows to the destination. If it was my business and I wanted to avoid being found, I’d also have a number of houses across the city. That way I could change locations at unpredictable times, but not have to cease normal operations. Not that I would ever own a brothel. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a whoremonger.
A waitress, who I am assured by Robert does not understand English, brings
us drinks, and we quickly get down to business. From Peter’s intel, I know that Robert’s company is in talks with our major competitor and it is up to me to get him interested in our fledgling company, to convince him there is more potential growth with us. Ban and Sons has not only the technology but also the infrastructure to handle our needs.
Our meeting isn’t long, and I am struck by how intelligent and diligent my host is when discussing business. He came actually willing to negotiate and have a productive conversation. We may not have come to any finite terms, but I’m well on the way to convincing him that his company should work with me. I like him already.
Once our meeting has concluded, we walk down the hall and enter a large cigar-smoke-filled lounge. I am surprised to see the CEO of one of my company’s largest subcontractors, LDC Limited, there with several of his associates. They are sitting on the large soft leather sofas and chairs in front of a small raised platform where several women are dancing, as close to the action as possible.
I choose the couch furthest away and closest to the long bar that runs the length of the room. Robert drops down next to me and looks around the room expectantly. Casually peering at my watch, I wonder when I can make my exit
without insulting my host. I got what I came for—a private, productive meeting with Robert. Now it’s time to leave.
“Sir. You are back,” a tiny woman says excitedly in Mandarin, trotting over
as fast as her heels can take her. She wraps her slender arms around Robert’s
neck and sits on his lap. I watch as his face brightens and he blushes with the attention. The tart is barely dressed and has enough makeup caked on for ten women. Definitely not my type. I prefer my women with a natural look.
“What can I get you, sir?” a soft, quivering female voice asks in perfect English, catching my full attention and making my head snap up and look at its owner. Beneath the mounds of dark makeup, nervous green, familiar, eyes stare back at me.
