Whatever Next Read online

  Whatever Next?

  Rory Pralte

  Copyright © 2017 Rory Pralte

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  Tel: 0116 279 2299

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  ISBN 9781788034227

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Family, Friends and Colleagues

  To the variety of life

  CONTENTS

  LONDON 1980s

  TOKYO - JAPAN

  LONDON

  JAPAN

  SEOUL – KOREA

  TOKYO - JAPAN

  UK

  JAPAN

  HANOVER - GERMANY

  TOKYO - JAPAN

  HANOVER

  RIO DE JANEIRO

  HANOVER

  LONDON

  RIO DE JANEIRO

  LONDON 1980s

  They were sitting facing each other at the table. An expensively dressed Californian businessman wearing a suit, brogues and a monogrammed shirt and that almost ‘tan from a bottle’ look which comes from exposure to the Southern Californian sun - enough exposure, but not too much. Opposite, a faintly unkempt Englishman, Patrick Chase - smart, but undoubtedly not as interested in the ‘final look’. The meal was well underway. The Englishman was the guest. He obviously did not regularly frequent the St Oban Club in Mayfair. Somehow it showed.

  Next to the American was an equally well-groomed and finished Californian lady: his partner, confidante and accomplice. Jeanette was 5 ft 6 inches with a quietly superior manner. Don’t be deceived, thought the Englishman as dessert was served. This is all too perfect. Remember the other people they have rolled. Remember. These are professional sharks.

  Jeanette turned to her Californian beau and asked, almost as an aside, “Michael, do you think Patrick really has the balls? If he could put his company into liquidation we could purchase it for next to nothing from the receivers, the shareholders would not need to be paid. We could take care of Patrick on the side.”

  Michael Shoner turned to face Patrick and said one word, “Well?”

  “Could you repeat your proposition?” Patrick replied, outwardly calm but inwardly seething. For the last six months Patrick had been negotiating with Michael over the amalgamation of his company into Michael’s, with ongoing benefits to Patrick and his shareholders. It had been a protracted series of very difficult negotiations, not only with the American but with three shareholders, all venture capital funds, each with their own agenda. Patrick had had the devil’s own job to get all parties to agree to the sale. The deal was to be completed in the next two days. The meal was one of the final ‘social business’ meetings before the arranged signing and payment in London in two days’ time.

  Jeanette spoke again. She acted on impulse, or did she? Michael was very clever never to sign or say anything controversial - or nearly never. Jeanette’s voice was still soft Californian. It struck Patrick as funny. This voice, almost hushed tones, should be saying something like “Are you feeling better darling?” Instead it repeated the earlier statement. “What we are saying, Patrick, is do you have the balls to liquidate your company? We can then purchase it at nominal value. We will make sure we take care of you. Do you understand?”

  Patrick understood very well. He had understood entirely the first time but needed space to think. Luckily his mind worked fast. He knew the answer. It was contained in those two great English words. “Fuck off”. However his reply was classically English. “I will have to consider. Obviously it will depend on the terms and guarantees. There’s a lot at stake here for both companies to consider. Together we have an excellent future. Apart we both have real problems and will lose many opportunities. Let me sleep on it. We will meet tomorrow anyway.”

  “It’s for the best, Patrick,” Jeanette added. “Why pay all the investors when there is no need?” Patrick was silent. Inside he was fuming. He felt sick - six months of negotiations, gone, evaporated. He knew he had been playing with fire, negotiating with professional snakes and even so had been lulled into a false sense of security. Bloody Americans! Without this deal his company was in very real danger of going out of business and if that happened, instead of a decent payday, financial disaster loomed.

  Michael called for a round of drinks. Patrick asked for a large scotch. “Celebrating our deal then Patrick?” said Michael. “Very wise.”

  Patrick smiled. He could do with a bottle of scotch but not for celebration, for commiseration.

  The meal broke up within fifteen minutes. Patrick made courteous goodbyes and said he looked forward to meeting at 9.30 in the morning at Skymar’s offices in Mayfair. Skymar was Michael’s company. A publicly quoted company in the USA but really Michael’s company. It funded his exotic lifestyle and was all one big rip-off of everyone except for Michael and his right arm, Jeanette.

  Patrick collected his mackintosh from the reception of the St. Oban Club restaurant, climbed the stairs and went out of the door. A taxi was hovering, there were rich pickings in this area. But not tonight. Patrick climbed into the taxi. “Great Western Hotel please,” said Patrick and stuffed himself into the ample taxi seats. If this deal didn’t go through it could mean the end of Patrick’s company, but he knew now that there was no way it would happen. No way.

  There was little sleep and much thinking in Patrick’s hotel room in Paddington that night.

  TOKYO - JAPAN

  Halfway around the world, in the Far East, Skymar did most of their business. In sophisticated electronics and software for computer companies, Skymar had been born on the back of a good basic idea, good connections and an animal instinct to do business by oiling as many palms as possible. Ichiro Taduii was eager to be oiled with as much money as possible and in Skymar’s Chairman, Michael, he found a well to tap. Luckily Ichiro, or Ichi as he was known to Michael’s staff, worked for a massive trading company and siphoning off small contracts for Michael was easy, if you were dishonest.

  The Italian Corner is an unlikely name for a nightclub in Tokyo. It was nearly empty, except for hostesses and a party of six from Skymar, together with Ichi. The evening was in full swing. The hostesses were exquisite, multinational and available for full service, at a price. Ichi was a regular and treated as such. Whilst he was dancing with his regular partner Anya, one of the other hostesses signalled Anya. Making her excuses, she led Ichi back to his table and, after a few words, ushered a work mate into the seat next to him and excused herself. Within seconds she was shaking with fright. She had gone to receive
a telephone call, not an unusual occurrence, as customers, or ‘friends’ as they were known, often called to see if Anya was available. The voice that greeted her was very different. It was foreign, maybe German, Anya thought, and sounded menacing.

  “Anya. You don’t know me. I know you can help me. It is worth a lot to you. I simply need information and one favour, not your usual sort! I will meet you tomorrow at 6.30 in the bar at the Shiba Park Hotel. The Rugby Bar. Please come. I shall be carrying a maroon briefcase and an umbrella to match. Do not let me down. Listen very carefully.Come at Six-thirty sharp. Please come, or you will die!” The phone went dead.

  Anya’s complexion drained. She felt weak. Christ, what was this about? What was she going to do? She went straight to the ladies’ room, entered a cubicle, locked the door and sat, motionless, astride the toilet, head in hands, sweating but cold. What had she done? The club was run by a faction of the Yakuza, the Japanese mafia. She knew she operated on the fringes of normal society but she had never been involved in any physical trouble, let alone death threats. She sat, thinking. Should she go? What if she did - what would happen? What if she didn’t? The caller had made his intentions very clear. After what seemed an age, Anya raised her head from her hands. “God, Ichi!” She was supposed to go back with him tonight to his room. God, she couldn’t face it now. She raised herself up, took a couple of deep breaths and unlocked the cubicle.

  Facing the mirror over the wash basin, she looked at herself. What a mess she looked. At that moment her companion Suzy, who had been entertaining Ichi, came into the ladies’ room. Suzy was a tall, half-Chinese girl of twenty-six with a magnificent figure - very full breasts and a stunningly curvaceous back, firm round buttocks, golden brown from head to toe with shiny long black hair. Anya turned to face Suzy and saw Suzy’s face drop. Before Suzy uttered a word Anya said, “Suzy, I have the most terrible migraine. I’ve just been sick. I’m supposed to be with Ichi tonight and you know how important he is for the club. Are you engaged tonight?”

  “Well, no,” replied Suzy, “but Anya, will he go with me? He’s very choosy.”

  “No problem, Suzy, just take him on to the dance floor and do your stuff. In five minutes he will be yours. Just tell him the manager has called me away. He’ll know not to argue. He knows the management here well enough for that. I’ve had it for tonight, I’m going home. You’ll get $1,000 from Ichi if you stay all night. Please?”

  Suzy smiled, “OK Anya.” Suzy turned and slid her black dress up to her waist, revealing her suspenders, gorgeous bare thighs and tiny lace g-string. Slowly and without effort she removed it.

  “Right,” she said to Anya, “here I go. Hot pussy for Ichi!” And, clenching her g-string in her right palm, she turned and strolled back into the club. What followed was a favourite ploy by Suzy to hook a punter. It never failed. It took Suzy only ten minutes to be out of the club with Ichi. On leaving Anya, she invited Ichi to dance. Holding herself very close, she could feel Ichi’s loins responding to the gentle undulating movement of her hips as they danced together. Suzy looked at Ichi and explained, “Anya has been called away by the club manager and will not return tonight. I would just love to get closer to your body tonight, I’ve been hoping for this opportunity for weeks. Can I partner you tonight?”

  Ichi went to speak and Suzy put her head closer to his shoulder and whispered into his ear. “Really, I get hot just looking at you, in fact, please feel in your left pocket, I think you have a little of me already.”

  Ichi carefully felt in his left jacket pocket and his fingers caressed a silk object with lace! Christ, he thought, it’s the girl’s pants. He turned his head and looked at Suzy. “OK,” he said, “get your coat. I feel like some new pussy tonight. We’ll see how hot you really are. Oh, and has Anya told you what I really like or will it come as a surprise?”

  Later that evening Suzy found that she really did earn her fee; as the wheal marks on her buttocks showed the next morning when she examined herself in the mirror.

  *

  The Shiba Park Hotel is a fairly small hotel frequented by many visitors to Tokyo, especially those from Australia. On the ground floor is a small bar adorned with various mementos and reminders of international rugby, worldwide. In the early evening it is visited by many of the hotel residents, who have probably returned either from business meetings or visits in the Tokyo area, and who are a mixture of Europeans, Australians and Japanese.

  Anya arrived by taxi at 6.15, full of nervousness, fear and trepidation, and wearing a perceptible frown she entered the hotel, went to reception and enquired where the Rugby Bar was situated. Having been directed, she went through the reception area, across a small road and pushed open the glass door of the bar. She swallowed hard as she entered. The bar was about half full with people sat on the stools along the bar and spread among the tables in twos and threes. Anya scanned the faces to try to spot someone on their own. No luck. She felt so conspicuous. She looked around again. No maroon briefcase and umbrella were visible. Oh God, thought Anya, did I get the message straight? Don’t be stupid. It was riveted in her memory.

  Moving as naturally as possible, but with everything seeming to be in slow motion, she crossed the bar and sat down at an empty table against the wall on the far side . A waiter came over and she ordered a tonic water and then, hesitating, called him back and changed the order for a large brandy and soda. She lit a cigarette, her hands shaking as she placed the extinguished match in the ashtray. God, please let this nightmare end, she thought. Her mouth was dry, she felt hot and sick and absolutely terrified. Underneath her makeup was the face of a woman who had hardly slept for thirty-six hours; pale, drawn and dark-eyed. She drew deeply on her cigarette and looked around the room, trying to spot her contact. Nothing. She turned with a start as the waiter put her drink on the table. She looked at her watch – 6.30 precisely. She sipped her drink. At 6.45 she ordered another drink. She was in two minds. Either someone was playing some kind of sick game or she was being watched to make sure she was alone. Six-fifty, Christ it felt like an age; 6.55, still no show. Anya was undecided. How long should she wait? She drained her drink and lit another cigarette. She decided. She would finish the cigarette and leave.

  Five minutes after finishing the cigarette she cast a last glance around the bar. This is crazy, she thought, obviously a nut case. If she got any more calls she would speak to the club management. With their contacts they would soon sort this out. She rose and brushed past two couples engaged in deep conversations. As she left the bar she glanced around to see if any final contact was made. Nothing. She crossed to the hotel lobby and waited for a taxi to take her back to her refuge, the club. Time to start work again. How she hoped she would not have to ‘trick’ tonight. She was out on her feet now, lasting until two in the morning at the club would be hell enough. Little was she to know!

  The club was quiet that night, which was not surprising; Tuesday was not a peak night. Some Arabs were being entertained by Suzy and three other girls. Anya was able to play on the fringes, not getting too involved.

  Halfway through the evening Suzy spoke to Anya. “Anya, thanks for letting me go with Ichi the other evening, it was a good payday but he’s done some pretty severe damage to my butt. Actually it’s not too bad but you might have warned me. In fact I rather enjoyed it. Does he ever get too carried away?”

  “Oh no,” said Anya, half-heartedly. Suzy looked at her.

  “Anya, are you OK? Are you still suffering from that migraine? It’s so unlike you.”

  “I’m OK, Suzy, just tired. I just want to get to bed.”

  “Christ, talking about bed I’d better get back to my Arab friend. With a bit of luck he’s taking me and Julie back tonight for some double fun and for a very big pay-off”. Suzy was off , back into the dim depths of the club.

  At that moment someone entered the club. Anya greeted a tall, blond, good-looking forty-year-old, well-dressed wi
th the taut figure of an athlete and piercing blue eyes. He spoke with a soft European accent and said to Anya, “Good evening.” Anya looked at the guest. Christ, he was good-looking.

  “Please come this way,” she said and ushered him to a table at the rear of the club. “Would you like a drink?”

  “White wine, dry,” said the guest.

  “I will get one of our girls to bring it to you,” said Anya.

  “No,” said the guest. “Not one of the girls, you. I want to spend the evening with you.” Anya was slightly taken aback but managed to hide any surprise. “Why of course, my pleasure,” said Anya and within one minute returned with two dry white wines.

  The evening progressed. The guest, who gave the name of Paul, asked Anya to dance. He seemed the perfect gentleman and whilst obviously enjoying Anya’s company did not treat her or her body as if he owned her. Anya warmed to Paul. It made such a change, for most customers treated the girls as if they owned them. At the prices they paid it might have been cheaper if they did!

  Anya sat very close to Paul. Her earlier tiredness had waned at the prospect of an evening with this charmer, plus a possible payday. They danced some more, Anya carefully pressing her body closer to Paul’s. They had become quite close, a mixture of wine, atmosphere and a small element of chemistry.

  At 1.30, Paul leaned closer to Anya and asked, “Will you stay with me tonight? Come back to my room. But only if you stay all night. I really need some company.”

  Anya answered, “I’d love to, but there is a charge.”

  “OK,” said Paul, “how much?”

  “All night is $1,000,” said Anya.

  Paul looked at her. “OK, shall we go?”

  “Just one moment,” said Anya and went over to Suzy who was in close conversation with her Arab. “Suzy, I’m off,” said Anya.