Our final trip to Hong Kong was unplanned and unexpected and ended in a manner guaranteeing that if we ever so much as set foot inside the territory again we shall be whisked away, peeled alive, and our twitching torsos lowered into boiling oil.

 

A shame, since we all dearly love that mad dragon, Hong Kong. Not that we ever had much of an audience there, mind you; although the territory has more than its share of liberal-minded, progressive residents, their musical tastes tend toward the flaccid. Cantopop – slick, commercial, romantic crooning – has long been their chosen poison. Alternative or protest music is largely dead on arrival, with a few notable exceptions like ultra-minimalist innocent The Pancakes (actually just one girl) or lo-fi Lennon acolyte ketchup (with a lowercase “k,” another solo musician).

 

So it wasn’t the musical climate that lured us back to Hong Kong in 1996 after our lackluster reception in prior years. It was simply that we got an offer too good to be true. And as usual, if it’s too good to be true…

 

We were touring Asia that year, appearing before sizable, enthusiastic audiences. While it’s true that pretty much any American act could attract a crowd in Asia back then, audiences took a particular shine to Thee Tourettes. The crowds knew and sang along to all the lyrics and joined in boisterous mass pogoing that would have made Sid Vicious proud. Even in Malaysia, where we were painfully out of place at a huge outdoor “konsert” with a cluster of popular local bands playing power ballads and slow arena anthems punctuated by falsetto shrieks, even there we were treated like the rock stars we so surely are.

 

The show was in Kuala Lumpur, in the waning days of the tour. The other bands were all talented and tight and dull as cabbage, but nice enough people and impeccably well-behaved for all their leather and teased hair. After the gig, three guys appeared backstage. I’m fairly sure it was three guys. Could have been one guy in triplicate, for all the variation in their looks. Clean-cut in immaculate dark suits and shiny shoes, trendy shades, black feathered mullets. They praised the show inordinately and all the elements thereof: the singing, the songwriting, the instrumentation, the staging…

 

We’d been down this road before. They were too well-dressed to be fans and too fawning to be anything but music industry professionals. We let them run through their schtick and eventually get around to their proposal. How would we like to play Hong Kong?

 

I didn’t even have a chance to open my mouth before Dopey was hitting them up for details. Where, when, how much? For a change I figured to let her negotiate. Turned out she’s a shitty negotiator. I think if they had offered her a shiny nickel she’d have jumped at it. That’s how eager she was to get back to Hong Kong.

 

Me, not so much. Oh, I adore the place, I truly do, but that’s different from rearranging our itinerary to play there, knowing full well the turnout will be weak. Eventually it was time for me, Pinky Tourette, tour manager par excellence, to extricate Dopey from the conversation and get down to nitty gritty. Surprisingly the nitty was pretty good, and the gritty was even better.

 

They would put us up for a week in a hotel, all expenses paid, cover additional airfare costs, plus a substantial guarantee up front. Hard to turn that down, especially with Dopey poking me in the ribs the whole time with a capo. But honestly, it was the free one-week vacation in Hong Kong that sold me. Before long we were handshaking a deal, and they forked over their card. Three Star Productions out of Singapore. Not five star, not four. Three stars. The kind of rating you’d give to a Days Inn on I-470 outside Topeka. Nothing personal, Topeka.

 

The next day we had free. The girls went Kuala Lumpur-ing and I met the Three Stars to nail down the specifics. They were pros, I’ll give them that. At that point we had a week and a half left on the tour agenda before wrapping up in Australia and heading home. The Three Stars handled the ticketing deftly, booking us flights to Hong Kong the day after the last show in Sydney, and then home a week later. In between we’d be staying in the BP International Hotel on Austin Road in Tsim Sha Tsui. I’d been keeping my fingers crossed for the Mandarin Oriental or the Langham, but no complaints. Our hosts gave me the venue name and date of our gig and the address where they’d be headquartering in Fanling, up in Hong Kong’s New Territories.

 

Dopey was over the moon about it. In the early years of the band she had spent every possible moment lurking in the sleazy grindhouses of 42nd Street, catching the lowest of low-budget exploitation flicks, including plenty of excruciatingly dubbed chopsockeys. If we weren’t playing a gig, she was watching something shudderingly awful, or reading about it in xeroxed fanzines like Gore Gazette or Sleazoid Express or Psychotronic. And writing songs like our early fan fave, the zombie dance opus “Do the Lurch.”

 

Eventually that led her to Hong Kong cinema of the 1980s, and she turned all of us on to John Woo and Jackie Chan and, later, Category III films – Hong Kong’s anything-goes lunatic extravaganzas of sex and violence, roughly equivalent to NC-17 – including jawdroppers like Naked Killer, Riki-Oh, and Run and Kill, a film that made Last House on the Left or I Spit on Your Grave look like girl scout marshmallow roasts.

 

So caught up in the HK madness was Dopey that she wrote a screenplay called Maneaters about two hot models who doubled by night as assassins. Hong Kong has a long tradition of strong, kickass women on film, from 1960s spy flick Black Rose and swordplay classic Come Drink with Me up to the modern day. Several western actors had built small careers in Hong Kong action cinema, and Dopey hoped to join their ranks by playing one of the leads in her own script. She pinballed across the territory pitching the film to production companies Film Workshop, Golden Harvest, Win’s, and others during an early band trip to Hong Kong. There was some murmured interest but the locations and set-pieces were way above Hong Kong’s typical threadbare budgets and nobody took the bait.

 

No matter. Dopey was still swooningly in love with Hong Kong, on film and off, and the prospect of an unexpected Three Star vacation in ’96 lit her up like a neon speculum. On the last few gigs of the tour she absolutely radiated, primed for our finale in Hong Kong.

 

Less than two weeks after the Kuala Lumpur gig we flew into HK via the usual heart-stopping approach to Kai Tak Airport, buzzing past apartment towers so close you could count the stains on grandpa’s bib through the windows. We were traveling bare-bones that tour: Doc brought her Gibson SG, Grumpy was hauling a custom-made six-string bass, and Dopey had her Neumann KMS 105, a sturdy, heavy microphone that delivered her chosen tone and stood up well to the rigors of the road. Other than that, luggage was light, and we breezed through customs, while more straight-looking passengers were pulled aside for searches. The customs officials always figure it’s the impeccably-groomed ones that hide the darkest secrets. I’m not arguing.

 

Once in TST we picked up local SIM cards for our phones and exchanged our new numbers in the hotel. Dopey yanked a floppy disk out of her bag and flew out the door saying she’d be back soon. About an hour and a half later she returned with a tall pile of printed screenplays and told us we’d be meeting some friends for dinner.

 

Meanwhile the rest of us had taken the opportunity to freshen up. It felt damn good after a string of gigs one atop the other. Dinner was a ten-minute walk away in Jordan. We met two of Dopey’s pals from previous visits: director Herman Yau and actor Anthony Wong. Together they made some of the most demented films ever released, including The Untold Story, about a degenerate who kills people and Sweeney Todds them into delicious dumplings, and The Ebola Syndrome, their newest collaboration, a movie so black in its humor it leaves stains on the screen. Herman was a radical filmmaker in other ways, alternating his wild exploitation outings with personal, socially-conscious films in an environment that shunned that sort of thing, and Anthony was a multiple best-actor winner who didn’t hold back on his criticism of the slapdash local industry and its lack of ethics and professionalism. The two were also musicians with an alternative bent. Anthony had even released a couple of decidedly non-Cantopop CDs.

 

Over too many courses and too many drinks we laughed and argued and yakked about the uncertain years ahead. With Hong Kong about to be returned from England to China in 1997 after 156 years as a colonial territory, the future was vague and everyone was eager to squirrel away as much money as possible before the door slammed shut. Nobody knew what tomorrow held. China had promised to maintain Hong Kong as a separate, self-governing region for 50 years; few believed that. Some businesses, especially those in the financial industry, which had long made Hong Kong the trading capital of Asia, were already making noises about relocating to alternative locations like Bangkok or Singapore. Nobody knew what would happen to the Hong Kong film industry when the Union Jack was lowered and the five-star flag raised.

 

For decades Hong Kong films had been the hottest commodity throughout Asia, so the top actors cranked out as many as possible as fast as they could, starring in up to a dozen or more per year. Typically shot at white-hot speed and without sound, they were dubbed later by the actors or soundalikes.

 

Dopey had been waiting for an opening and when the subject of scripts came up she yanked hers out of her backpack. The Battle of Mongkok, it was called. A musical science fiction satire about advertising and mind control. I hadn’t read it yet; didn’t even know she’d written it. Our hosts graciously accepted copies – as if they had a choice. Over the course of the evening and a few more drinks Dopey managed to enthusiastically press copies on the waiters, several other diners, and possibly a passing pigeon or two.

 

After a short argument about who would pay the bill (we lost; they paid), we went our separate ways and stumbled over to Temple Street. The vendors were already folding up their stands and closing their storefronts as Dopey darted around, scoring a few movie magazines. Once the shops closed leaving nothing behind but diners crouched on folding chairs at the scattered restaurants and dai pai dongs, Dopey reluctantly surrendered and we headed back to the hotel to crash.

 

The next morning Doc and Happy got up bright and early and set off to take the Star Ferry and visit the Peak. Dopey sat at the desk by the window writing in longhand on hotel stationary, taking detailed notes of everything that had occurred. The other girls opted to stay in and sleep. Hong Kong is not a morning city anyway. Shops open late.

 

Eventually, Dopey folded up her paper and headed out to hit some local spots. I tagged along, for lack of anything better to do at that hour. We grabbed superb pastries from a bakery and worked our way through Dopey’s itinerary. She certainly knew her way around, from a store on the second floor of a mall near Prince Edward Station, where she bought a selection of lobby cards and movie memorabilia; to the Sino Center, a hidden multi-story mall on Nathan Road filled with hundreds of tiny rabbit-warren shops crammed with Japanese toys, games, CDs, and curios; to the Star Shop on Canton Road, at which Dopey bought numerous film posters, pencil cases, key-rings, and t-shirts.

 

On the way back we picked up more pastries for the girls. They had already eaten but that didn’t keep them from pouncing like starving mongrels. Dopey was hanging posters of Maggie Cheung and Michelle Yeoh on the walls to give the room “character” when her cell buzzed. It was someone named Leung. He was interested in producing The Battle of Mongkok.

 

Dopey couldn’t believe her ears. Neither could I, having read a copy of the script that morning. To me it seemed unproduceable on a Hong Kong schedule and budget, given the elaborate staging Dopey had plotted out. Plus it was in English and would need to be translated – a thorny problem considering it contained several musical numbers.

 

But what did I know? If they wanted to produce it, more power to them. Maybe the American pedigree was worth dollars at the box office, and that, after all, was the bottom line. While Dopey was still on the phone, Doc and Happy returned from their day trip, tired yet animated. Doc was eager to show off the communist memorabilia she had picked up along Hollywood Road, including a copy of Mao’s Little Red Book and some red army pins. Being a rabid history buff, she knew the real thing from the fake shinola shilled to tourists, and was thrilled to have mementos for her collection. She was less thrilled when we shushed her to eavesdrop on Dopey’s confab.

 

As soon as Dopey hung up we interrogated her for the details. The financers had produced a few smaller films with B-level TV stars and minor recording artists but wanted to go big with this one and get some name talent. They were associated with one of Sammo Hung’s production companies, Bo Ho or D&B, and could guarantee strong distribution throughout Asia. Grumpy asked who gave them a copy of the script and Dopey said they got it “through the grapevine,” she wasn’t sure from whom. Maybe a pigeon. I asked about contracts and money and she said they’d be talking again tomorrow afternoon to go over details.

 

This trip was shaping up to be a watershed for the band. Everything was falling into place. It all seemed too good to be true…

 

That night Dopey, Doc, and I met up in Wanchai with Tats Lau and his lovely wife Agnes. Tats is a raging iconoclast, a sometimes actor easily recognizable for his bizarre turns in Stephen Chow comedies. That, however, is a sideline to his real job as a musician, having scored numerous films and played the biggest stages in Hong Kong to adoring audiences as half of Tat Ming, a commercial band with an alternative edge. His early band DLLM (shorthand for a foul Cantonese curse) was rude and crude; his new solo CD “Numb” was a creative tug-of war between east and west, lush and harsh.

 

We had barely said hello before Dopey spilled the news about her screenplay. Tats and Agnes were silent for a moment and then congratulated Dopey profusely. Hold on, Doc said. Something’s wrong. Spill it.

 

That’s when the rest of us learned about triads in the film industry. Dopey already knew, and it didn’t faze her. Me, I was fazed. Triads are centuries old, we were told; initially they were fiercely nationalist secret societies that defended the country. Somewhere along the way they morphed into criminal gangs. Hong Kong was rife with them – running drugs, counterfeiting, gambling, smuggling, protection rackets, nightclub operations – and so was the film industry. Triads produced an inordinate number of movies, especially the exploitation quickies, and were powerful enough to force virtually any star into servitude. Hence some of the mind-bogglingly ridiculous, kitchen-sink films that oozed out of the territory. The gangs would pressure a star into appearing in a film, shoot something improvised in a week or two mixing random incidents with lurid insanity, careening crazily from tragedy to comedy to horror to musical and back again in a matter of minutes, and throw it onscreen days later. The star’s name guaranteed a profit, no matter the quality.

 

Triads, we were told, are ubiquitous. The important thing to know was that there were good triads and bad triads. Some of the top production companies and most prestigious films had triad backing. Good triads. On the other hand, there were stories of actresses kidnapped and photographed nude, of agents murdered, of producers savagely beaten and left literally toothless for saying the wrong thing. Bad triads.

 

Still unfazed, was our Dopey. Sure, her producers were probably triad-related, but they were affiliated with Sammo’s companies so they had to be on the on the good side. Again our hosts were quiet for a moment, then softly said Sammo folded his companies a few years ago. Hard to be affiliated with companies that no longer exist.

 

Dismissing the warnings as excess caution, Dopey steered the conversation to less dire topics and by the time the meal came we were all enjoying ourselves. Although we all knew we’d need to seriously address this issue immediately.

 

Doc and I excused ourselves early, as planned, leaving Dopey to hang with her pals. Doc was on the same page as me about the triad business. Shut it down asap, before we got in too deep. It wasn’t going to be easy to convince Dopey to abandon her dream of making a movie in Hong Kong. That would be tomorrow’s task.

 

First we wanted to check out the club where the band would be playing in a few days. The Wreck Room was located in Lan Kwai Fong, Hong Kong’s upscale nightlife district mainly catering to foreigners and expats.

 

Our first clue that something was wrong was when the band’s name wasn’t listed on the poster of the week’s events. We paid the entrance fee and entered a cavernous room with a long, modernist bar, elaborate neon, strobes, colored lighting, and lasers, and a monster sound system. Exactly like a million other clubs in a million other cities, in other words. The place was packed with expensively dressed young sophisticates dancing to a DJ in an elevated, illuminated booth.

 

Not our kind of place at all. Still, they had a raised stage and good sightlines. If we could get a sizeable crowd in here, we’d definitely win over some converts, even among the EDM robots. We corralled a bouncer and he ushered us upstairs to meet the promoter. Like too many of his ilk, he was young, wired, wealthy, and full of himself. He had never heard of us, and had little time for bands trying to weasel their way into a gig in his house. When we handed him the Three Star card he barely looked at it. Meant nothing to him. He gave us two coupons for free drinks and had the bouncer usher us back downstairs.

 

I was ready to call the Three Stars and rip their ears off through the phone. Doc prevailed, pointing out that the Singaporeans had spent a lot of money to bring us here. Maybe there was a misunderstanding. The booking had been switched to a different club, perhaps. Besides, if it turned out they’d screwed us over, it would be much more fun to rip off their ears in person.

 

We opted not to tell the other girls just yet about the situation. The next morning we were all up early, except Dopey, who simmered awake nursing a hangover you could smell from across the room, and immediately buried herself deeper in bed. Doc and I warned her that if she spoke with the producer she should set up a meeting for all of us and not commit to anything. Duh, she mumbled. Ever eloquent, our Dopey.

 

The other girls were getting ready to head to Tiger Balm Gardens, with its bizarre sculptures of mythological beasties, when Doc and I split for Fanling, taking the MTR to Kowloon Tong, then switching to the KCR.

 

Fanling is a residential town in the far north of Hong Kong’s New Territories, two stops shy of the border with Mainland China. The cost of living here, while far from cheap, was considerably more affordable than the shoeboxes of Kowloon or Hong Kong Island. Immediately outside the KCR station stood a cluster of tall apartment complexes atop ground floor malls. We hopped in a taxi and in ten minutes were in a more suburban area with small homes in tight proximity. The driver let us out in front of a house the color of dead salmon, with a small, unmarked truck out front.

 

It was either one of the Three Stars who opened the door or another clone. Maybe they stamp them out on an assembly line. He was startled to see us and stood with mouth open as Doc swept past into the house. She was all business, not exactly giving him a hard time, just stating the facts. The Wreck Room never heard of us. What gives?

 

The house had the feel of a model home – furnished but unoccupied. Nothing on the walls. Could have used a nice poster of Maggie Cheung to give it some character. There was no indication that anyone actually lived here other than a cluster of papers on the dining room table. I sauntered past to peek in the kitchen and noticed among the papers a map of Hong Kong. Circled heavily in red marker at the top was a location marked “Muk Wu.” That’s all I saw before One Star whisked the papers away, insisting we were wrong, it was all a mistake, they were working directly with the owner not the promoter and we were on the bill, definitely, no question. They’d be advertising our appearance starting today. Our equipment was already ordered and would be arriving shortly. His eyes darted back and forth like he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He was flustered. Not used to handling things solo.

 

I made sure they were still good for the guarantee, even if by some tragic fluke of fate the gig fell through. Sure, he said. Sure, sure, sure, no problem. Just call if we have any questions. No need to come all the way out here to talk. We have his number?

 

We had his number. One taxi, KCR, and MTR ride later we were back in the hotel, where Dopey had more bad news. Leung and the other producers wanted us in the studio in two days to record the songs for The Battle of Mongkok. Filming would start the week after next.

 

The conversation had not gone as planned. As far as the producers were concerned, we had already committed to making the film. There was no backing out. Production would last just under a month.

 

That was ridiculous. For one thing, there was no way to plan, build sets, cast actors, and do all the other pre-production for Dopey’s script in two weeks, even in frenetic Hong Kong. There had been zero discussion about fees, rights, points, much less a contract drawn up. More to the point, we were NOT staying here for the next couple of months. We had commitments. Dopey knew that.

 

Yes, she did. She told that to Leung. He repeated that we had already agreed to make the film and we did not want to back out. It wasn’t healthy to break your word. The word “healthy” was doing a lot of work in that sentence, according to Dopey.

 

Perfect. Bad triads. I wanted to phone them right now and call their bluff, tell them we’re not playing along. Doc prevailed, saying let’s think this through, and suggested I go take a shower to cool off. I did, and under the cool spray my head uncleared. Call their bluff? What the hell was I thinking? No, Mr. Triad Godfather, I don’t want to pay back that blood debt. What are you going to do about it? What indeed?

 

That evening we wandered through the Ladies Market, where the younger girls bought trinkets and Sleepy went nuts scooping up wild fashions at ultracheap prices. Dopey was too preoccupied with her own thoughts even to peruse the stalls with the movie related items. At 7:30 we made our way to a second-floor restaurant in Yau Ma Tei and met Bruce Law and a couple of his friends. Bruce is a stunt coordinator who executed the insane car chases in half of Hong Kong’s action cinema classics, and staged the explosions in the other half.

 

Without telling him why, I asked if anyone ever turned down an “offer” from the triads to make a film. Sure, he said. But never twice. After the first time, they knew better. Over the course of the meal we learned why nobody ever got the cops involved. The answer should have been obvious to anyone who’s ever seen a Hong Kong movie. A hefty segment of the police were in cahoots with the triads. Going to them for protection would be like asking a crocodile to guard your puppy.

 

Once again Doc and I begged off early, leaving Dopey behind with her guests. The other girls left too, heading back to the Ladies Market for more shopping. It was looking like we’d be leaving Hong Kong with a lot more luggage than we brought in. Doc and I took the MTR to Central and walked up the hill to Lan Kwai Fong. We were not feeling optimistic. This trip had quickly veered from a vacation to a wake.

 

But we were surprised. There on the poster in the window of The Wreck Room was our name: Thee Tourettes. Hand-written in black magic marker, admittedly. Better than nothing. We were playing two nights from now. Things were looking up. Or less down. Things were looking less down.

 

Time to visit the promoter again. We paid our entry fee, made our way upstairs avoiding the bouncer, knocked loudly on the office door to be heard over the throbbing dance beat. A pink-haired girl wearing an outfit seemingly made of overlapping bumper stickers opened the door and we brushed past her. The promoter recognized us and didn’t look happy. To be fair, he didn’t look especially unhappy, either. We could have been two passing flies for all he cared. Not exactly a welcome mat for the talent.

 

I asked if he’d gotten the message that we were playing in two days. Yes, he said curtly, I have been informed. I asked what time is the soundcheck and he pulled a number from the air. Five. What about the equipment, I wanted to know. When is it arriving and can I see a manifest?

 

I was wasting his precious time. Time he could have been spending far more profitably reading bumper stickers off of pink-haired clubgoers. Glancing at a watch that probably cost as much as our whole tour, he sifted through a handful of papers on his desk and shoved something at me. It was identical to the equipment list I’d given the Three Stars in Malaysia. Items were scheduled to arrive tomorrow afternoon. Shipping from Singapore. First of two containers. Second container going to Fanling. My fingers gripped the paper so tightly I could feel the blood flow constricting. Doc, looking over my shoulder, cleared her throat. She had seen it too.

 

I told the promoter we’d be here at five in two days and we made our way downstairs and out into the bustling street of LKF. Was that your signature, Doc wanted to know. It was not, I replied. Someone had forged my name on the international shipping bill. But that was your passport, right? Yes, I said, the Three Stars must have sneaked a copy when we were making the travel arrangements in Malaysia.

 

On the MTR back we didn’t talk much. Each of us was chasing our own dark visions. Back at the hotel I had a thought and headed for the front desk to ask the clerk what he could tell me about Muk Wu, the location I’d noticed on the map in the Three Stars house. There’s a historic walled village there, the affable clerk said, and a Tin Hau Temple. But you can’t visit without a permit. That’s about it. Oh, and the water pumping station.

 

Doc and I looked at each other. Go on, I said. Hong Kong, the clerk explained, gets 80 percent of its water from Mainland China, flowing through pipelines in the northern New Territories. It’s always been a joke that if China ever wanted Hong Kong back early, all they had to do was turn off the taps. Ha ha.

 

Rather than heading upstairs we called Dopey and told her to come down and meet us in the lounge. I’m glad we’re meeting here, she said the moment she arrived, before either Doc or I could open our mouths. I’m going to meet with the triads alone tomorrow and tell them it’s no deal. It’s my responsibility. I’ll handle it.

 

Wrong, Doc said. We’ll handle it together. And we filled Dopey in on the rest of the story. Once all the pieces were laid out, we puzzled it together. The best we could figure, we’d been played. The Three Stars were using us as cover to bring something into the territory. Using my forged signature and pirated documentation and the band’s reputation, they arranged for musical equipment to ship to the club, and something else to ship to Fanling, up north. Two stops from the Chinese border. A short drive from Muk Wu, pumping station for 80% of Hong Kong’s water supply.

 

If China could cripple Hong Kong by turning off the taps, then so could anyone else, by shutting down the Muk Wu pumping station. Right now Hong Kong was a critical juncture, with the clock ticking down to 1997 and companies already tentative about staying here in light of the impending handover. Companies that were considering moving to a stable, business-friendly environment. Like, say, Singapore.

 

We’d been played, and Hong Kong was going to suffer. The only question was what to do about it. The police were out of the question. Our fingerprints were all over whatever was going down. In a different environment, maybe we’d have felt safe spilling our story and trusting in the law. Not here, given the endemic police corruption and collusion with organized crime. After considering and dismissing a hundred options we decided to call it a night. Too much had come at us at once. We needed to take a step back and clear our heads. We had two days before the brown matter hit the fan. Tomorrow we’d work out a resolution.

 

The next morning we were up early. The younger girls were excited about their planned day trip to Lantau Island to see the giant Buddha, and were disappointed when we told them we’d changed the itinerary. Instead we’d be taking a break from Hong Kong for a day, breathing some different air, visiting the towering casinos of Macau. Sleepy got a glint in her eye. Gambling? Let’s do it.

 

It was a warm, pleasant day. We dressed comfortably, stuffed light jackets in our backpacks, and headed to the ferry terminal in TST. As usual there was a line, even though ferries are frequent. We booked one-day round-trips and relaxed during the smooth one-hour ride. Hap read the brochures in the ferry and started getting excited about seeing the ruins of St. Paul’s. Sleepy was already salivating over gambling at the Grand Lisboa and the floating casino.

 

Neither girl was happy when Doc announced upon arrival that our first stop was the Fortaleza do Monte, one of Macau’s historic sites. There’s no arguing with Doc’s law, so off we went, crammed into two cabs. The fort is on a hill overlooking all of Macau. Built by Jesuits to protect against pirates, it contains dozens of cannons pointing out to sea and offers a wonderful panoramic view of the peninsula and islands. Because of its elevated location it’s somewhat isolated and not a major tourist attraction, not nearly as popular as the casinos, St. Paul’s, or Senado Square.

 

Once we arrived Doc was absolutely in her element, launching into an exhaustive history of the location. The Jesuits, the Portuguese, the Dutch invasion, the yadda, the yadda, and the yadda. Within minutes the other girls began drifting away, finding shady spots to enjoy the view and wait for Doc to wind down.

 

That was something Doc had no intention of doing. While continuing her lecture she kept an eye on the man who had followed them over from Hong Kong on the ferry and then tailed them here in a taxi. Spieling fervently, Doc strolled to an unoccupied corner of the fort and gestured over the lands below. Behind her she heard a crack and kept talking until Dopey appeared beside her and said it was done. Then she turned and saw the man lying on the ground, face down, blood seeping into his hair.

 

Gonna need a new microphone, Dopey said, slipping the heavy Neumann into her backpack. Together they hauled the man into a space behind one of the cannons and shoved him out of sight.

 

I had watched Dopey whack the other man a few minutes earlier. When we first arrived and the girls scattered around the fort, the two thugs split up to try and keep track of them all. Dopey slipped first behind one, then the other when nobody was nearby. The way she swung that mic I’m surprised their heads didn’t sail like cannonballs off into the bay.

 

Definitely triads, Dopey said, sifting quickly through the second man’s belongings. We gathered the rest of the girls and told them we’d changed the agenda again, and hopped in cabs to the Macau airport. The girls howled and bitched and moaned, to no avail. We were on the first available plane out, headed to Manila. From there we booked through Tokyo to home.

 

Behind us in Hong Kong we left Doc’s Gibson SG, Grumpy’s custom-made six-string bass, and everything we’d bought here and throughout Asia. To this day Dopey has not heard the end of it, although she conscientiously paid to replace everything that was lost.

 

Back at the BP International someone must have entered our hotel room after it was discovered that Thee Tourettes had flown the coop, and found the unfinished letter Dopey wrote to Three Star Productions. The letter she left on the desk, addressed to their residence in Fanling. The one that said we were trusting our Singaporean “bosses” to take care of those chickenshit triads who were trying to push us around and didn’t know who the fuck they were messing with.

 

Several weeks later we got a letter from one of our friends in Hong Kong. Inside was a folded article clipped from the South China Morning Post. Three Singaporean businessmen had been found dead in the New Territories. The article made it clear they didn’t die easily.

 

For what it’s worth, the handover to China went smoothly. The Union Jack came down, the five stars went up. Most companies stayed in Hong Kong and continued to do business. China, as expected, reneged on its 50-year promise. The film industry shrank, much of its talent fled to the U.S., and other Asian tigers rose to take its place as filmmaking capitals, most notably South Korea.

 

But that wasn’t our fault. We did our part. And for successfully saving Hong Kong, our reward is that we can never, ever return without facing the ageless wrath of the triad.

 

Come to think of it, we probably wouldn’t be too popular in Singapore either.