Detective Steve Kappolis parked his unmarked cruiser at the end of the block right under a tow-away sign.
Apart from its prime location, there was no mistaking the aura of exclusivity which extended right down to the sidewalk: the building was sixty thousand square feet of marble opulence, with a raised roof and nine-metre cathedral windows. A flashing sign underneath one of the windows promised karaoke five nights a week.
“Tacky,” said Kappolis. “Big red canopy. Flashing neon. Looks like a bordello, if you ask me.”
“This is how the yuppies fool themselves that they’re not going into the red light district.” Nick patted his hip pocket to make sure he had his wallet.
“Let’s not mention the warrant right away. I want to get a feel for the place before everyone makes a run for it or destroys evidence.”
“I’m with you,” Nick answered.
“We’re the run-of-the-mill customers who want to check out the girls and the booze before buying memberships. The only problem is, it’s four hundred bucks just to get in,” said Kappolis.
“Four hundred bucks! No club is worth that.”
“Nick, this ain’t the time to be cheap, my friend. And don’t count on me, because this is an immigration matter. The requisition originated from your office. Remember?”
“I’m sure glad I made that trip to the bank machine,” grumbled Nick.
They extended their wrists and receipts to the doorman who wordlessly unhooked the rope. Nick tried to make out the Chinese characters stamped on the back of his hand as they climbed the wide circular staircase to the first floor.
“Let’s keep tax evasion in mind if nothing else pans out,” remarked Kappolis as he eyed a couple of Hollywood actors with their dates, tall, slender birds of paradise in five-inch stilettos, impossibly uncomfortable clothing, and blue eyeshadow.
“White collar crime isn’t at the top of my agenda here,” replied Nick dryly. “I’m here for a certain matter of justice.”
Kappolis cast a brief look at Nick’s set face and wondered if “revenge” might not be more a more accurate term.
Clouds of opium smoke and other illegal substances assaulted their nostrils. Not even in the old days, before he became respectable, had Nick ever frequented places like this, but in fact, the club was giving him a feeling of déjá vu. It took him back to his posting in Thailand in the eighties, when he was a young intellectual-property lawyer working for a Boston firm. One of his clients had been a big-name New York fashion house that wanted to put a stop to the Asian knock-offs that were costing them millions in lost revenues. His investigation had led him to the bars and whorehouses in the red light district of Bangkok where he saw the knock-offs being worn as a uniform by every bar girl. Those years of working and travelling through Asia came wafting back to him, bringing a sharp nostalgia for that Eastern culture, with its mix of tranquillity and cruelty, devoutness and grasping ambition, beauty and squalor.
Kappolis gave him a reality check by poking him sharply in the ribs. “You wondering where the money came from for all this? I just found out from that guy over there that this place has three separate nightclubs. I could get used to a place like this.”
“Well, don’t even think about it. It’s not: in your budget.”
“Speaking of budget, bet they uncork a lot of pricey champagne here. And none of this cheap Baby Duck stuff.”
“Come on.”
A frosted-glass door led into a cavernous disco lit by flashing coloured lights and a gigantic overhead glitter ball. The walls were tastefully plastered in nineteenth-century Chinese art. A slim, tuxedoed young woman croupier presiding over the blackjack and roulette tables tried to entice them over to play. They ignored her to admire the singer in the daring sequined number who was belting out a Chinese torch song.
“My Cantonese isn’t as good as yours. It’s hard to get worked up about a song if you don’t understand the words,” said Kappolis.
“Never mind my Cantonese. Don’t look now, but over there … notice anything funny?”
“Yeah. I thought the courts had banned lap dancing. Obviously those with moolah think they’re above the law.” Kappolis pointed at the stage. “Look at the mirrored floors. Now look at the videocameras. Holy shit! Girls with no knickers! Real kinky.”
“Asian nightclubs tend to be like this. I remember when I lived in Japan. In the Shinjuku district of Tokyo, Roran Shabu Shabu was an exclusive all men’s dining club. None of the waitresses wore underwear. You paid $36,000 a year for the privilege of titillating yourself.”
“Nick, you telling me that this is real tame by comparison? I want to go upstairs. Maybe it gets kinkier up there.”
They ignored the singer in the skin-tight micro mini who was pouring her heart into a microphone for the second floor club, done in Italian wrought iron.
“Crowd’s different. A lot of Armani suits,” Nick observed.
“For some, there’s never a recession,” replied Kappolis.
“Probably not their money. They’re on expense accounts.”
The waitresses were dressed as schoolgirls in white shirts and micro kilts with baggy white socks.
“This is paedophile heaven. I should send Vice over now,” commented Kappolis.
“Before we do that, let’s check out the top floor.”
The third floor, billed as “Ecstasy Club,” was a cokehead’s paradise. They walked through a set of red doors to find people in an array of positions and states of undress shooting stuff into their veins and inhaling substances up their noses. In another opium-filled room were several couples making out on floor mats.
Kappolis pointed to a man lying prostrate on the floor with his shirt opened. “I know that guy,” he whispered to Nick. “He’s a city councillor. He was on television just days ago talking about family values. Can you believe it?”
They stood by the door, taking it all in. A voluptuous bottle blonde in a latex body suit and a leather whip was dragging a middle-aged man around the room by his dog collar.
Nick whispered, “I read somewhere that dominatrixes make good coin whipping and brutalizing their clients.”
Off in one corner was a bearded man stretched out on the floor smoking an opium pipe. In an alcove, a young woman in little more than stilettos and a pair of surgically assisted breasts was entertaining a halfdressed drunk.
“That’s it for me. I’ve seen enough,” said Kappolis.
“I agree. Casino gambling on the first floor. Half-naked politicians. Women with no underwear. If we don’t shut this place down right now, our asses could be hauled before a public inquiry questioning our behaviour in coming here.”
“Right. Our pensions are at stake here.” Taking out his cellphone, Kappolis made the call for uniformed officers, and plenty of them.
Nick led the way back down to the first floor. It took less than three minutes for two squad cars to pull up at the curb. At the sight of uniformed cops, Nick pulled out his ID and asked the nearest bartender, “Who’s in charge of this place?”
“That would be the general manager, Andy Loong.”
Nick remembered what the snakehead Gee Tung had said about