The Yellow Agent from Hong Kong

By A Frank Corso Mystery

On a field trip to Hong Kong, the Wall Street field analyst is spun into motion on a course that could change the balance of world power. Highly influenced by the powers of suggestion, Corso must use his unique skills to move through a complex web of triads, assassins, and evil political agendas that plot a course for the equivalent of a single world order. Summoning the Art of War and Kung Fu, he must uncover the axis of rotation around which the script he has written himself into revolves. He must find…The Yellow Agent from Hong Kong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665737289

A Frank Corso Mystery

Frank Corso is quirky. He is a compulsive researcher, has an uncanny ability for recall, learning things fast, and makes friends easily. He has a vivid imagination, eats Chinese food in the bathtub, and while lucky, tends to find himself in rather unusual situations.

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Copyright © 2023 A Frank Corso Mystery.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-6657-3729-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3727-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3728-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023900896

Archway Publishing rev. date: 03/24/2023

CHAPTERS

Art of War

Frank Corso Mysteries

The Divine Travel Agency

The Yellow Agent from Hong Kong

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Frank Corso runs his own Wall Street Research consultancy. On a planned research trip to Hong Kong, a long-time friend unexpectedly turns up for the ride. In early March 2005, the city is on a razor’s edge attempting to balance a culture of free enterprise with its new protectorate, China. The Chinese Communist Party’s disposition for political and controlled economic freedoms is at the cross-currents.

Tung Chee-Hwa, a shipping tycoon, who was hand-selected by an Electoral College hand-picked by the Chinese Government as the former British Colony’s first Chief Executive, is facing enormous pressure to suppress dissent. In a city from which personal independence and free enterprise sprang a colossus international finance hub, Corso comes into the cross-hairs of some of its most powerful men. In a combat that could threaten humanity, he inadvertently becomes a central actor in a power struggle whose proxy is…The Yellow Agent from Hong Kong.

The South China Sea is an important body of water, collectively surrounded by China, Vietnam, Malaysia, Indonesia, and the Philippines. When you add the large economies of Japan and Taiwan, in the Indo-Pacific, half the world’s maritime trade, and as much as a third of the seaborne trade of crude oil passes through the South China Sea. If the South China Sea were a human body, Hong Kong would be its heart. It is blessed with conceivably the finest natural harbor in the world, and trade and finance are its lifeblood.

There are three types of agents: A person who acts for another person or entity; chemical agents; and, secret agents. Corso is about to encounter all three at the center of a power struggle for the dominance of world trade and finance. He is about to match wits with Asia’s most dangerous assassin – in a desperate search for…The Yellow Agent from Hong Kong.

Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

– Lord Acton

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Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction. Certain main persons, however, who appear as: Smokey, Chips, Fresco, and Archangelo Francesco Corso, A/K/A, Frank Corso (my alter ego’s alter ego), perhaps have some basis in reality – as do some of the events and places during the timeline that supports the internal logic of the story. There are also actors like Nino, Sven, P. Diddy, Jack, Lara Flynn Boyle, Kevin O’Donnell, Sky Dayton, George Magnus, Li Ka-shing, Tung Chee-Hwa, Michael Steinhardt, and John Lattanzio that populate the story; and who, are actual individuals. All other characters and dramatizations of real persons are an invention.

Similarly, some of the locations, establishments, and events that move the story along are factual and necessary to provide a reference structure for readers looking forward to experiencing Hong Kong. Writers of fiction often use a combination of fact, fiction, and history to immerse their readers, and to make their stories, ‘work’ in what is often referred in novelists’ parlance as ‘faction’. As you may learn from a reference to a Shanghai born businessman who became the first chief executive of Hong Kong after the transfer of sovereignty to the Chinese, ‘faction’, like an autonomous one country - two systems constitutional principle, is more fiction than reality. Accordingly, many of the places, businesses, and incidents are the product of my imagination, and/or are used fictitiously. Thus, any resemblance to any real situations (including fictions of events with real persons noted), establishments, political or otherwise, and/or episodes, may be purely coincidental.

Lastly, as a writer, infusing flavor into the setting can be a difficult task, and ascribing diction to Chinese dialects is daunting. Given the vast number of variations, I have chosen to distinguish between light vs. heavy accents for each Chinese character, with substitution of ‘h’ for ‘r’ where I felt appropriate, and removed the articles from some of their spoken words, as many not sent abroad for higher education tend to omit. In addition, I have attempted to add certain inflections, in what I call Cantonized English, in each character’s speech. If I have failed in these efforts, please forgive me.

Introduction

I had always wanted to set a novel in China, and to this day The Yellow Agent is the closest I’ve ever come to doing so. For years an unfinished outline rested in my laptop, which I referred to off-and-on and never could quite immerse myself in writing the story I had in mind because I never really spent any time in mainland China. By the time I finished the outline, on eight long-haul flights for my consulting business to Central Asia in 2019, I was determined to scout-out and immerse myself in Shanghai for a time in 2020 and begin writing a story with a Chinese main protagonist in earnest. It did not contain Frank Corso, my alter ego’s alter ego, at all, but instead opened with a zooming view from the sky down to the face of the antagonist atop the tallest Shanghai skyscraper surveying the world as his future oyster.

In the movie I imagined in my mind, I chose an area near the Yangtze River Delta where I knew China’s shipbuilders were intent on a grand plan of building ships in the spirit of Henry Ford – using assembly lines on land. My evil man’s plan was to disrupt the world of shipping, making China the financial center of the earth through a shadow war on commerce. I wanted the story to be told in contemporary time. The antagonist was corrupt, abrupt, mean spirited, and had hidden scars as well as a rather mysterious origin and history that even those closest to him were unaware of – not unlike Astor Choi in this story. In my original outline, he was a mastermind of a world plot where controllable biological weapons would eliminate the human inhabitants, but keep the grounds and infrastructure safe to move in and occupy after a period of sweeping for still living beings. But when I got down to a serious writing, there was no path to compete with the stories of coronavirus. The subject of daily press would make the story less plausible than any reality. So, I returned to my comfort zone and a period in 2005 – when, the first supposedly ‘elected’ Chief Executive of the SAR or, Special Administrative Region of Hong Kong, was facing a first real crisis of dissent after the former British Colony transferred sovereignty to China.

Thus, the Frank Corso Mysteries series was born, and The Yellow Agent is the travelling sequel to The Divine Travel Agency. Despite all the press revelations about Covid-19, its origins, and the mayhem its wrath has wrecked on the planet, this story does hopefully expose the scale of havoc which can be exported to enemies by autocratic regimes and their dark proxies. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

CALCULATIONS OF A YELLOW AGENT

March 15, 2005

In the 5th century BC, someone with authority on military matters wrote an ancient Chinese military treatise, The Art of War.

The underlying theme is: all war is based on deception. The writing stresses execution through espionage, with important roles played by intelligence operatives. To this day, it remains a strategic reference for politicians motivated by a lust for power.

The book is attributed to Sun Tzu, who is, by all accounts, an analyst by nature, applying himself to military matters. Detailed guidance for leadership, explanations for use of weapons, and timing of strategies, form a basis for the over-arching goal – which is: to win.

This book is dedicated to all world leaders, and the politicians who surround them. You know who you are, and the public will come to know you by your conduct – not your rhetoric.

From a Frank Corso handwritten Journal.

(Reproduced in Papyrus Italics)

PART ONE:

The Moral Law

Causes the people to be in complete accord with

their ruler, so that they will follow him regardless

of their lives, undismayed by any danger.

Prologue

Sometime in the 1970’s

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The Caves of a Thousand Buddha’s

The two men looked at each other as the glint from a single candle flickered in shadows against the cleft walls. This was their sanctuary. In the nine years since being banished to this place, they had worked the earth by day and planned by night. The one said to the other, Brother, our plan requires one of us to be the warrior and the other to be the King. The refuge of the cave in the mountains was both a curse and a blessing. It had sustained the two brothers to plan and grow to be giants, constrained only by the limits of their imagination. We can achieve anything, the elder said. With the wisdom of four thousand years and the patience of our ancestors as our guiding light, we will persevere through all the dimensions of our long-term plan. I will be the warrior for you, young brother, for you are blessed with an understanding of the paradoxes that will lead us to the promise of paradise. Tomorrow, when we are to leave this place, I must travel to the West, and disappear until we have the instructions from father in place. In his supreme wisdom, he will advise us on the next phase for where I, the warrior, must go, and what sacrifices we must make for the future of the family.

Chapter I

Monday the 28th of February

2005

Los Angeles

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Laying Plans

"Victor-Romeo, niner-niner, seven-one-one," squawked overhead in NATO phonetic alphabet on the approach to LAX. The pilot had forgotten to kill the mic in the cockpit after announcing our decent. Listening to the exchange with the control tower, I speculated how much easier my job would be if I could only hear through the doors executives kept closed to investors. The Great Oz came to mind.

Having retrieved my luggage from the roundabout for the first leg of a 13-day trip to Hong Kong, I grabbed a cab for my favorite place of residence when in town, The Pink Lady.

30-minutes later, we came up the long driveway of Palm Beach Country Club hotel meets Beverly Hills pink Grand Dame resting on Sunset Boulevard. At the base of the actual hills of Beverly Hills, we pulled in under a green and white striped awning. Kevin, the chief of valets greeted me: Good afternoon, Mr. Corso. Welcome back to The Beverly Hills Hotel. He had been there since I moved into the place in 2000, for what turned out to be a six-month relocation from New York.

Tan Sau hands - The first of Wing Chun’s three poison hands positions used primarily to disrupt an incoming attack.

Hey Kevin, nice to see you again, I said. How have things been?

Not bad, sir, he said. Will you be here with us for an extended stay this time?

No, just one night, I’m afraid. Sorry for the large suitcase, I’m off on an international trip from here tomorrow. Would you be so kind as to have it sent to my room?

After a twenty dollar tip and wishing him well, I walked the green carpet to the front entry. I passed large potted banana trees into the early cinema elegance of the five-star hotel’s pink and palm themed main lobby. Crossing the iconic Hollywood threshold, I moved right to the Art Deco S-shaped front desk.

On approach, I smiled to another familiar face and said, Payal, good afternoon, do you have a reservation for me?

Yes, Mr. Corso, for just this evening, she said. She too, had been the front desk slash reservations manager since my original extended stay. We have you in your preferred room, number two-four-two.

Thanks so much, Payal, I said, and looked over at the concierge station to her right. Is Christine here?

She’s on four-to-midnight this evening, noon-to-eight tomorrow, but she knows of your arrival. I can see here, she has moved arriving guests around to assign you your preferred room.

Thanks so much. I’m sure she’ll catch up with me later, I said.

I’m sure she will, her colleague said with a wry smile.

Room 242 was the first door at the top of a grand staircase behind the concierge side of the reception – and, was likely where Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett O’Hara practiced her unique ballet-inspired walk down the grand staircase of the fictional Georgia plantation in Gone with the Wind. Room 242 was my favorite, because it was the shortest distance between two points: The Polo Lounge, and bed.

I was lucky enough once to be hired during the dot-com boom by a savvy New York hedge fund manager who had grown up in South-ern California, and who was inclined to sponsor a deep dive into the founders of start-up internet service providers. Men like Sky Dayton and Kevin O’Donnell, founders of EarthLink, and others like them, had offices in Pasadena and Silicon Valley or San Francisco. But, their preferred playground was L.A.

The pitch to my sponsor was this: if he wanted the background research done right, I would need to take a sabbatical and live among them. Gaining an understanding of their core competencies and habits, as well as their personal motivations, undoubtedly would bleed through to handicapping their dispositions and capabilities. These men were at the helms of companies that were the central players in the fastest growing industry, with the largest number of IPO’s on Wall Street at the time. Enormous quantities of capital, including a broad range of retail participation, willing to gamble on these unproven companies and business models was, truly, unprecedented. And when too good to be true is most likely too good to be true, I was tasked by one of Wall Street’s savviest portfolio managers to – as they say – ‘peel back the onion’.

Given no real budget restrictions on the part of my sponsor and with a keen understanding of the disposition of many a bachelor with newly minted wealth, the selection of The Beverly Hills Hotel to take up residence just kinda knocked me over the head as an obvious no-brainer. And oh boy, was it ever.

Among all the interesting people I was fortunate enough to have met at The Beverly Hills Hotel; my time there came with one special tête-à-tête: with the lovely Asian concierge, Christine Choi.

Ultimately, she broke down after a month of flirting with her and refusing to accept my drinks’ invitations when a random concurrence brought us together at the same place.

_____

I had become a regular on the Guest List at Kevin O’Donnell’s parties. These soiree’s were Friday night gatherings of a combination booze, marijuana, and cocaine fest, meets Napa Valley nouveau riche wine connoisseurs’ club or long cocktail hour until whenever events. The main thrust of these evenings was for a few rich guys to attract the largest pool of aspiring actresses they could put under one roof, and entice them to spend the weekend naked in their heated swimming pools. They would invite a celebrity or two as flypaper, and then struggle – unsuccessfully for the most part – to bed one or two of the wannabe starlets for the night.

On this particular night, a month into an increasingly debauched lifestyle, I was rescued by Christine Choi. She had been dragged to the party by a starry-eyed girlfriend. I noted that if one lives long enough in a Sodom and Gomorrah of beautiful women, free booze, and drugs; one’s life span, will indubitably be cut short.

I was standing around a center island, in the country kitchen of a mansion Kevin O’Donnell had rented in Coldwater Canyon, at the cusp of the actual hills above The Beverly Hills Hotel. I was chatting among a number of movie people types, as well as larger assortment of Hollywood aspirants. While motioning to Kevin if I might open one of his dozen packs of Camel non-filters, neatly stacked in a bowl more respectably reserved for fruit, Lara Flynn Boyle was asking me if she could have my babies.

Lara, I replied, I would love to father your children, but as an old actor friend of mine, who had the good fortune to work for Fellini and Kazan, warned me, ‘there are two types of women: ‘women’ and ‘women actresses’. The latter, I should never marry.

Who said anything about getting married? Lara said.

At that moment, the ever-elegant Christine Choi walked into the kitchen, and waved to me from the other side of the island. Hello, Mr. Corso, she said formally, as if she were greeting me from behind a concierge desk. I abruptly spit a draw of unfiltered tobacco stuck to my tongue, crushed-out the cigarette in an ashtray, waved a hand to push the smoke away, and managed to move, somewhat deftly, to the other side of the island towards her and away from Miss Boyle.

Christine, you look incredible, I said sincerely. Her high cheek-bones, acorn colored oval eyes, perfectly powdery white skin, and petite frame, embodied most men’s dreamed image of the Asian beauty. I felt suddenly embarrassed, standing next to her by a center island oddly clustered with hors d’oeuvres, trays of fat joints, and mirrors of wind-swept cocaine dust. Telling her so, she seemed to take as sensitive to her disposition. She took my arm and said, Let’s get out of here.

_____

Christine and I left the party and made our way down the hill to Sunset Boulevard. We walked and talked our way up to Sunset Plaza after passing the hotel, and entered Mel’s Diner, where we grabbed a booth and had breakfast for dinner just before midnight. Before I knew it, my watch read 2:00am.

She was well educated, studying for a law degree at UCLA, but I got the impression she was not the stereotypical subservient female many American men seem to attribute to Asian women. One thing led to another, and for the next six months, when we were not working, we spent our free time together. I cleaned up my act, stopped going to those Hollywood parties, and quit smoking at her insistence.

For years later, off and on and for her own good, I tried to break it off using the ‘it’s not gonna workout excuse’. I was dating other people, travelling, and my living in New York, would make any real long-term relationship analogous to building on sand. Still, when a woman makes love with you, waits on you hand and foot, and then massages you to sleep at night, the occasional intimacy rebounding was hard to break off.

This time, however, it was going to be exceedingly more difficult. Christine had been calling me since just before Christmas.

While originally planning to stay by the airport, I decided I needed to check-in to the hotel and give her the straightforward truth so she could move on with her life.

Having unpacked, I debated how to deliver the message in the luxury of my room’s Jacuzzi. Immersed in the oddly elegant mix of Italian marble and banana leaf fabrics, I had tuned my bathroom’s radio to a classical station, KUSC 91.5. A soft monotone-hypnotic voice whispered, ‘it’s time for Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11 for inspiration’. Unconsciously creating the mood for my sometimes-on and sometimes-off relationship, I speculated: it’s going to be very hard to put to a permanent close to this in this five star sensualists’ jungle.

_____

Rounding the hotel’s grand staircase with a look left towards its famous and infamous Polo Lounge, I observed an overtly obnoxious, well-inebriated man, gripping his date and demanding he be given a table. The conversation was loud: Do you know who I am? I own one of the biggest Internet companies in America. Everybody in Hollywood knows me. I demand you give me one of those empty booths behind you, he said angrily.

The host replied with Italian inflection. This is the Polo Lounge, sir. All of our guests are important to us, and all of our tables are reserved at this time. Perhaps you would like to sit at the bar?

Frustrated, he yanked his date’s elbow and they made for the bar as I approached the host desk. "Bouna sera, Nino, how have you been? I apologize, I didn’t make a reservation," I said, maybe just a tad loud enough for those at the bar within ear shot. I couldn’t help myself.

"Wonderful, Senor Corso, Thank you for asking, he replied, rolling his eyes to signal apologies for the behavior of the previous guest. He asked, Would you care for a booth in the bar area?"

"Certo, that would be greatly appreciated," I said.

Nino showed me to the corner booth that looked directly over the largely still empty black granite cocktail tables between the booths and the bar. The depth of green colors, dark wood, and soft lighting popped the hard black of The Polo’s bar – a distinction, antithetically masculine in comparison to the saturation of creams and soft tones of the main lobby. The design spoke to the glory days of early cinema; a time when a few powerful men making pictures under the Studio System held court. From my seat I watched the rude man go back to the host station and argue again with Nino. I was too far away, but imagined the host was being dressed down for allowing a guest without a reservation to be immediately seated at a booth. He went back to his date, yanked her arm again, and stormed out without paying for the drinks he ordered. I surmised the tall, pale, and agitated man with far too many wrinkles and gin blossoms on his face for his age to be the nasty type when drunk and living too hard for his own good.

I ordered my favorite Polo Lounge meal from my favorite waiter, Fernando: guacamole with tri-colore tortilla chips to snack on, while waiting for the hotel’s famous cheeseburger, fries, and a dark beer. I planned to get up early and use the gym, which was strategically located underneath the Polo Lounge on the ground level that led out to the gardens and pool area. Superficial Hollywood vanity workouts in the morning tend to follow overindulgence at night in this town.

Christine walked in just as Fernando served my cheeseburger, and I stood to give her a gentlemanly kiss on each cheek. Her bright smile and elegant presence prompted me to tell the truth, Christine, you are as beautiful as ever.

She blushed, and said, It’s so nice to see you again, Mr. Corso.

Passing my hand over the booth, I said, Won’t you please have a seat?

Thank you, she said, and scooped her skirt to slide deep enough in the intimate U-shaped booth to be sitting right next to me. How have you been, Frank? She came up close to whisper, I’ve missed you.

I’ve been great, I said in a soft voice. There is something I want to talk to you about, Christine. Perhaps here and now, though, since you’re on duty, it’s not the right place.

I get off at midnight, she said, with what I guessed by her tone was a misread of my suggestion. I could bring some tea up to your room after I get off my shift; or, if you like, I could take a break from my noon to eight shift tomorrow.

Tonight will work, I said, feeling a pressure to get it over with, but thinking: that’s probably not the right place either. But, given my short window of time, it would have to do.

So, she said, switching topics, tell me about all the wonderful places you’ve been since I’ve seen you last?

Well, I was in New Orleans and Boston over the holidays, in Las Vegas during the show season in January, and more recently I came from Copenhagen for my latest project: A.P. Moller.

The name sounds familiar, who are they?

"They’re the world’s largest containership operator, their shipping brand is called ‘Maersk’. It’s why I’m here for a day before heading to Hong Kong tomorrow night. I’m going very early in the morning to see the Port Director at Port San Pedro, and then to see Hutchison who own the ports in Hong Kong.

Who are you flying to Hong Kong?

Cathay Pacific, I said.

Are you’re flying direct?

No, the direct flights all leave after midnight, so I opted for the eight o’clock in the evening flight that connects in Anchorage. It gets me dinner and a movie on the plane up, and then I can go to sleep for most of the long leg over the Pacific.

She looked at her watch and whispered, I have to get back to the Concierge Desk. I have Barry from the front desk covering for me for five minutes.

After a light kiss on the cheek and saying she ‘would see me later’, she was off.

Having finished dinner and signed the check to my room, I caught the host at the door. What did you tell that rude guy, Nino?

I explained that several booths are reserved for those that make the hotel their primary residence.

"Gotcha, Ciao Nino," I said, and was in Room 242 undressing less than 60-seconds later.

_____

Lounging in a hotel robe on my suite’s peach velour Juliet chaise, I was making a list of questions for the Port Director for tomorrow’s early meeting when I heard a light knock at the door. Checking my watch, it was just after midnight.

Christine entered in BH Hotel uniform of khaki gabardine skirt, cut below the knee, and matching blazer. She was carrying a tray of herbal tea. Come on in, I said, with an air kiss to the cheek as she passed.

She set the tea down on a pink tufted ottoman in front of the bed. Bowing as she floated gently backwards towards the bathroom, she said, Please excuse me.

I heard the shower turn on, and some minutes later she emerged in a hotel robe. The fragrant spritz of citrus and spice from the hotel’s Asprey Purple Water soap on her smooth skin perfumed the air. In combination with silky hair, let down from pinned-up hotel protocol, her beauty and the mood were leading me in the wrong direction. I considered with an ex-lover’s apprehension: this was the moment of reckoning, and said, Christine, would you please have a seat over here in the chair. I have something I need to tell you.

In the ensuing half hour, I explained that I had ‘become engaged over Christmas to the woman I was seeing for most of two thousand and three’. A period, she recalled, we had not shared intimacy. And, treading very lightly over concern for what I knew was her tender sensitivity; I explained how I made the decision with regret it would result in an end to our off-and-on relationship.

Surprisingly, Christine took it without any outward sign of true disappointment, and boldly proposed a compromise: In my country, Frank, when a woman is in love with a man, she can accommodate with an equal access but lower social status than a wife.

Christine, I said, stunned, you’re suggesting being a concubine? I can’t do that, you can’t do that. This is the twenty-first century. We have to move on.

Why not? When my mother died, it was my father’s concubine that raised me.

Understanding now the genesis for the idea, I said flatly: "That’s not even in the realm of possibility. I’m really sorry – really sorry."

She turned and went straight back into the bathroom without a word to change back into her uniform. I was pacing waiting for her to come out. She stepped up close and pressed against up against my chest. I love you, Frank. The first time we were together, I was only twenty, she said, without looking up at me, and had never slept with anyone before.

I found that hard to believe, considering when we started sleeping together, she seemed rather well acquainted with the ways of love making. Letting it slide, I said sincerely, Christine, you’re a beautiful and pure person. You’ll meet other men. Then, perhaps because I was tired, or perhaps because I was trying too hard to let her down easy, or perhaps because I just say the wrong things sometimes, I said, Any man in his right mind would crawl over glass for a woman like you.

Except you, right Frank?

Kaboom! I had left myself wide open for an emotional punch in the gut. Attempting to recover and get off the mat, I avoided more oblique references, and spoke directly. You’re not making this easy. Please understand, I love this girl – I’ve made a commitment.

Okay, she said, and with a squeeze around my waist, turned and left.

_____

The alarm went off at 5:00am, but for all practical purposes I was awake anyway. Tossing most of the night, thoughts of causing pain to Christine were going to be tough to shake.

I had put on 10-pounds since the holidays, and intent on making it down to the gym to run on the treadmill for a half hour before taking the car service down to the Port, I pulled my workout gear out of my leather carry-on bag. Shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers on, I made my way downstairs, stopping at the concierge desk to ask if they might bring me an espresso in the gym.

I weighed myself in the gym before I started. I was clocking in at a stout 201 pounds, which was 20-pounds over my high school weight. Looking in the mirror, which for some reason when in Hollywood I observed everyone did pathologically, I noted the connective tissue of my dermis, formerly hard and supporting the angular cut of my cheekbones, appeared to have been shot up with collagen treatment. Something in Beverly Hills one commonly sees after visits to a dermatologist. Said another way, and perhaps more honestly, my face was getting fat. And if I didn’t start exercising regularly, at this rate in twenty more years I’d be shaped like Orson Welles.

A bottle of water, an espresso, and a half hour later, I came off the treadmill in a sweat. It wasn’t enough, and I felt a compelling desire to punish myself more. I surmised that leading Christine on, a sincere woman who was 13-years my junior, required a much sounder self-thrashing. What do they call people who are in so much emotional pain that they develop a behavior of hurting themselves? By 6:00am I had resolved that no amount of pull ups, bench pressing, or sit ups were going to heal the emotional scars.

_____

I was dressed and out front for the car service at 6:30am. Traffic on the 405 was brutal. It took almost two hours each way from Beverly Hills. We didn’t get down and back to the hotel until just past noon. The Port Director had given me more than an hour of insights as to container volumes, and the unique disposition of the largest port on the west coast in the age of growing Chinese exports.

He explained that while China’s economy was set to grow about 10% year-over-year from 2004 to 2005, container exports to Port San Pedro were expected to increase more than 15%. This was driven by Foreign Invested Enterprises, or FIE’s, which in 2005 their research projected would represent about 60% of the shippers from China.

He went on to explain in detail their expectation that 2005 would see more than 8.5 million containers pass through Port San Pedro, swamping the 7.5 million registered for 2004. The main driver for the higher comparable growth was an increasing preference for getting containers to the east coast faster, which was more recently being achieved using railroads as land bridges to cross the country within seven days, including the transshipment, as compared to the extra 30-day’s sail through the Panama Canal.

_____

Passing the lobby back at the hotel, I noticed two things: it was past noon, and Christine wasn’t here for her shift. The scar reminder bell rang in my head, after a morning that had placed it out of mind for a few hours.

I had some time to kill before my evening flight. It was a beautiful Southern California day of what I guessed felt like 65-70 degrees and sunny. So, to get my mind off of being the cause for Christine’s pain, I put my gym shorts back on, pulled a guayabera shirt I packed from my bag, and headed down to the pool to have lunch at the Cabana Café.

Taking a notebook with me to review some of the entries I made at the port, I planned to outline cross-referenced lines of inquiry with my running list of questions for the Director of Ports in Hong Kong.

_____

I went down two flights of stairs: the first to The Polo Lounge, and lobby level; and the second, to the gym level below. The floor that transferred guests to the garden and pool area carved into the hill at the lower elevation also housed a classic 1950’s retro themed diner, a full service spa, and a shopping arcade of fine men’s and women’s formal evening wear. What more could anyone with no budget ask for?

Out on the garden path, the pool and cabanas were set more than a hundred feet below the front of the hotel and were largely protected from wind to provide year round sun bathing on sunny days for guests – which was almost every day in L.A. I speculated the weather news people only needed to work on Monday’s; if they just taped the rest of the week with, ‘it’s going to be another bright and sunny Southern California day’. Honestly, I don’t think too many people would notice.

The multi-functional basement floor and garden elevation trans-itioned from the gardens above via elevator or stairs that transferred guests to a big pool area. Poolside was surrounded by lounge chairs and private air conditioned cabanas with big cushioned couches with mini bars. The thickly landscaped area surrounding the outside wall was designed to protect movie stars from uninvited paparazzi and was anchored by a balcony style Café on the north side of the pool. The railings of the Cabana Café were hung with planters of ikebana arrangements that would make a British gardener envious.

Scents of bougainvillea, cactus, and desert-meets-the-ocean herbs are perennially sweet in Beverly