Review
"The Living Room of the Dead is a stylish, fresh take on classic noir themes. You won't soon forget Eric Stone's vivid depictions of Macau and Vladivostok--or the sad, doomed characters who think they're simply passing through."--Laura Lippman, Edgar Award-winning author of By a Spider's Thread
"Auspicious debut thriller by a former journalist who knows the exotic locales whereof he writes: the story is original and compelling, a page-turner with the spare, relentless style of Dennis Lehane or Michael Connelly."--John Farris, bestselling author of The Fury on The Living Room of the Dead
"Chandler and Hammett come to life in contemporary Macau. Exotic, dangerous, deadly, fun. The first book of a Ray Sharp series. Let's hope there will be many more."--Allan Folsom, New York Times bestselling author of The Exile on The Living Room of the Dead
"What a first novel-exotic in setting, expert in the telling, and exciting from first page to last. A unique and compelling novel in every respect."--Ed Gorman, author of Everybody's Somebody's Fool on The Living Room of the Dead
"Eric Stone knows the dark underbelly of Asia and he writes it with a connoisseur's accuracy. If you have dreams (or nightmares) of visiting the bars and bordellos of Hong Kong and Macao, start here."--Charles Fleming, author of After Havana on The Living Room of the Dead
"The Living Room of the Dead is a wild thriller, rolling the reader through an exotic Hong Kong and China-sometimes sensuous, sometimes beautiful, always dangerous. A bold page-turner vivid with outrageous women and one man, Ray Sharp, an unwilling, and undaunted, hero."--Meredith Blevins, author of 0 The Hummingbird Wizard
"Auspicious debut thriller by a former journalist who knows the exotic locales whereof he writes: the story is original and compelling, a page-turner with the spare, relentless style of Dennis Lehane or Michael Connelly."--John Farris, bestselling author of The Fury on The Living Room of the Dead
"Chandler and Hammett come to life in contemporary Macau. Exotic, dangerous, deadly, fun. The first book of a Ray Sharp series. Let's hope there will be many more."--Allan Folsom, New York Times bestselling author of The Exile on The Living Room of the Dead
"What a first novel-exotic in setting, expert in the telling, and exciting from first page to last. A unique and compelling novel in every respect."--Ed Gorman, author of Everybody's Somebody's Fool on The Living Room of the Dead
"Eric Stone knows the dark underbelly of Asia and he writes it with a connoisseur's accuracy. If you have dreams (or nightmares) of visiting the bars and bordellos of Hong Kong and Macao, start here."--Charles Fleming, author of After Havana on The Living Room of the Dead
"The Living Room of the Dead is a wild thriller, rolling the reader through an exotic Hong Kong and China-sometimes sensuous, sometimes beautiful, always dangerous. A bold page-turner vivid with outrageous women and one man, Ray Sharp, an unwilling, and undaunted, hero."--Meredith Blevins, author of 0 The Hummingbird Wizard
Product Description
Falling in love has consequences---there's nothing new about that. But when an elite Brit falls for a Russian prostitute and wants to get her away from her pimp in Macau and marry her, those consequences become deadly.
Journalist Ray Sharp doesn't need someone else's troubles, but when his colleague pleads for help, his conscience won't let him say no. What seems like a simple favor entangles Ray in a maze of horror and violence that leads from the glittery nightclubs and sleazy brothels of Macau to a chamber of horrors on an island in the South China Sea and finally to Russia's Mafia-infested Pacific seaport of Vladivostok.
Based on a true story, The Living Room of the Dead takes place in the milieu of the decadent ex-pat life in Hong Kong and Macau at a dizzyingly dramatic time: These cities are about to fall back under Chinese rule. Fearful, people grab for whatever they can get. The air itself reeks of sex, money, and power. Here the only thing a person can count on is what's inside himself. For Ray, even that is something to wrestle with.
Journalist Ray Sharp doesn't need someone else's troubles, but when his colleague pleads for help, his conscience won't let him say no. What seems like a simple favor entangles Ray in a maze of horror and violence that leads from the glittery nightclubs and sleazy brothels of Macau to a chamber of horrors on an island in the South China Sea and finally to Russia's Mafia-infested Pacific seaport of Vladivostok.
Based on a true story, The Living Room of the Dead takes place in the milieu of the decadent ex-pat life in Hong Kong and Macau at a dizzyingly dramatic time: These cities are about to fall back under Chinese rule. Fearful, people grab for whatever they can get. The air itself reeks of sex, money, and power. Here the only thing a person can count on is what's inside himself. For Ray, even that is something to wrestle with.
About the Author
Eric Stone worked as a journalist in Asia for eleven years, eight of them in Hong Kong. The Living Room of the Dead is his first thriller.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
My ferry's at noon and I barely make it onboard.
It's a lot more impressive than just any old ferry. But you wouldn't know it when it's not moving. Dirty red chipping paint covers a pockmarked hull. The lower deck is hardly visible down by the waterline. It has plenty of large windows, but they're grimy, salt-encrusted, and you can't see into them. The upper deck looks much the same. There isn't any visible outside deck, other than a short, flat triangle at the prow where there's an anchor and some ropes. It's a flimsy-looking thing and it bobs violently in the chop that beats against the pier. I've hardly crossed over the rolling gangplank before they shut the door and cast off.
I wobble to the only remaining seat, the middle of a row of eight in second class, the lower deck. The first-class upper deck has been sold out for a month or more. It usually is on Friday. I squeeze my way past Hong Kong Chinese gamblers rubbing their sweaty palms together in anticipation of hitting the tables in Macau.
The two squared and hard-looking middle-aged women on either side of the seat I'm headed for would move away if there were anywhere to go. As I step over one of their feet on my way to sit, they both turn away, to the meek-looking men sitting next to them. They mutter, but it's hard to speak softly in Cantonese. It's a loud language and doesn't lend itself to quiet conversation. I hear the word gwailo a few times. When you're a foreigner in Hong Kong you hear it all the time. It means "ghost person." At the moment it means me, which strikes me as funny because I'm feeling plenty alive.
I take my seat and I'm laughing. It's hard to stop. Everyone in the row turns to look at me, then they look away. I'm just another crazy ghost person, a chee-seen gwailo, and there's no accounting for us.
The ferry rocks and rolls slowly away from the dock, out into the frothy water of the world's most crowded harbor. It taxis onto its right-of-way, and around me everyone is looking a little sick from the motion. But no one is too concerned. We all know what's going to happen next.
A few hundred yards out from the dock the jet engine roars to life. The ferry rises ten or more feet up on its foils and takes off with the same sort of scream and whine and acceleration that the other Boeing products do, the ones that fly through the air rather than over the water. I'm shoved into my seat by it and I close my eyes to enjoy the sensation. Once we're at speed it's a smooth ride, well above the waves, the thin metal foils cutting straight through the waves too fast to rock the boat. I close my eyes. I don't feel like reading.
As always, I'm looking forward to a weekend in Macau. I go there at least once a month, sometimes twice. It's one of my favorite places. I'd live there if it wasn't for the hour-and-a-half commute each way to work and back. I might be the only person on the boat who isn't going there to gamble.
I learned my lesson about a month after I moved to Hong Kong. I decided to sit down at a blackjack table at the casino at the Ferry Terminal. I found a seat, ordered a drink, and within a couple of hours of leisurely play I was up nearly four thousand Hong Kong dollars, about five hundred U.S.
We were a surprisingly congenial group at the table. Most Hong Kong Chinese gamblers don't look relaxed. They don't look like they're having fun. They take it very seriously, like playing the stock market. But this group was different. I was the only gwailo at the table, but everyone was friendly and chatty, attempting to speak in English and encouraging when I trotted out my few polite phrases in Cantonese.
But then the fat lady showed up and stood behind me. She was of a type. Loud, verbally, and physically aggressive, probably in her mid-forties, squeezed into brightly colored, expensive, but not chic clothing that was too young for her, with her wrists, neck, and the tight bun at the back of her head dripping gaudy, oversized gold jewelry. She said something nasty about the gwailo at the table that made everyone else flinch and the person sitting to the right of me whisper "sorry" in my ear.
The table was full and she wanted my seat. She decided to take advantage of a local rule to get it. At blackjack tables in Macau, if someone walks up and plunks down double your money on your betting circle, she can control your cards. So the fat lady decided to take over my cards and lose until she'd driven me out of my chair.
She leaned hard against the back of my seat, shoving me forward against the table, making sure that her cigarette smoke drifted into my face. I pressed back against her but her leverage and weight were winning that battle. The minimum bet was fifty dollars a hand, about six dollars and fifty cents U.S. I figured the least I could do was make it expensive for her. I was willing to lose all my gains.
I put down fifty dollars. She put down a hundred. The dealer dealt me a nineteen. I would have stood pat. She hit, asking for another card. It was a seven and we went bust. She cackled and announced something nasty to the other people at the table. They just bowed their heads and that time the person on my left whispered "sorry" in my ear.
Over the course of the next hour I only won one hand, a blackjack that she couldn't do anything about. I'd lost about half my winnings, but I was smug in the knowledge that she'd lost twice as much. One of the other people at the table had bought me a drink. Several of them had started making rude remarks back at the fat lady on my behalf.
When I got another blackjack she finally gave up. She shoved me hard against the table, knocking over everyone's neatly piled stacks of chips, blew a large cloud of smoke into my face and leaned in to practically shout doo lay loh moh, "motherfucker," in my ear. I smiled and shrugged at my tablemates. The ones on either side clapped me on the back and we settled back into congenial play.
An hour later I had lost the rest of my winnings anyhow. I haven't gambled in Macau since.
What's great about Macau is its atmosphere. Hong Kong's been rich long enough to have torn down almost all the old city and rebuilt it several times over. Macau's only recently put together the money to do that, so much of the city still looks like it did a hundred years ago. There're even a few buildings left from three or four hundred years ago.
It's the last remaining Portuguese colony. It was founded nearly three hundred years before Hong Kong and for the first half of its history was the richest, most prosperous port on this part of China's coast. Then the harbor, at the mouth of the Pearl River, silted up and the ships became larger at the same time so they needed a deeper port. By the late 1800s Hong Kong had taken over as the thriving city around here and Macau was a sleepy backwater with a reputation for vice.
I have plenty of vices other than gambling for Macau to indulge. I spend aimless happy weekends strolling its neighborhoods with my camera. I'll stop for an espresso here, a cup of tea there, a Chinese snack or a long, wine-soaked Portuguese lunch. I'll walk along the beach, the waterfront, through gardens and ancient temple grounds. I'll nap in the late afternoon, walk around some more, have a massage. There are great restaurants for dinner. After that the nightlife runs from silly to sordid and I like it all.
Just before we dock my row drains out quickly. It seems like everyone on the ferry other than me is battling for position at the exit doors. The ferry lists far to the right and I can both feel and hear it smacking against the huge, old, tar-soaked wooden pylons. Everyone wants to be first down the gangway, first through the immigration booths, and first into taxis to the casinos. As the crowd jostles and heaves against the still-closed doors, people've already begun to make bets, shouting out odds and wagers on who's going to win, who's going to lose, how much, and anything else where there's an element of chance.
I stay put. I'm in no rush. Not enough of one to risk being trampled underfoot, anyway.
Finally the ferry rolls upright and I get out without being pushed or shoved even once. I head toward the overpass that leads to the casino and entertainment mall across from the terminal, when someone calls my name.
"Ray, Ray Sharp."
I look around and see a colleague striding up to me fast. He's in a crisply cut dark suit. He looks out of place in Macau and I'm not happy to see him.
"Fred." He hates it when I call him Fred. I wouldn't dare call him Freddie or he'd probably hit me and he's a lot bigger than I am. Frederick Lyons IV is the finance editor of Asian Industry and the eldest son of an old and esteemed banking family back in England. I don't know how he got the job. When I signed on as deputy editor he was already firmly entrenched. The guy I replaced warned me about him; he's not very bright and he's accustomed to having other people do all his dirty work for him.
But he dresses well, better than most bankers. I doubt he even owns any socks that haven't been handmade by the finest shop on Savile Row back in London. His hair is perfect: black with just the right dignified amount of gray and coifed by a barber who takes a small suite in the Mandarin Hotel once a month to service his exclusive clientele. He's a perfect example of the acronym FILTH. It means "Failed In London, Try Hong Kong."
He irritates the hell out of me, and since I'm his boss, I'm also a thorn in his side. Sometimes I get a rather unfortunate kick out of, as he might say, taking the piss out of him. At least he's been well trained since birth to remain civil.
He winces and puts the hand he's offered away when I don't shake it. "What're you doing here?"
"Do you have a minute? Can we go somewhere and talk?"
He looks upset about something. I actually feel a twinge of sympathy for him. There's an Italian restaurant across the street. It's got great little sandwiches and coffee. It's noon, early f...
My ferry's at noon and I barely make it onboard.
It's a lot more impressive than just any old ferry. But you wouldn't know it when it's not moving. Dirty red chipping paint covers a pockmarked hull. The lower deck is hardly visible down by the waterline. It has plenty of large windows, but they're grimy, salt-encrusted, and you can't see into them. The upper deck looks much the same. There isn't any visible outside deck, other than a short, flat triangle at the prow where there's an anchor and some ropes. It's a flimsy-looking thing and it bobs violently in the chop that beats against the pier. I've hardly crossed over the rolling gangplank before they shut the door and cast off.
I wobble to the only remaining seat, the middle of a row of eight in second class, the lower deck. The first-class upper deck has been sold out for a month or more. It usually is on Friday. I squeeze my way past Hong Kong Chinese gamblers rubbing their sweaty palms together in anticipation of hitting the tables in Macau.
The two squared and hard-looking middle-aged women on either side of the seat I'm headed for would move away if there were anywhere to go. As I step over one of their feet on my way to sit, they both turn away, to the meek-looking men sitting next to them. They mutter, but it's hard to speak softly in Cantonese. It's a loud language and doesn't lend itself to quiet conversation. I hear the word gwailo a few times. When you're a foreigner in Hong Kong you hear it all the time. It means "ghost person." At the moment it means me, which strikes me as funny because I'm feeling plenty alive.
I take my seat and I'm laughing. It's hard to stop. Everyone in the row turns to look at me, then they look away. I'm just another crazy ghost person, a chee-seen gwailo, and there's no accounting for us.
The ferry rocks and rolls slowly away from the dock, out into the frothy water of the world's most crowded harbor. It taxis onto its right-of-way, and around me everyone is looking a little sick from the motion. But no one is too concerned. We all know what's going to happen next.
A few hundred yards out from the dock the jet engine roars to life. The ferry rises ten or more feet up on its foils and takes off with the same sort of scream and whine and acceleration that the other Boeing products do, the ones that fly through the air rather than over the water. I'm shoved into my seat by it and I close my eyes to enjoy the sensation. Once we're at speed it's a smooth ride, well above the waves, the thin metal foils cutting straight through the waves too fast to rock the boat. I close my eyes. I don't feel like reading.
As always, I'm looking forward to a weekend in Macau. I go there at least once a month, sometimes twice. It's one of my favorite places. I'd live there if it wasn't for the hour-and-a-half commute each way to work and back. I might be the only person on the boat who isn't going there to gamble.
I learned my lesson about a month after I moved to Hong Kong. I decided to sit down at a blackjack table at the casino at the Ferry Terminal. I found a seat, ordered a drink, and within a couple of hours of leisurely play I was up nearly four thousand Hong Kong dollars, about five hundred U.S.
We were a surprisingly congenial group at the table. Most Hong Kong Chinese gamblers don't look relaxed. They don't look like they're having fun. They take it very seriously, like playing the stock market. But this group was different. I was the only gwailo at the table, but everyone was friendly and chatty, attempting to speak in English and encouraging when I trotted out my few polite phrases in Cantonese.
But then the fat lady showed up and stood behind me. She was of a type. Loud, verbally, and physically aggressive, probably in her mid-forties, squeezed into brightly colored, expensive, but not chic clothing that was too young for her, with her wrists, neck, and the tight bun at the back of her head dripping gaudy, oversized gold jewelry. She said something nasty about the gwailo at the table that made everyone else flinch and the person sitting to the right of me whisper "sorry" in my ear.
The table was full and she wanted my seat. She decided to take advantage of a local rule to get it. At blackjack tables in Macau, if someone walks up and plunks down double your money on your betting circle, she can control your cards. So the fat lady decided to take over my cards and lose until she'd driven me out of my chair.
She leaned hard against the back of my seat, shoving me forward against the table, making sure that her cigarette smoke drifted into my face. I pressed back against her but her leverage and weight were winning that battle. The minimum bet was fifty dollars a hand, about six dollars and fifty cents U.S. I figured the least I could do was make it expensive for her. I was willing to lose all my gains.
I put down fifty dollars. She put down a hundred. The dealer dealt me a nineteen. I would have stood pat. She hit, asking for another card. It was a seven and we went bust. She cackled and announced something nasty to the other people at the table. They just bowed their heads and that time the person on my left whispered "sorry" in my ear.
Over the course of the next hour I only won one hand, a blackjack that she couldn't do anything about. I'd lost about half my winnings, but I was smug in the knowledge that she'd lost twice as much. One of the other people at the table had bought me a drink. Several of them had started making rude remarks back at the fat lady on my behalf.
When I got another blackjack she finally gave up. She shoved me hard against the table, knocking over everyone's neatly piled stacks of chips, blew a large cloud of smoke into my face and leaned in to practically shout doo lay loh moh, "motherfucker," in my ear. I smiled and shrugged at my tablemates. The ones on either side clapped me on the back and we settled back into congenial play.
An hour later I had lost the rest of my winnings anyhow. I haven't gambled in Macau since.
What's great about Macau is its atmosphere. Hong Kong's been rich long enough to have torn down almost all the old city and rebuilt it several times over. Macau's only recently put together the money to do that, so much of the city still looks like it did a hundred years ago. There're even a few buildings left from three or four hundred years ago.
It's the last remaining Portuguese colony. It was founded nearly three hundred years before Hong Kong and for the first half of its history was the richest, most prosperous port on this part of China's coast. Then the harbor, at the mouth of the Pearl River, silted up and the ships became larger at the same time so they needed a deeper port. By the late 1800s Hong Kong had taken over as the thriving city around here and Macau was a sleepy backwater with a reputation for vice.
I have plenty of vices other than gambling for Macau to indulge. I spend aimless happy weekends strolling its neighborhoods with my camera. I'll stop for an espresso here, a cup of tea there, a Chinese snack or a long, wine-soaked Portuguese lunch. I'll walk along the beach, the waterfront, through gardens and ancient temple grounds. I'll nap in the late afternoon, walk around some more, have a massage. There are great restaurants for dinner. After that the nightlife runs from silly to sordid and I like it all.
Just before we dock my row drains out quickly. It seems like everyone on the ferry other than me is battling for position at the exit doors. The ferry lists far to the right and I can both feel and hear it smacking against the huge, old, tar-soaked wooden pylons. Everyone wants to be first down the gangway, first through the immigration booths, and first into taxis to the casinos. As the crowd jostles and heaves against the still-closed doors, people've already begun to make bets, shouting out odds and wagers on who's going to win, who's going to lose, how much, and anything else where there's an element of chance.
I stay put. I'm in no rush. Not enough of one to risk being trampled underfoot, anyway.
Finally the ferry rolls upright and I get out without being pushed or shoved even once. I head toward the overpass that leads to the casino and entertainment mall across from the terminal, when someone calls my name.
"Ray, Ray Sharp."
I look around and see a colleague striding up to me fast. He's in a crisply cut dark suit. He looks out of place in Macau and I'm not happy to see him.
"Fred." He hates it when I call him Fred. I wouldn't dare call him Freddie or he'd probably hit me and he's a lot bigger than I am. Frederick Lyons IV is the finance editor of Asian Industry and the eldest son of an old and esteemed banking family back in England. I don't know how he got the job. When I signed on as deputy editor he was already firmly entrenched. The guy I replaced warned me about him; he's not very bright and he's accustomed to having other people do all his dirty work for him.
But he dresses well, better than most bankers. I doubt he even owns any socks that haven't been handmade by the finest shop on Savile Row back in London. His hair is perfect: black with just the right dignified amount of gray and coifed by a barber who takes a small suite in the Mandarin Hotel once a month to service his exclusive clientele. He's a perfect example of the acronym FILTH. It means "Failed In London, Try Hong Kong."
He irritates the hell out of me, and since I'm his boss, I'm also a thorn in his side. Sometimes I get a rather unfortunate kick out of, as he might say, taking the piss out of him. At least he's been well trained since birth to remain civil.
He winces and puts the hand he's offered away when I don't shake it. "What're you doing here?"
"Do you have a minute? Can we go somewhere and talk?"
He looks upset about something. I actually feel a twinge of sympathy for him. There's an Italian restaurant across the street. It's got great little sandwiches and coffee. It's noon, early f...
