As the girl neared the table where Jennifer and the inspector were sitting, Jennifer got a better look at her, and up close, she was even lovelier. Her features were soft and delicate, and her figure was breathtaking. Her white silk gown was slit at the sides so that one could see the delicately curved thigh and small, perfectly formed breasts.
As Jennifer turned to speak to the inspector, another girl appeared. She was, if possible, even lovelier than the first. Two more were walking behind her, and in a moment Bugis Street was filled with beautiful young girls. They were a mixture of Malaysian, Indian and Chinese.
“They’re prostitutes,” Jennifer guessed.
“Yes. Transsexuals.”
Jennifer stared at him. It was not possible. She turned and looked at the girls again. She could see absolutely nothing masculine about any of them.
“You’re joking.”
“They are known as Billy Boys.”
Jennifer was bewildered. “But they—”
“They have all had an operation. They think of themselves as women.” He shrugged. “So, why not? They do no harm. You understand,” he added, “that prostitution is illegal here. But the Billy Boys are good for tourism and as long as they do not disturb the guests, the police close an eye to it.”
Jennifer looked again at the exquisite young people moving down the street, stopping at tables to make deals with customers.
“They do well. They charge up to two hundred dollars. When they get too old to work, they become Mamasans.”
Most of the girls were seated at tables now with men, dickering for their services. One by one, they began to rise and leave with their clients.
“They handle up to two or three transactions a night,” the inspector explained. “They take over Bugis Street at midnight and they must be out by six in the morning so that the stands can open for business again. We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
As they moved along the street, an unbidden image of Ken Bailey flashed through Jennifer’s mind and she thought, I hope you are happy.
On the drive back to the hotel, Jennifer made up her mind that, chauffeur or no chauffeur, she was going to bring up Bjork’s name.
As the car turned on to Orchard Road, Jennifer said determinedly, “About Stefan Bjork—”
“Ah, yes. I have arranged for you to visit him at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
55
In Washington, D.C., Adam Warner was summoned from a meeting to take an urgent telephone call from New York.
District Attorney Robert Di Silva was on the phone. He was jubilant. “The special grand jury just returned the indictments we asked for. Every one of them! We’re all set to move.” There was no response. “Are you there, Senator?”
“I’m here.” Adam forced enthusiasm into his voice. “That’s great news.”
“We should be able to start closing in within twenty-four hours. If you can fly up to New York, I think we should have a final meeting tomorrow morning with all the agencies so we can coordinate our moves. Can you do that, Senator?”
“Yes,” Adam said.
“I’ll make the arrangements. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be there.” Adam replaced the receiver.
The special grand jury just returned the indictments we asked for. Every one of them!
Adam picked up the telephone again and began to dial.
56
The visitors’ room at Changi Prison was a small, bare room with whitewashed stucco walls, containing one long table with hard wooden chairs set on either side. Jennifer was seated in one of the chairs, waiting. She looked up as the door opened and Stefan Bjork walked in, accompanied by a uniformed guard.
Bjork was in his thirties, a tall, sullen-faced man with protuberant eyes. A thyroid condition, Jennifer thought. There were vivid bruises on his cheeks and forehead. He sat down opposite Jennifer.
“I’m Jennifer Parker, your attorney. I’m going to try to get you out of here.”
He looked at her and said, “You better make it soon.”
It could have been a threat or a plea. Jennifer remembered Michael’s words: I want you to bail him out before he starts talking.