Henry Chang - Year of the Dog

Lucky spotted him immediately, went in his direction. The crowd parted for the dark phalanx that escorted him, eight crazies and a big dark-skinned Malay.

Sai Go thought about the pad in his pocket as the crew came to the back of the house. He decided not to reach into his jacket as they circled him.

“I want a thousand on Ming Sing, to win,” said Lucky, “in the second race at Happy Valley.”

“Ming Sing,” Sai Go repeated, acknowledging the bet.

“Any action on that yet?” from Lucky.

“You’re the first,” Sai Go answered, waiting for his moment to change the subject.

Lucky had overheard one of the uncles explaining how the fix was in, and how Ming Sing, movie star, a three-year-old gelding from Australia, was an eight-to-one payout. Lucky didn’t catch the details but figured that the Hong Kong triads had probably kidnapped a family member or relative of a jockey, or trainer, and maybe paid off or coerced other jockeys to hold back or block out for the “fixed” winner.

Lucky didn’t stress any of that, or the big bet, win or lose. He was putting back into play the fifteen-hundred winnings he’d just taken out of the Mott Street basements.

Sai Go said, “You can catch it on the satellite channel. .”

Lucky already knew that, but held his eyes on Sai Go while firing up a Marlboro.

“So what’s this problem you have? Lucky asked, exhaling smoke. “One of the boyz owes you money?” He could see that Sai Go was relieved, appreciative that the gang leader was addressing the situation.

“It’s that kid, he’s about your height. Leng jai, a good-looking kid. They call him Koo, or cool, something like that.”

Lucky was careful to downplay his own curiosity. “But how come you gave him that much play?” Lucky said, more an admonishment than a question.

“He bet a few times before this,” Sai Go countered. “And he always had money. A few thousand was no problem.”

Lucky blew out the cigarette smoke in a tight stream. “A few thousand walking-around cash, huh?”

“Correct,” answered Sai Go.

Both men were quiet a long moment. Sai Go spoke first.

“It’s just that he said he wasn’t going to pay me. In front of all the bettors. He didn’t give me any face to work with, and-”

“I’ll take care of it,” Lucky interrupted, “gau dim, done. You said a thousand, right?”

“Correct again, dailo,” said Sai Go, bowing slightly. Now he felt his blood pressure rising, tension starting to grab in his forehead.

Lucky jerked his head at the big Malay, flicked his Marlboro to the linoleum, and crushed it under his heel. The others made a path for him and they went back through the crowd.

Sai Go watched them leave as he penciled Lucky’s bet onto his pad of soluble tissue sheets. He could swallow the paper anytime and evidence of betting records would dissolve before reaching his stomach. There was a flash of dizziness and then he felt short of breath. It’s the medication, he thought, the gwailo white devil medicine that was supposed to cure even the worse of all diseases.

One of his cell phones blared a musical tune, and he readied his betting pad. It was Big Fat, calling in bets from the China Garden. In Sai Go’s peripheral view the ponies were thundering across the big color monitors. He was feeling lightheaded as he jotted down numbers next to the nickname Big Fat. He knew all his players by their nicknames. Pai Kwut was Spare Ribs. Gee Jai, Little Pig. All of them like that. The others would be calling in soon.

Hang in there, he thought, it’s just the medication. He felt the need for some cold night air, and slowly made his way toward the shivering bodies at the front vestibule.

Out at the end of East Broadway, past the lumberyard and the old synagogue, where it crossed Essex Street, stood the 1-6-8 Bar, formerly called the Mickey Rose, a one-time Irish whiskey joint that was supposedly affiliated with the Campisi crew from the Knickerbocker Houses. It was two blocks from the Rutgers Projects, and a block east of Saint Teresa’s Church, more than a half mile from Mott Street.

The big white fluorescent sign above the bar was the only light around the dark deserted intersection. The design on the sign spelled out BAR with the numbers one, six, and eight crowding a cocktail glass tilted at an angle.

Inside, the room was long and narrow, dimly lit by a row of blue lights suspended from the ceiling. There was a twenty-foot wooden bar counter on the left, with a dozen bar stools, and a few small tables in the back. On the right side were red plastic booths that ran toward a pool table in the rear.

The customers had changed through the years, and were now mostly people from the housing projects, the Seward Park area, and Chinese gangbangers working the Chinatown fringe. Whites, blacks, Hispanics, and Chinese mixing tenuously together.

It was almost midnight and the only noise came from the crew of Ghosts drinking in the back area by the pool table.

Koo Jai, or Kid Koo, sat in the last booth and took a swig from his Heineken bottle, watching the homey Jung twins and Shorty Ng chase a rack of nine-ball around the table. He was reminiscing about the time back in the old days, when these streets belonged to the Red Stars, long before the Ghost Legion took over, and way before the waves of Fukienese snakeheads that had followed. Now the Fuks, fucks, as he called them, were buying up property on the Chinatown frontier, and were running their own rackets, like the mahjong room on Henry Street that in better days would have coughed up a piece of the action to the Stars. Now, everyone who paid protection out here paid to the old Chinatown Cantonese, or to the new Fukienese snakehead organizations. And the Dragons were also claiming disputed territory.

Shorty bopped to the far end of the table, tapping the butt end of his cue stick against the wood floor, sizing up the game-winning shot. Considerably shorter than five feet, he’d need to get on his toes, stretching long across the table, to hit the nine ball right, and not scratch.

An awkward shot no matter.

One of the Jungs cleared his phlegmy throat.

Shorty missed the nine ball, left it as an easy kiss in the corner, a hanger.

The Jungs snickered, snorted.

“Dew gow keuih!” Shorty cursed “Fuckin’ ball shit,” slapping his palm against the side rail.

Koo Jai smirked, took another swallow of the beer.

“Fuck,” Shorty said again, jerking his head as he circled away from the table. Koo Jai threw him a disapproving shake of the head, thinking, Shorty, the smallest guy in the gang, but with the biggest attitude. Superstitious guy. Wouldn’t pull a job on a rainy day, or on any date that had a four in it. Refused to enter a place if it were on the fourth floor, or fourteenth, and so on. Afraid of death, which sounded like four in Chinese.

Young Jung pocketed the nine ball hanger, a toothy grin across his face. He sauntered off as Shorty reluctantly stooped to rack up a new game.

Koo Jai closed his eyes a few seconds and suddenly felt a gust of cold wind, looking up to see the dark bulk of Kongo by the open door at the front of the bar. He was even more surprised to see the dailo Lucky step through the door, coming toward the pool table.

The banter around the table went quiet.

Outside, a car’s horn beeped once. He saw headlight shadows against the door wall flashing to black.

In the next instant, Lucky was in front of him.

“Yo, what the fuck, man?” Lucky said in a steely voice. “I paged you almost an hour ago.”