9
Nick
MACAU
“Please tell me we’re not riding in one of those,” Mehmet Sabançi grimaced to Nick as they disembarked from the plane and saw the fleet of matching white stretch Rolls-Royce Phantoms awaiting them.
“Oh, this is typical Bernard,” Nick smiled, wondering what Mehmet, a classics scholar who hailed from one of Istanbul’s most patrician families, made of the sight of Bernard Tai emerging from a limo in a mint-green chalk-striped blazer, orange paisley ascot, and yellow suede loafers. The only son of Dato’ Tai Toh Lui, Bernard was famed for his “brave sartorial statements” (as Singapore Tattle so diplomatically put it) and for being Asia’s biggest bon vivant, perpetually hosting wild parties at whatever louche jet-set resort was in fashion that year — always with the hippest DJs, the chillest drinks, the hottest babes, and, many whispered, the best drugs. “Niggas in Macauuuuw!” Bernard exulted, raising his arms rapper style.
“B. Tai! I can’t believe you made us fly in this old sardine can! Your G5 had a time-to-climb I could grow a beard in! We should have taken my family’s Falcon 7X,” Evan Fung (of the Fung Electronics Fungs) complained.
“My dad’s waiting for the G650 to launch into service, and then you can kiss my ass, Fungus!” Bernard retorted.
Roderick Liang (of the Liang Finance Group Liangs) chimed in, “I’m a Bombardier man myself. Our Global 6000 has such a big cabin, you can do backflips down the aisle.”
“Can you ah guahs[57] stop comparing the size of your planes and let’s hit the casinos, please?” Johnny Pang (his mother is an Aw, of those Aws) cut in.
“Well guys, hold on to your balls, because I have a very special treat arranged for all of us!” Bernard declared.
Nick climbed wearily into one of the tanklike cars, hoping that Colin’s bachelor weekend would proceed without incident. Colin had been on edge all week, and heading to the gambling capital of the world with a group of testosterone-and-whiskey-fueled guys was a recipe for disaster.
“This wasn’t the Oxford reunion I was expecting,” Mehmet said to Nick in a low voice.
“Well, aside from his cousin Lionel and the two of us, I don’t think Colin knows anyone here either,” Nick remarked wryly, glancing at some of the other passengers. The lineup of Beijing princelings and Taiwanese trust-fund brats was definitely more Bernard’s crowd.
As the convoy of Rolls-Royces sped along the coastal highway that skirted the island, gigantic billboards flashing the names of casinos could be seen from miles away. Soon the gaming resorts came into view like small mountains — behemoth blocks of glass and concrete that pulsated with lurid colors in the midafternoon haze. “It’s just like Vegas, except with an ocean view,” Mehmet remarked in awe.
“Vegas is the kiddie pool. This is where the real high rollers come to play,” Evan remarked.[58]
As the Rolls squeezed through the narrow lanes of Felicidade in Macau’s old town, Nick admired the colorful rows of nineteenth-century Portuguese shop houses, thinking that this could be a nice place to bring Rachel after Colin’s wedding. The limos finally pulled up in front of a row of dingy shops on rua de Alfandega. Bernard led the group into what appeared to be an old Chinese apothecary with scratched glass cabinets selling ginseng root, edible bird nests, dried shark fins, fake rhino tusks, and all manner of herbal curiosities. A few elderly ladies sat clustered in front of a small television set, watching a Cantonese soap opera, while a rail-thin Chinese man in a faded Hawaiian shirt leaned against the back counter eyeing the group with a bored look.
Bernard looked at the man and asked brashly, “I’m here to buy ginseng royal jelly.”
“What type you want?” the fellow said disinterestedly.
“Prince of Peace.”
“What size jar?”
“Sixty-nine ounces.”
“Let me see if we have some. Follow me,” the man said, his voice suddenly shifting into a rather unexpected Aussie accent. The group followed him toward the back of the shop and through a dim storeroom lined from floor to ceiling with neatly stacked rows of cardboard cartons. Every carton was stamped “China Ginseng for Export Only.” The man pushed lightly against a stack of wide boxes in the corner, and the whole section seemed to collapse backward effortlessly, revealing a long passageway glowing with cobalt-blue LED lights. “Straight through here,” he said. As the guys wandered down the passageway, the muffled roar became louder and louder, and at the end of the hall, smoked-glass doors parted automatically to reveal an astonishing sight.
The space, which resembled a sort of indoor gymnasium with bleachers on both sides of a sunken pit, was packed standing room only with a boisterous cheering crowd. Though they could not see past the audience, they could hear the blood-curdling growls of dogs tearing into each other’s flesh.
“Welcome to the greatest dogfighting arena in the world!” Bernard proudly announced. “They only use Presa Canario mastiffs here — they are a hundred times more vicious than pit bulls. This is going to be damn shiok,[59] man!”
“Where do we place the bets?” Johnny asked excitedly.
“Er … isn’t this illegal?” Lionel asked, peering nervously at the main fighting cage. Nick could tell Lionel wanted to look away but found himself curiously drawn to the scene of two huge dogs, all muscle and sinew and fangs, rolling viciously in a pit smeared with their own blood.
“Of course it’s illegal!” Bernard answered.
“I don’t know about this, Bernard. Colin and I cannot risk being caught at some illegal dogfight right before the wedding,” Lionel continued.
“You are such a typical Singaporean! So damn scared of everything! Don’t be so fucking boring,” Bernard said contemptuously.
“That’s not the point, Bernard. This is just plain cruel,” Nick interjected.
“Alamak, are you a member of Greenpeace? You’re witnessing a great sporting tradition! These dogs have been bred for centuries in the Canary Islands to do nothing but fight,” Bernard huffed, squinting his eyes.
The chanting of the crowd became deafening as the match reached its grisly climax. Both dogs had clamped tightly onto each other’s throats, locked in a Sisyphean chokehold, and Nick could see that the skin around the brown dog’s throat was half torn off, flapping against the snout of the other dog. “Well I’ve seen enough,” he grimaced, turning his back on the fight.
“Come on, lah. This is a BACHELOR PARTY! Don’t shit on my fun, Nickyboy,” Bernard shouted over the chanting. One of the dogs gave a piercing shriek as the other mastiff snapped into the soft of its belly.
“There’s nothing fun about this,” Mehmet said firmly, nauseated by the sight of the fresh warm blood squirting everywhere.
58
With 1.5 billion eager gamblers on the Mainland, the annual gambling revenue of Macau exceeds $20 billion — that’s three times more than what Las Vegas takes in every year. (Celine Dion, where are you?)
59
Malay slang term used to denote an experience that is amazing or something (usually food) that’s out of this world.