He was astonished when the dead insect suddenly flew from his palm and attached itself to the knife at his belt. Suddenly it all made sense…
By now the fortune-teller had gathered up his things and wandered off in the direction of a nearby tavern. Cí carefully placed the insect’s remains in a cloth and headed after him.
There was a boy at the door to the Five Pleasures Tavern looking after the fortune-teller’s folded-up betting table. Cí asked him how much he was being paid, and the boy held out two pieces of candy.
“I’ll give you this apple if you let me look at that table.”
The boy thought for a moment.
“OK. But only to look.”
Cí gave him the apple, which one of the men had dropped at the bet, and opened the table.
“I said don’t touch,” said the boy.
“I need to look at the underside.”
“I’ll tell him—”
“Eat your apple and shut up, will you?”
Cí opened and shut the channel gates, sniffed the channels, and looked closely at the underside, pulling out a small sheet of metal about the size of a biscuit, which he hid in his sleeve. Putting the table back as it had been, he nodded to the boy and entered the Five Pleasures Tavern. He had everything he needed to get his money back.
Though Cí didn’t see the fortune-teller when he first walked into the tavern, a couple of prostitutes were whispering excitedly about a man throwing money around. Cí followed their glances to the curtains at the back of the room.
He took a moment to consider his approach. The tavern was a dive like all the others near the gates—thick with greasy smoke and customers eating plates of boiled pig meat, Cantonese sauces, and Zhe fish soups. The smell of the food mingled with the stink and sweat of the fishermen, dockers, and sailors who were celebrating the end of the week as though it were their last day on earth—drinking, swinging, and swaying to the rhythm of flutes and zithers.
On the far side of the bar, on a makeshift stage, a group of “flowers” sang melodies that were barely audible over the din and tried to catch the eye of their next customer. One of them came over to Cí and made a show of concern over his wounded leg before she began rubbing her flabby rump up against his crotch. Cí pushed her away. He marched to the back of the tavern, parted the curtains, and there was the fortune-teller, shaking his pale ass over a young girl. He was clearly surprised to see Cí but seemed unbothered. He smiled foolishly, showing his rotten teeth, and then carried on. Doubtless he was drunk.
“Having fun with my money?” Cí asked. He shoved the old man, and the girl grabbed her clothes and scurried out.
“What on earth?” said the fortune-teller.
Before the old man could get to his feet, Cí grabbed him by the shirt.
“You’re going to pay me back, right down to the last coin! And I mean now!”
He was about to start rummaging through the fortune-teller’s purse when he was picked up, dragged out of the cubicle, and thrown against some tables in the middle of the dining area. The music stopped.
“No bothering the customers!” roared the manager.
The man was as big as a mountain; his arms appeared to be thicker than his legs, and he had the look of an enraged buffalo. Before Cí could respond, the manager punched him in the ribs.
“He’s a cheat!” Cí managed to say. “He swindled me!”
“As long as he pays his way when he’s in here, I don’t care.”
“Leave him. He’s just a kid,” said the fortune-teller, coming out from behind the curtain as he buttoned his pants. He looked down at Cí. “You get out of here before you really get hurt.”
Cí struggled to his feet. The wound in his leg had started to bleed again.
“I’ll go,” he said grimly, “when you’ve given me back my money.”
“Don’t be stupid. Do you really want your head cracked open?”
“I know how you do it. I inspected your maze.”
A flicker of worry crossed the fortune-teller’s face.
“Hee-hee, I see. Come now, have a seat. Tell me what you mean.”
Cí pulled out the sliver of metal he’d found attached to the cricket and threw it on the table.
“All I know is you must have lost your mind,” said the fortune-teller, but he was staring at the metal all the same.
“Fine,” said Cí, taking out the biscuit-size metal sheet and placing it under the table. “Watch and learn, since this is all new to you.”
When he moved the sheet beneath the table, suddenly, as if propelled by an invisible hand, the sliver began moving around, too. The fortune-teller shifted uncomfortably on his stool.
“Magnets,” announced Cí. “Not to mention the camphor repellent at the ends of the other crickets’ channels! Or—what else?—the trapdoor where the first cricket disappeared and the second cricket, the one with the metal sliver attached, was released? But you don’t really need me to explain all this, do you?”
“What do you want?” whispered the fortune-teller.
“My eight hundred qián—which I would have won from the bet.”
“Ha! You should have figured this out a lot earlier. Now get out.”
“Not till I have my money.”
“Listen, kid, you’re sharp, I’ll give you that, but you’re starting to bore me. Zhao!” He called the manager over. “Give him a bowl of rice and show him out.”
But Cí wasn’t giving up that easily.
“My money,” he growled.
“Enough!” said the manager.
“No,” a voice behind them boomed, “it isn’t enough!” Everyone in the tavern turned to see who it was.
A man stood in the middle of the dining area. It was the giant, the owner of the blue cricket that had nearly beaten the fortune-teller’s yellow one. The fortune-teller looked terrified as the man, who was even bigger than the manager, strode purposefully over, pushing people aside. The manager stepped forward, and the giant took him down with one punch. Then the giant grabbed the fortune-teller by the neck, and Cí, too.
“Now,” he growled, “let’s hear this little story about magnets one more time.”
Cí hated swindlers, but he hated violent people even more. Moreover, this man seemed perfectly prepared to take his money.
“This is between us,” said Cí obstinately, even though the giant had him by the neck.
“The devil with both of you!” said the giant, flinging them against an old lattice screen, which broke into pieces.
As Cí struggled to his feet, the giant got astride the fortune-teller and began choking him. Cí leaped on the giant and punched him in the back, but it was like punching a brick wall. The giant threw him back toward the screen. Cí tasted blood on his lips.
The other patrons gathered around, eager for a fight. They started laying bets.
“Hundred-to-one odds on the giant,” announced a young man who appointed himself deposit taker.
“Put me down for two hundred!”
“A thousand!”
“Two thousand if he kills him!”
Cí knew that none of these wolves would help him; his life was in serious danger, and running wasn’t an option. Aside from his injured calf, he was surrounded, and the giant was on his feet, looking down at Cí as if he were a cockroach there to be stomped on. The giant spat on his hands and encouraged the crowd. Suddenly, Third popped into Cí’s mind, and he decided what to do.
“Well,” said Cí, “it won’t be the first time I’ve smacked a woman down.”
“What?” roared the giant. He swiped at Cí, who managed to hop out of the way, causing the giant to stumble.
“I’ll bet you’re more girl than man.”
“I’m going to rip out your guts and feed them to you!” Again the giant swiped at Cí, and again Cí dodged him.