They’d decided on Foxwoods.
What the hell, Sai Go thought, why not go along with them? It’s only three hours up the highway. It was a gwailo holiday but he’d just as soon play a few hands of Chinese pai gow, poker, or some mini-thirteen.
Many of the casinos offered a separate space for Chinese and Asian games of chance, featuring sik bo, pai gow, poker, or dominoes, and bak ka lo, baccarat. They kept blackjack and roulette action conveniently to one side just to keep the girlfriends of the players happy.
He imagined it in his head. Drinks all around, brought out on trays by girls in gaily colored cheongsams. Asian high rollers having a hoot. Winning sometimes and playing it up, but losing, mostly.
It was the last image he saw before passing out.
Afterlife
It was the bleating of the phone somewhere that awoke him. He wasn’t sure if it was one of his cell phones, or the apartment phone. He’d left the lamp and the TV on; some Taiwanese soap opera with subtitles was playing silently.
Sai Go considered answering the phone but fatigue kept his limbs from responding. Then the answering machine came on. House phone, he heard his own hoarse tired voice on the recording.
The caller was Gum Sook, asking if Sai Go had decided to go on the trip to Foxwoods, that he could brew up some tea. “Call Longshot,” he said, “if you want to go.”
Following that, his cell phone rang, and though he turned, reaching, his legs wouldn’t respond. He grabbed for the edge of the bed with his hands and rolled his body over. The cell phone kept ringing.
He was suddenly jolted by deep knifing pain in his legs, in his bones, knees, and ankles. He gritted his teeth, heaving breaths through his clenched jaw, until he could bear the pain no more and crashed into the blackness.
Into the Light
His view slowly settled on the clock radio as he regained con-ciousness. It was afternoon, a Monday, still December. Sai Go recalled the pain in his legs and gingerly moved them. Surprisingly, they carried him off the sofa as if nothing had happened. Relieved, he went to the bathroom sink, splashed water on his face. Painkillers, he was thinking, in case it comes back. They’d surely have something at the clinic.
He thought of returning Gum Sook’s call. He resolved to jup sau may, tie up loose ends. He’d withdraw his twenty-five thousand and close his account at U.S. Asia. He’d like to collect his last debts at OTB, from Lum Kee the fish-ball vendor, and two waiters at Garden Palace.
Send a card to the chun chik, relatives, in Honk Kong. Spread the word. He, Fong Sai Yook, has passed.
Maybe place an ad in the Chinese obituaries.
Return the packs of telephone calling cards to Big Chuck Chan.
Visit Lo Fay, the all-purpose lawyer at the association’s Credit Union. He was good for immigration, divorces, and other loose ends.
He’d ask Gum Sook to call and look in on him twice a week, to report the death when the time came. He’d arrange a cash incentive for Gum Sook.
Sai Go gargled, coughed, and spat into the sink, rinsing from the faucet without looking for blood in the spittle.
He put on his cheap down jacket and went down the stairs, exiting onto the street in the direction of the health clinic, and OTB.
The Price of Freedom
Inside the New Canton, KeeKee spread open the China Post and explained the racing results to Bo. She slid her French-tipped nail down the newsprint until she came to the eighth race.
“Here,” she said, “American Freedom. Paid one hundred eighty-eight to show.”
“My horse won?” Bo exclaimed.
“No, but you won anyway. For coming in second.”
“I won by coming in second?” Bo asked, incredulous.
KeeKee laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cash it for you when I go for lunch.”
Bo thought of Sai Go, wanting to thank him, to share the lucky winnings. She considered treating him to yum cha, dim sum, or a box of Fei Dong pastries, when he showed up for his next haircut.
Dead Man Walking
Doyers Street was an icy slope and Sai Go stepped carefully over the slick compressed snow. He followed the twisting street until he came to the narrow alley that split out behind the Bowery, the same alley used by Hip Ching hatchetmen in their bloody forays against tong rivals, sixty years before. Nowadays, the alley was commonly used as a shortcut from Doyers to Chatham Square, leading out to the Bowery.
Less snow had accumulated in the alley. Sai Go exited from the gap between buildings next to OTB, a half block from the health clinic.
OTB looked crowded and he decided to stop by on the way back from the clinic.
The health clinic was closing, and Sai Go could only explain his painful episode to the technician, who apologized that he was not authorized to dispense medications. The clinic doctor would return the following afternoon.
Walking back, he saw that the vestibule of OTB had emptied.
Inside, he found the two waiters and collected from them, waiting around afterward for the street vendors. He stood at the far end of the floor, scanning the crowd milling about for the next race. In the tubercular air, he resisted the urge to cough, afraid that his phlegm would show bloody red. His thoughts strayed dizzily to a commotion on the betting floor. A curse rang out and immediately became madda focker in six dialects. A group of market workers laughed, and a construction crew cheered.
He didn’t see any street vendors and was heading toward the front of the parlor when Koo Jai, appearing frazzled, tramped through the doors.
Koo Jai immediately spotted Sai Go and came toward him angrily. Looking around, he hissed, “You fuckin’ complain to the dailo, hah?” Noticing the eyes around them, stealing glances their way, Koo Jai leaned toward Sai Go and whispered, “You watch your fuckin’ back, old man.”
Sai Go stood silent a moment watching pretty-boy Koo stomp out of OTB.
He laughed quietly to himself. Ha, threatening a dead man, the irony of it. Still, he was insulted by the threat and resolved to get his gun out of the lock box and carry it in his coat pocket. He knew he was sure to die.
But he sure wasn’t going to lose face.
Gain, No Pain
Sai Go put down the cup of guk fa, chrysanthemum tea, and opened the metal box, empty now except for his run money wad of hundreds, and the Vigilante revolver in its holster. He took the gun out of the holster, flipped the barrel out to confirm that six bullets were nesting there, then pressed the barrel back in with a click of his thumb.
He put the Vigilante into the right cargo pocket of his down jacket. He didn’t bother to take extra bullets. Whatever was going to happen wasn’t going beyond the six he had chambered.
When he finished the guk fa he decided it was late enough in the afternoon to check out the health clinic. He stretched his legs, remembering the agony he’d felt, and wished he had a god to pray to, for painkillers.
No god; the doctor would have to do.
It was all coming apart, he thought. How much more time did he have before the pain and sorrow bled out? Or was it all a dark killing shadow, spreading out behind the bitterness and despair, that no amount of time or forgiveness could cure?