Fate

by Ian Hamilton

  “Sounds a bit too subtle for some of our guys,” Fong said.

  “That may be the case, but that’s how Ren wants it. He doesn’t want to start a war with Ma.”

  “He’d rather sneak up on him.”

  “Yes, I guess you could put it that way. You could also say that he doesn’t want to generate any animosity that would make it hard, moving forward, for the two of them to work together.”

  “That does make some sense,” Xu said. “I think I can operate within those guidelines.”

  “Me too,” Fong said.

  “Good. Now, how many men do you think you can talk to in the next few days?”

  “Maybe twenty to thirty,” Fong said.

  “Same here,” said Xu.

  “Make sure you compare names. We don’t need both of you talking to the same guy. My own list will probably just consist of Wang and Tian Longwei. If I can get them on board, they might bring some of their men with them.”

  “How many votes do we need?” Xu asked.

  “There are 162 eligible voters, so we need eighty-two to get a majority.”

  “Well, who knows, we might just be able to come up with that many,” Xu said.

  “Let’s hope for all our sakes that we can,” Chow said.

  Fong yawned and stretched. “I’m tired. It’s a good thing you don’t want me to start until tomorrow.”

  “Go home and sleep,” Chow said with a smile. “And Xu, you can take off too. I have to order some flowers and find three funeral bands before I leave for Happy Valley.”

  “You’re still going to the races?” Xu said.

  “I am, unless for some reason they’ve closed the track. And the only time I’m aware they did that was during the Japanese occupation in World War Two. I’ll miss the first few races but I’ll get there for most of the card,” Chow said. “Let’s talk again first thing tomorrow morning.”

  When Fong and Xu had left his office, Chow immediately called the operator and asked to be put through to the Hop Sing Funeral Home. A woman answered his call. “My name is Chow. I’m an associate of Mr. Gao. He died this morning and I’ve been told that his family has made arrangements for the body to be delivered to your funeral home.”

  “This is Mrs. Hop, and your information is correct. It should be here within the next few hours.”

  “Have they finalized the dates and times for the wake and funeral?”

  “The wake will be held on Friday between noon and five. The funeral will be on Saturday at noon. The family is concerned that the event on Saturday could be very crowded. They are asking that as many people as possible pay their respects on Friday.”

  “I will pass on that message to my colleagues.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yes. What florist do you recommend?”

  “White Lily is in Fanling. They do a lot of funerals.”

  Chow made a note of the name. “And we want to hire some funeral bands and thought you might be able to make a recommendation.”

  “How many names do you want?”

  “At least three.”

  “How many do you intend to hire?”

  “Three.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “He was an important man with a lot of friends.”

  “I know how important he was — he and my husband were acquaintances,” she said. “Give me a minute and I’ll see what I can find for you.”

  One minute turned into several and Chow was starting to get impatient when she came back on the line. But the wait was worth it; she gave him the names and phone numbers of five bands.

  Chow knew nothing about funeral bands, but after half an hour on the phone asking questions, he was starting to feel like an expert as he negotiated the numbers of players and banners each of them would provide. After talking to the last one, he reviewed his notes, compared numbers and costs, and phoned three of them back to confirm their attendance on Saturday.

  The White Lily flower shop was his next call. It went quickly, because the second he mentioned the name Gao, the florist began talking about how important it was to have a spectacular floral presentation.

  “Do whatever you think is appropriate, and then do a bit extra,” Chow said. “I don’t want to hear a single criticism of the flowers in terms of either quality or quantity.”

  “We’ll make you happy,” the florist said.

  Chow ended the call and then wondered if he should phone Ma to tell him everything was organized. He looked at the marked-up racing form sitting on his desk. Fuck him, he thought. He had done everything he’d promised. There was still time to get to Happy Valley.

  ( 9 )

  Happy Valley Racecourse was on Hong Kong Island, and the only way to get onto the island was by ferry. Chow normally took a taxi to Kowloon, the Star Ferry across Victoria Harbour to the island, and then another cab to the track.

  It was almost eight o’clock when his taxi came to a halt on Wong Nai Chung Road. He climbed out and made his way into the grounds. Chow paid for a reserved seat on the second floor of the massive seven-storey grandstand. He had just missed the third race, but as he eyed the results, he smiled. His selection hadn’t finished in the money, so he figured he was already ahead. He took his seat, looked at his notes on the fourth race, and quickly banished, however temporarily, any thoughts of the day’s events in Sha Tin and Fanling.

  One of Chow’s criteria for evaluating a horse was its trainer. He didn’t believe that any trainer could take a mediocre horse and turn it into a stakes winner, but a trainer who always had his horses ready to run and never put them in races where they were outmatched was someone whose horses Chow liked to bet on. In the current season, which was nearing its end, Jerry Ng was a certainty to be named trainer of the year. Ng had a horse in the fourth race, and although its statistics weren’t as good as some of its competition, Chow saw that the horse hadn’t run in a month and was sure to be fresh. He had made it his pick the night before and saw no reason to change his mind now. He went to the betting window and placed HK$1,000 on it to win and place.

  The horses left the paddock and formed for the post parade. There was a buzz in the air, a sense of anticipation that only increased as post time drew nearer. Chow examined Ng’s horse and thought it looked magnificent. His confidence swelled and he thought about going back to place an additional bet, but he knew the lines would be long enough that he might get shut out. He decided to stay in his seat.

  The 1,200-metre race began. Ng’s horse got off to a decent start and the jockey positioned him near the middle of the fourteen-horse field. Chow watched the race unfold with increasing intensity, his attention totally locked on his horse. At the halfway point the jockey eased his mount to the outside of the pack. Chow smiled as he saw the horse almost gliding, with a clear path to the finish whenever the jockey decided to turn it loose.

  “Don’t wait too long,” Chow shouted, his voice lost among the thousands of others giving advice to their jockeys.

  Several horses at the front began to fade as Ng’s horse picked up its pace and moved into fifth position, then fourth. The jockeys on the leading horses began looking sideways as they gauged the competition. The pace quickened again as the riders urged their horses forward down the final two hundred metres of the home stretch. As they sped by his position in the grandstand, Chow saw that his horse was going full out; the distance between it and the front-runners was shrinking with every stride. With about fifty metres to go, four horses were side by side, separated by no more than a neck’s length. Chow yelled his horse’s number over and over. As if in answer, it seemed to find another gear and inched forward. It won by a lunging head.

  Chow screamed, “Yes, yes, yes!” Then, almost as an afterthought, he looked at the odds board. His horse had gone off at six to one. His win and place tickets were worth HK$12,000.r />
  He waited until the result was official and the first wave of bettors had rushed the pay window before going to cash in his tickets. He was tenth in line at the window and studying the form for the next race when he heard his name being called. He looked to the left and saw Sammy Wing standing in another line.

  Wing was about Chow’s age and had already made his mark with the triad gang in Wanchai, a district of Hong Kong. He was the assistant to the Vanguard, and it was assumed he would inherit the position when the incumbent, already in his seventies, retired or died. The Wanchai triad was at least four times larger than the gang in Fanling, and it generated substantially more revenue, mainly through drugs and prostitution.

  “Hey, Sammy, did you back the winner?” Chow asked.

  “I did, Uncle. Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hang around after you cash in. I want to talk to you.”

  A few minutes later, Chow stuffed his winnings into his jacket pocket. Wing was leaning against a pillar waiting for him. The two men shook hands. Although Wing was only a few inches taller than Chow, he was plump and looked twice as big.

  “We were all stunned and sorry to hear about Gao. Condolences.”

  “Thanks. There’s a wake on Friday and the funeral is on Saturday.”

  “You can count on some of us being there. Chin, our Mountain Master, might make it too,” Wing said. “I saw him earlier today; the death shocked him. Gao was younger than many of the other bosses.”

  “You never know when death is going to come to any of us.”

  “No, you don’t.” Wing lowered his voice. “Who is going to replace Gao?”

  “Ma is the Deputy.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s the only answer I have.”

  “If it is Ma, you should tell him to be careful.”

  “Why?”

  Wing shrugged. “There are rumblings.”

  “What do you mean by ‘rumblings’?”

  “I’m not sure how much I should say.”

  “Then why are you saying anything?”

  “We young guys have to stick together. If we both stay healthy, we could be working in this business together for a long time.”

  “I agree, Sammy. So, in the spirit of sticking together, why don’t you stop dancing and tell me what it is you’re trying to say.”

  Wing moved closer, his smoky breath engulfing Chow. “When Ma spoke to Chin this morning, he told him Gao’s death was an accident. Chin doesn’t believe it, and neither do some of the other Mountain Masters on Hong Kong Island.”

  Chow felt a sudden chill. “Ma told us he talked to Chin and some others, but he didn’t mention that they have doubts about its being an accident.”

  “That’s because they didn’t tell him what they really thought.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “This is where it gets tricky,” Wing said, reaching for Chow’s elbow to pull him so close his lips were almost touching Chow’s ear. “First, you need to swear to me that you will never name me or mention my gang as the source of this information.”

  “You have my word,” Chow said, his discomfort growing.

  “We have been told that one of the gangs in the Territories is going to make a play for Fanling,” Wing whispered. “Getting rid of Gao was the first step in their plan. He was really respected — he had a lot of ties to a lot of gangs and was owed a lot of favours. If they’d gone after your gang while he was still alive, they knew he could call for help and probably get it. Ma doesn’t have those ties, and no one owes him anything.”

  “Which gang is coming after us?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Wing said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re not a hundred percent sure. We have a good source and we believe him, but even good sources can be wrong. And when they are, things can really blow back in your face.”

  “But you have enough faith in this source to repeat his story to me?”

  “We do.”

  “Then tell me who he is. My word will be good.”

  “Uncle, I’d like to but I can’t. My boss was very specific about that. He has no business in the Territories, and telling you who it is would be like taking sides — which he won’t do, because that would only create enemies in a place where he has none. He thinks the Territories should sort out their own problems. He has enough to deal with in Hong Kong.”

  “If that’s the case, why are you telling me this in the first place?”

  “My boss hates it when gangs go to war with each other. All it does is attract the cops’ attention, and even though the fighting may be in the sticks, we still get a ton of heat in Hong Kong. He doesn’t want that kind of trouble from something that’s got nothing to do with him or our business,” Wing said. “But he figures that if Ma knows something is on the boil, he’ll at least have a chance to talk to the other gang leaders in the Territories. Maybe Ma can find out who wants to come after you guys and work out some kind of deal to forestall it.”

  “So why doesn’t Chin call Ma and tell him what you told me?”

  “You aren’t listening to me,” Wing said. “My boss doesn’t want to be involved in anything that’s going on in the Territories, even one phone call. I mean, think about it. If he called Ma, what would Ma do?”

  “He would probably reach out to the nearby Mountain Masters,” Chow said.

  “Exactly, and he’d also most likely throw around Chin’s name and drag him into it,” Wing said. “Ma doesn’t have a reputation for being subtle or discreet.”

  Chow took a step back. “Sammy, it’s just occurred to me that you came here tonight specifically to tell me this.”

  “You are a man with known habits. Wednesday night is Happy Valley night. Even though Gao died this morning, I thought I might find you here.”

  “There are fifty thousand people at this track. I’m like a needle in a haystack.”

  “There are ten other men from the gang looking for you on the grounds. One of us would have located you,” Wing said. “And if you weren’t here or I hadn’t found you, I would have contacted you some other way.”

  “I’m glad you did, though the reason doesn’t thrill me.”

  “So now what?” Wing asked.

  “I don’t know,” Chow said. “I really need to think this through.”

  “Whatever you decide to do, just remember that the names Chin, Wing, and Wanchai must never cross your lips.”

  “I gave you my word,” Chow snapped.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” Wing said. “You know I wouldn’t have been sent to talk to you at all if you weren’t trusted and respected.”

  “Momentai,” Chow said.

  “In fact, you are so respected that if things turn to shit in Fanling, my boss wants you to know there’s a home for you in Wanchai.”

  “I won’t let things turn to shit, but thank him for the offer anyway, and for sending you here tonight,” Chow said. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  Wing shook his head and then looked at Chow’s racing form. “You could tell me who you fancy in the next race.”

  Chow opened the pages. “I like number eight, China Doll,” he said, and then reached into his jacket pocket and took out the wad of bills. “Here, put two thousand on it to win for me.”

  “You’re not staying?”

  “You know I’m not. I’ve got to get my ass back to Fanling. I just hope that by the time I get there I’ll have some idea of what to do.”

  ( 10 )

  Chow took a taxi to the Hong Kong Island Star Ferry terminal and rode to Kowloon, where he caught another taxi for the trip back to Fanling. He guessed he’d get back to his apartment by ten, so it wouldn’t be too late to contact some of his colleagues. But before doi
ng anything, he had to sort out who to call and what to tell them.

  If Gao were still alive, he wouldn’t have had to think about any of that. He could have repeated the entire conversation with Sammy Wing without mentioning Sammy, Chin, or Wanchai. Gao would have understood the reason for keeping those names out of the discussion and wouldn’t have pressed him. Instead, he would have taken the information they’d been given and thought long and hard about its accuracy, then longer and harder about how to act on it.

  But Gao wasn’t there for him to talk to. And if Sammy was correct, his death had created doubts about the gang’s leadership that others were eager to test and exploit. So who should he share this information with, and how should he tell them?

  Chow thought about approaching Ma. As acting Mountain Master, he had the right to be the first to know and he was empowered to mobilize the gang if he thought it was necessary. But Chow cringed at the thought of how their conversation might go. To begin with, he knew Ma didn’t have the same confidence in him that Gao had, and he was sure Ma would demand to know the source of his information. If Chow didn’t tell him, whatever trust Ma did have in him would be further eroded. And if he did tell him, he knew Ma was capable of picking up the phone and calling Chin in Wanchai for confirmation. That confirmation might or might not be given, but either way, the call would ruin Chow’s reputation in Wanchai.

  Then there was the not insignificant matter of Ma’s belief that Chow had an ulterior motive for wanting an election. He might think that Chow’s anonymous, unconfirmed information was a trap designed to get him to take some ill-considered action that would make him look foolish, and then pretend to agree that there was a danger but sit back and do nothing. And doing nothing, in Chow’s view, was being careless in the extreme. I can’t go to him with this, he thought. I have to talk to Wang. He’s already mentioned his concerns and he has men on the alert. Telling him, rather than Ma, is entirely justifiable.

  It was almost ten when the taxi entered Fanling. Chow knew Wang wouldn’t be at home. He worked nearly every night, using several different bars and restaurants as an operations centre, rotating among them. Chow couldn’t imagine that his routine had changed much from when he’d worked with him on the street, so he told the cab driver to take him to the Great Wall, a bar about a kilometre from the gang’s head office. When they arrived, he told the driver to wait and went inside. There was no sign of Wang, but one of his men told Chow he would probably find him at Lau’s Noodle House. It was within walking distance of the bar, so Chow paid the driver and made his way there.