by Ian Hamilton
Has China really opened up? Chow thought as his bowl of congee arrived and he put down his newspaper. What was going on in Shenzhen? If things were changing because of the city’s new status, he needed to understand what a special economic zone was and how it really operated.
Congee, a boiled rice porridge, is by itself a bland dish, but Chow never ate it by itself. He had been coming to this same restaurant virtually every morning for fifteen years and Jia, co-owner of the business with her husband and its only waitress, didn’t ask what accompaniments he wanted; she simply brought them to the table. That morning he added white pepper, a touch of soy sauce, scallions, sausage, and a duck egg. On a side plate were two sticks of youtiao, or fried bread. He ate quickly, a habit he blamed on the hungry times in Wuhan. No matter how much money he had now, he couldn’t shake the irrational fear that it and the food it bought could be taken away from him again. He finished the bowl and it was quickly replaced by another. As he was working his way through it, he saw the familiar face of Xu, his White Paper Fan, coming towards him.
The gang’s headquarters were in the centre of town, about a twenty-minute walk from the restaurant. Chow assumed that Xu had already been in his office for several hours, squaring the accounts from the previous day’s business. Like Chow, Xu was originally from the Chinese mainland and had been a triad there, but he had left and eventually found his way to Hong Kong. His departure from Shanghai hadn’t been voluntary; after seizing power in 1949, Mao had ordered that the mainland triads be destroyed. Xu had got out before he could be caught. Unlike Chow, his former assistant was married and had a son.
“Good morning, Uncle,” Xu said as he slid into the booth across from his Mountain Master.
“Uncle” was what Chow was called by virtually everyone who knew him. It had started when he was appointed assistant White Paper Fan and had begun wearing a black suit and buttoned-up white shirt to work every day. He thought the sombre, conservative look fitted his personality and reflected his responsibilities. The younger triads who had given him the nickname at first joked that he dressed and acted like an old man. The older men who adopted the term did so as sign of respect for his demeanour and the careful way he carried himself and did business. Now no one thought twice about where the name had come from. He was simply Uncle or, sometimes, Boss.
“How was business yesterday?” Uncle asked.
“Not bad. About the same as we did last Thursday and, in fact, about the same as we did a year ago on the same date,” Xu said. “No one’s complaining. That won’t start until mid-July, when the Happy Valley racing season ends and our income nosedives for the rest of the summer. I don’t know why the Hong Kong Jockey Club doesn’t operate the track year-round, and why they have only two race days a week.”
“They’ve been doing it that way for more than a hundred years, and they’re the most successful horse-racing organization in the world. Why should they change?” Uncle was a rabid horse player who rarely missed a race day. “Besides, their reluctance to change anything has made us millions. If they ever opened off-track betting operations we’d lose our biggest source of income. What percentage of our money comes from our betting shops?”
“If you include the mah-jong parlours and the mini casinos, the total is a bit more than seventy percent.”
“That’s dangerous. We shouldn’t be so dependent on one part of our business.”
“I know you think we should be more diversified. Believe me, we’re looking for ways to extend business, but there are some realities we have to deal with,” Xu said. “Fanling isn’t one of those densely populated Hong Kong or Kowloon districts, and there are only so many things we can do without attracting police attention.”
“Maybe it’s time we looked outside Fanling.”
“What do you mean?” Xu asked, a look of alarm on his face.
“Relax. I’m not talking about moving in on another gang’s turf or business,” Uncle said, reaching for his newspaper. “It says here that the special economic zone the Chinese government created in Shenzhen is already a success.”
“That’s what I’ve heard as well, but I don’t know anything about how it operates.”
“Me neither, but I want us to find out as quickly as possible. Deng seems to be opening doors to China. It’s logical, given its proximity to Hong Kong and Hong Kong’s relationship with the rest of the world, that Shenzhen is now one of those doors. And the thing about doors, Xu, is that they let you in and they let you out. There are no triads in Shenzhen. We could be the first.”
“There are no triad gangs anywhere in China that I know of. Mao drove us all out of the country,” Xu said.
“Maybe Deng will be more accommodating and let us back in.”
“I can’t tell you how much I’d love to be living in Shanghai again,” Xu said. “I still own a house in the French Concession. For years my wife has wanted me to sell it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
“It’s too soon to be talking about something as ambitious as Shanghai, but there are things in motion in China that we need to understand,” Uncle said. “I sense that the times are changing, and I want us to be out in front of whatever is coming. There aren’t many rewards for being second to recognize what the future will look like, and Shenzhen could be at the forefront of that future.”
“We do have some connections there.”
“Official ones?”
“No. We’re doing business with a small factory that makes knock-off shirts we’re selling in our night market.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“We just started up with them a few months ago. The amount of business we do is so small that I didn’t think it worth mentioning.”
“How did we find them?” asked Uncle.
“They found us. The factory owner knew someone who knew Fong. He was looking for a market on this side of the border and contacted him. Fong met with him and brokered a deal.” Fong was the gang’s Straw Sandal, the man in charge of communications within the gang and maintaining connections with other gangs.
“Then I need to talk to Fong. Call his apartment and ask him to meet us at the office.”
“He’s already there.”
“Really? It’s unusual for him to be so early.”
“He was in Macau last night. I don’t think he’s gone to bed yet.”
“Whatever. Let’s go and talk to him,” Uncle said. “I need contact names.”
“What are you thinking of doing?” Xu asked.
“If we’re going to understand how a special economic zone operates, we have to start somewhere. This factory owner has set up a business, so he must know a thing or two about how things are run on that side of the border.”
“You’re serious about Shenzhen, aren’t you.”
“I’m serious about growing and expanding our business, and unless you know something I don’t, I think we’ve maximized our opportunities here. Where else can we go? What else can we get into that will add that much value?” Uncle said. “There may be nothing for us in Shenzhen and this special economic zone thing may amount to absolutely nothing, but we won’t know unless we investigate it.”
“Do you want us to ask the factory owner to come here for a meeting?”
“No, let’s you and I go there. I want to see what Shenzhen looks like now. I haven’t seen it in more than twenty years.”
“Even though I’d like to be living in Shanghai again, it’s hard to forget or forgive what the Communists did to us.”
“I feel the same, but maybe we should stop thinking about them as Communists. Maybe we should start thinking of those people who did so much damage as Maoists,” Uncle said. “This man Deng suffered in his own way under Mao, but he persevered and managed to survive. There has to be a reason for that kind of persistence. It could be that he has a vision for the country that’s quite different from Mao’s cra
zy schemes. If he can forgive and forget the shit they did to him and look to the future at his age, then the least we can do is try to understand what he’s attempting to accomplish.”
“I care more about what you think than what Deng thinks. If you believe we should go, then I’m all for it.”
Uncle put money on the table to settle his bill and slid from the booth. “Let’s go and see Fong.”
Uncle and Xu walked from the restaurant to the office, which was above a women’s clothing store. They entered the building through a door that was to one side of the shop and climbed a long flight of stairs. The office layout was basic. A large expanse of floor dotted with desks was surrounded by seven offices, one for each of the gang’s executive members. As Xu had said, Fong was sitting at his desk.
An incorrigible gambler and night owl, Fong was seldom in the office before midafternoon. Uncle walked over to the open door and poked his head inside. “Hey, did you really stop in here on your way home from Macau?” he asked.
“That’s not funny.”
“So it was from Macau. And from your sour tone, I’m guessing it was either baccarat or roulette that did you in,” Uncle said.
“Roulette,” Fong said with a groan. “I read about this system that’s supposedly foolproof. You bet on the first twelve, second twelve, or third twelve numbers where you get odds of two to one if you hit. But you don’t bet on any of them until one of them doesn’t hit twice in a row. That’s when you keep doubling up until it pays off. When it does, you start all over again.”
“What went wrong?” Uncle asked.
“I was betting on the last twelve numbers. Somehow not one of them was hit ten times in a row. Mathematically that’s almost impossible.”
“You should have learned by now that there’s no such thing as impossible when it comes to gambling.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Fong said. “I feel stupid enough as it is.”
“I’m only expressing a brother’s concern,” Uncle said.
“I know.”
“And regardless of the circumstances, I’m glad you’re here, because I need your help with something.”
“What?”
“I understand that you put together a deal to buy some knock-off clothing from a factory in Shenzhen,” Uncle said.
“I did. Is there a problem with that?”
“Not unless you know of one.”
Fong shrugged. “The last I heard, everything was going well.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’d like you to call your contact there and arrange a meeting for us.”
“A meeting with whom?”
“The guy who owns the factory.”
“Uncle, this is really just small potatoes,” Fong said. “Both the deal and the guy, I mean.”
“I understand that, but I want you to set up a meeting anyway.”
“For when?”
“As soon as you can.”
“The owner won’t be a problem, but we need visas to get across the border. I use an agent in Hong Kong, but it could take a day or two. The agent will need your HK ID numbers and passport information.”
Uncle took his Hong Kong identification card from his wallet, collected his passport from his top desk drawer, and passed them to Fong. “Get started right away,”
“Who else would be going from our side?”
“Me, Xu, and you, if you want to join us.”
“What reason should I give for us wanting a meeting?”
“Tell them we want to talk to them about ways of expanding our business.”
Fong looked at Uncle and then at Xu. “They make knock-off shirts of so-so quality in a small old factory.”
“I don’t care what they make or where they make them,” Uncle said. “This is about the future. I’ve been reading about Shenzhen and its growth as a special economic zone. I want to understand what’s going on there and see if it’s a place where we can expand.”
“I know it’s a special zone; that’s why the factory is allowed to sell to us,” Fong said. “But that doesn’t mean the government will permit triad gangs to operate in China.”
“Start the visa process and make the call to the owner. We’ll worry about what the government will permit if and when the time comes,” Uncle said. He turned away and headed for his office.
Xu had left the account summaries of the business activity of the previous day on Uncle’s desk. Uncle leafed through them, doing calculations in his head. The gang’s operations were profitable but stagnant. There was virtually no growth on a year-to-year basis, and with overheads constantly rising, their cash flow was getting squeezed. When Happy Valley shut down for its summer break, that cash flow would get much tighter; no other activity came close to generating as much money as their betting shops. So far it hadn’t gotten so tight as to be an emergency or a reason for panic, but if the trend continued for another year or two, the gang could find itself substantially weakened.
“The factory owner says he’ll meet with us whenever we can get there,” Fong said from the doorway.
“That didn’t take long.”
“We’re a valued customer,” Fong said. “In fact, we’re his main — maybe even only —source of foreign currency.”
“That’s a good thing to know,” Uncle said. “How about the visas?”
“Our man is working on them. He thinks he might be able to get them sent to me by tonight.”
“If he does, we can go tomorrow. How would we get there?”
“We should take the train to the Luohu railway station in Shenzhen. The factory owner will meet us there with his car.”
“We could drive ourselves,” Uncle said.
“The border crossing is small, understaffed, and usually jammed with trucks. It’s a pain in the ass getting through,” Fong said. “The train is easier. At the station we can get through Hong Kong Immigration and clear Chinese Customs and Immigration within about half an hour. With a visa and your Hong Kong ID card and passport, it isn’t a big problem.”
“Tell Xu that we’re likely on for tomorrow,” Uncle said. “If you do get the visas, call me at home and let me know. You and Xu can meet me at the congee restaurant at eight tomorrow morning. We’ll leave for the train station from there.”
Acknowledgements
This is a book I did not plan to write, although in retrospect it makes perfect sense. But then, you can’t depend on a writer to make the best decisions about what or what not to write.
The idea came from my publisher, Sarah MacLachlan, and my editor at the time, Janie Yoon. They waylaid me in Janie’s office and said, why don’t you write a series about Uncle’s early life? I immediately liked the idea, and the next day I sent an outline for a trilogy to Janie. Fate is the first book in that trilogy. So a big thanks to both of them for their ongoing support and creative juices.
As is often the case with my work, finding the right structure and form for the book was a struggle. I don’t do much planning or pre-plotting, so while this eliminates the tedium of working from a template, it can lead me down various dead ends and leave me with a first draft that needs to be restructured. Such was the case with Fate. I don’t share work in progress with anyone, so after I sent out the first draft to my first readers — my wife, Lorraine; my editor, Kristine Wookey; and Robin Spano — I waited anxiously. Two drafts later, I got it right. My thanks to all of them. And a big thanks to my agents Bruce Westwood and Carolyn Forde for their continuing support.
I actually worked with two editors on this book. Initially, I was working with Janie Yoon — as I had for all the Ava Lee novels — but then was transitioned to Doug Richmond. Doug and I finished the book together, and I have to say he was a pleasure to work with. We’ve just finished the next Ava Lee together, and there are three or four more books in our pipeline. My only hope is that I end up doing as many b
ooks with him as I did with Janie.
Lastly, I want to thank all of the Ava Lee readers who stuck with me when Uncle passed away in book six of the series. The Ava Lee story arc is fluid and comes to me in strange ways. I was writing book three when I realized Uncle was going to die. I knew when and how it was going to happen, but what I couldn’t tell you was why the certainty of it came to me in the first place. I was advised by more than one of my first-draft readers not to let him die. But it wasn’t my choice. The story was already written in my mind. The great thing about Fate is that Uncle lives again. I can only hope that my readers enjoy the young Uncle as much as they enjoyed him in his later years.
About the Author
IAN HAMILTON is the author of twelve novels in the Ava Lee series. His books have been shortlisted for numerous prizes, including the Arthur Ellis Award, the Barry Award, and the Lambda Literary Prize, and are national bestsellers. BBC Culture named Hamilton one of the ten mystery/crime writers from the last thirty years that should be on your bookshelf. The Ava Lee series is being adapted for television.