That was so entirely unlike the way Wu mentored him with. Master Wu just did it without care of status for his students or himself. He didn’t care whether he was called Sifu, which meant teacher, or Sigong, which meant teacher of masters, or Grandmaster or whatever. To Noah, ever since he was a little boy, Grandmaster Wu was simply Sifu. Almost everyone else added the honorific, Master.
As if reading his mind and sensing Noah's discomfort, Master Wu spoke. “Like a river gaining strength on its journey, dynamic tension increases the flow of the Qi, energy throughout body and soul.”
Master Wu stood up, and Noah followed. The teacher began a series of movements. Tai chi quan was a rather unusual name for these smooth, elegant movements. Loosely translated, it meant supreme ultimate boxing, or Boundless fists. This was surprising, because the movements exhibited no signs of their warrior origins; there was no quick action and fighting like in kung fu movies. Instead, these slow graceful movements reflected internal power. Master and disciple synchronized their slow, graceful movements of arms and bodies.
Master Wu spoke calmly, smoothly, as their bodies flowed in unison. “Meditation is the core of the Shaolin, but today no one has the discipline for three days or even three hours. Now, boys who dream of being Donnie Yeo or Jackie Chan or Bruce Lee populate the schools run by opportunists or fools who are only interested in fighting for fighting’s sake. They have lost the art of martial arts... Once, I sat for three months meditating by a courtyard wall.”
This was too much for Noah. Try as he might, he couldn’t maintain his cool. Composure dissolved into laughter. “Sifu, I’d rather be Bruce Lee any day than sit by a damned wall doing nothing.”
He hugged Master Wu, who throughout the entire series of exercises had kept his eyes closed. “Hello to you, too.”
There was an awkward beat of silence, and then Master Wu displayed a wisp of smile. “Welcome back, Noah. It is good to see you at home again.”
Noah rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, if the last half hour is any indication, it’s like I never left.”
Chapter 4
Two unlikely amigos, Tommy strutted with Garret down a noisy, colorful street filled with old buildings that had laundry hanging from the verandas, potted plants on the sidewalk, crammed shops and street vendors selling everything from barbecued cockroaches to pirated DVDs. The aroma of sweaty flesh mingled with the scent of rose-petal perfume and fresh baked delicacies. Young, old, rich, poor, flashy, destitute... everybody was hanging out.
Garret and Tommy were an unlikely pair, the polar opposites of each other in appearance. Instead of Tommy’s portly and paunchy build, Garret was about as fit a physical specimen as someone in his fifties could be. He’d maintained his good looks and, if he ever gave up his day job, he might find a job in Hollywood as an older leading man.
Tommy’s dress could be described as peacock gigolo, or garish and gaudy. Garret, on the other hand, with his tailored navy-blue blazer, gray slacks and Italian shoes, was consummately conservative. In other words, a heterogeneous duo sauntering through this beehive of heterogeneous activity.
“This is the crossroads, Tommy. You realize that if we keep going, there is no return.”
“Are you having doubts, Garret?”
“I haven’t had a doubt for fifteen years. Regrets, yes. Doubts, no.”
“Me neither,” Tommy said.
“Then we are agreed?”
“Of course. We are agreed.”
They coasted to a stop at an old dilapidated building where a queue of at least an hour existed for decked-out young studs with sexy sirens in tow alongside tourists in T-shirts and shorts.
Garret and Tommy shook hands. The two had known each other ever since they were teenagers. They lived together, learned together... and made mistakes together.
“Goodbye, my friend.”
“Goodbye, Garret. Take care of Abby.”
Garret turned and disappeared into the crowd as Tommy arrogantly pushed his way to the head of the line. The beast of a bouncer recognized him and immediately opened the door to let him in.
“Good evening, Mr. Sung. Glad you are here again.”
“You’re glad; I’m glad. It’s all good, paisano. All good.” Tommy handed the bouncer a hundred dollar bill and gave him a wink as he entered.
***
NEWARK, New Jersey
A fourteen-year-old girl, trying to look twenty with her garish, overblown make-up, micro-mini jean skirt and sheer blouse that let you see her still-forming breasts, walked the almost-deserted street. Almost deserted except for the perverts who knew the only thing cheaper than the booze in the local bars were the young chickadees wanting to make their boyfriends happy. Wobbling on her blood-red pumps with seven-inch heels, she entered and left several cars. One of them was a Mercedes, another a beat-up pickup. One driver looks like a family man, another like a trucker.
The routine was the same. Door to vehicle opened; she put on a plastic smile, spit out her gum, entered and closed the door. Within seven minutes, she left. John drove away. She put a new stick of gum in her mouth and started trolling again.
A suave, buff twenty-three-year-old guy with sunglasses and a white suit swaggered down the street toward her. Almost tripping on her elevator heels as she hurried to him, she planted her tongue inside his mouth. Mr. Cool told her how wonderful she was, how she was the best, how pretty she was. At the same time, his strong right hand reached the short distance under her white micro-skirt, not to fondle her private parts that have been less private to scores of seven-minute friends, but to pull out her roll of cash from her panties.
He quickly counted the loot, then whacked her across the mouth. “What the hell do you think I am? What you holding back on me?”
“I... I... I’m sorry, Manny,” said the scared-shitless and shivering young girl—an early sign of withdrawal. “They didn’t want to give me no tip.”
“Then you better start puckering up better. This is bullshit.” He kicked her in the butt, sending her crashing to the ground.
“You don’t get nothing until you produce better.”
“Okay. Okay. Just come back real soon.”
“We’ll see.”
Neither Manny nor the hooker saw a twenty-something Chinese dude built like a nineteenth-century man-of-war coming from behind.
“That’s no way to treat a lady,” said a voice from behind Manny.
“She’s no lady; she’s my bitch,” said Manny, pulling out a switchblade and hitting a button on the handle. As the stiletto blade sprang out, he turned to face the source of the voice—a Chinese dude about his age with an upper body as solid as a Humvee and biceps the size of bowling balls.
Motivated by fear and stupidity, Manny lunged at the Chinese stud with the point of the blade aiming at his opponent’s chest.
With unexpected speed from a person so big, the dude grabbed Manny’s wrist and yanked the humerus from its socket.
Screaming in agony with his pained shoulder, Manny tried to pull a small handgun with his other hand from inside his vest, but he wasn’t fast enough.
Dude’s ham fist hit Manny’s face, breaking his nose. With blood spurting out of his nose like a faulty fire hydrant, Manny keeled over, only to be greeted by Dude’s knee to his chin, sending him to lala land. He dropped like dead weight to the ground. The girl knelt down and searched Manny’s pockets, hoping to find his stash of dope bags.
“Manny’s going to kill me when he comes to,” she groaned, thinking blurred and voice slurred by drugs.
Dude grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled her up. “Manny ain’t never going to do anything to you again. Not as long as Prince is your man.”
“But he keeps me going. I just have to do what he says.”
“You want a man or a midget to look after you?”
Prince pulled out a little aluminum bindle from his T-shirt pocket and waved it in front of her face with his thumb and index fingers. “You can get Manny’s stuff from the playpen, but thi
s is serious shit.”
***
HONG KONG
It was apparent why this establishment had such a long line despite its shabby exterior. It was luxury exemplified, not at all like the huge garish mega-casinos found in neighboring Macau or on the strip in Las Vegas where everything was faux. This place was the real deal: crystal chandeliers from Italy, genuine antiques from the Incas, the Tang Dynasty and Egypt and the piece de resistance, an original Picasso surrounded by other paintings from the Cubist era.
Amy Peng, the proprietor, greeted Tommy with a kiss and a playful spank on the bum. Forty-two but with the figure of a twenty-year-old, she was ravishing in her long, red-silk cheongsam, the body-hugging one-piece dress of Chinese socialites.
“You haven’t been here for two days. Naughty boy. You better not have found someone else.” She kissed him.
“If I did, I’d never tell you,” joked Tommy as she escorted him to a private craps room.
“Now, you have to make me some money.”
“Always.” Tommy took out five hundred dollars and lifted up the slit in Amy’s dress. She had legs for days, and his fingers danced up them. He deposited the money into her panties and winked, grinning teeth of lecherous gold.
“I’ll find you later,” purred Amy.
She turned, leaving Tommy in the room with other high-end punters. The smell of Cuban cigars and expensive alcohol wafted through the air. Normally, Tommy’s drink of choice was Hennessy Paradis, but tonight he ordered a bottle of Louis XIII Special Edition Rare Cask. At over $20,000 per bottle, he impressed even the most jaded gambling staff, a hard task to accomplish when you were accustomed to servicing the whims of the most pampered wealthy.
A ballroom-gown-wearing hostess showing her more-than-ample cleavage poured the elixir into a tulip glass. He gulped it down as he took out a thick wad of bills and handed it to the dealer.
The slight Chinese man gave Tommy several large stacks of chips.
“Naturally,” grinned Tommy. He pushed $10,000 worth of chips onto the Pass Line, and his face lit up with anticipation and electricity started to hum as the tuxedoed Boxman handed him a new set of genuine ivory dice.
Tommy’s excitement was typical of the gambling disease that affected so many Chinese. From kids betting milk money on video games to high rollers like Tommy who had private jets willing to ferry them to Monte Carlo, Las Vegas or Macau, gambling was an irresistible addiction.
Tommy shook the dice and encouraged loudly, “Come on, baby. You can do it.”
An onlooker just as excited as Tommy joined in. “Lucky, lucky, lucky!”
Tommy flung the dice. Boxcars. Two sixes. A loser.
“That’s good. That’s good!” cried Tommy.
“Why is that good?” asked the curious spectator as the stickman pushed the dice back to Tommy.
Tommy guffawed as he picked up the dice and started shaking. “You don’t know nothing about craps, do you? One loss means that I’m that much closer to winning. You cannot lose forever.”
The stickman had barely taken away his last bet of chips before Tommy shoved another stack onto the Pass Line; this time, he’d doubled his bet to twenty thousand U.S. dollars.
Now things were getting interesting, taking the breath of other gamblers away. “Big mountain time. Time for the big mountain!”
The hostess reached into her bosom and pulled out a pair of dice and handed them to Tommy. “I have been warming them up for you. Treat them nice, and I’ll treat you nice.”
“Always and forever and tonight!” He lecherously stuffed a two hundred dollar tip between her breasts.
Pulse now pounding like a jackhammer, Tommy barked out, “Come on, baby, come on. Boat’s coming in. Mountain man’s gonna climb to the top. Boat’s just waiting to dock. Lucky, baby, luck.”
Tommy’s thrill was infectious, and the other gamblers joined in the shouting as Tommy kept shaking the dice.
“Easy street coming,” and “Lucky charms, lucky titties,” and “Rocks are gonna roll.”
Tommy feathered the dice onto the table. Unbelievable. Another pair of sixes.
“Yes! Yes!” yelped Tommy, pumping his fist into the air. “Now it’s going to go my way!” Automatically, he pushed $20,000 of chips onto the Pass Line and immediately rolled again.
Six and one.
“Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you?” shouted Tommy, waving his finger at the excited group gathering around as a dealer pushed a stack of chips to cover Tommy’s winnings in front of him. Tommy pushed all the chips onto the Pass Line.
Tommy, wiggling and jiggling, now took the dice and shook them above his head, then to his left, then to his right. He rolled—a pair of deuces on the dice—hard 4.
“Omigod. Omigod. This is so good.”
The point was 4 and Tommy pushed $88,000 of chips on the table as his odds and barked, “$88,000 on 10. Split it up for all the hard ways!”
Now, others were joining in—hey, you got to ride a winner when he’s hot.
“Yes! Yes!” Tommy glanced around the table and saw greed in the eyes of the other players as they urged him on. He stopped shaking and all eyes converged on him. What the heck?
“Give me 6 and 8 for another $176,000.”
Now, everyone was excited and, around the table, as they placed their own side bets, people were yelling, “Hard 4! Let’s see them deuces! C’mon, Tommy. Do it!”
Tommy rolled the dice—he hit a 5!
“Great! Great! Nobody hurt, right?” Tommy pushed another $176,000 in chips to the Boxman. “5 and 9. 5 and 9. All the numbers! I can’t lose!
Tommy rolled an 11. he threw down another $288,000 in chips. “Press all my numbers!”
“Big time, big baby, big pay!” “Rocket’s landing and we’re gonna ride!” “Mo-ney, mo-ney, mo-ney, mo-ney. MONEY.”
There was a frenzy of gamblers just throwing money on any numbers. There was now over million dollars of chips on the table.
“Tom-my. Tom-my!” chanted the crazy crowd of gamblers. Tommy lifted his hand with the shaking dice, allowing anyone that wanted to blow on his hand. Meanwhile, another half million in bets showed up at the table.
Tommy shook the dice like a miniature dervish. He blew on them and released. The dice rolled fatefully down the table. He rolled a four and three. Stunned silence.
Everything was lost.
Tommy glumly took his remaining few hundred dollars and gave it to the croupier. “Down payment for tomorrow.”
Tommy turned to leave and bumped into Chin. Chin clamped a steely hand on the portly man’s shoulder.
***
Dressed in a black silk Chinese jacket, the Tiger Master exuded sinister, hard strength. Tommy was at a loss for words.
“I... I... Welcome back, Chin. I didn’t expect to see you back for a week.”
“Hunting was very good. I finished early,” said Chin in a cold, emotionless voice. “Now I am hunting for money. My money.”
His sober countenance betraying nothing, Chin’s impassive attitude unnerved Tommy. “What are you saying?”
“If tonight is an example of what is happening to my funds, there needs to be some additional explanation.”
“Additional explanation?”
Although Tommy was easily fifty pounds heavier than Chin, with one hand the Tiger Master picked the gambler up off the floor as if he were a loaf of bread. In a single motion, he threw Tommy against the wall, knocking over the bottle of Louis XIII cognac in the process.
“At least five hundred million dollars are unaccounted for, so there is a discrepancy. I want a proper accounting tomorrow. With or without you, I will proceed, and I am happy to go solo.”
“It’s all good, Chin. No problem. Everything’s okay.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Chin. He did a rapid about-face and strode out the entryway.
Everyone in the room gaped at Tommy nervously. The thrill was gone.
Clearing his throat, Tommy straightened himself
out, brushing the wrinkles off his sleeves. “Hey, no worries. Time for some fun.” He took out a new wad of bills and threw it on the table. “Let’s go. Go. Go!”
The dealer quickly took the money and gave Tommy another huge pile of chips. Tommy took a hundred grand’s worth and put it on the Pass Line. The patrons gaped at Tommy. How could he continue after threats like that? Was he crazy?
No one from the quiet group joined in—but they still wanted to watch. Tommy reached in, grabbed a new set of dice from the hostess’s bosom, and in the same motion tossed them onto the table—a six and a five.
A winner.
The box man grinned and said, “Lady Luck’s back, Tommy.”
Tommy raised his arms in victory and gloats, “She never left. She never left!”
Shouts of “I’m in!” and “Me, too!” rang out and, unbelievably, there were more dollars at stake now than before. Everybody wanted to join the party, and greed-fueled adrenaline once again coursed through the room.
What none of the rest of the patrons knew was that Chin owned this gambling joint. Every cent that Tommy lost was going to him anyway. Furthermore, Tommy and Chin had been playing this little game of dangerous odds for years with always the same result. All the new patrons, blissfully unaware of what was really going on, participated in what they thought was their turn of the Goddess of Luck shining on their fortune.
Chapter 5
Noah donned his martial arts uniform. It was similar to Master Wu’s, except his had the Chinese character for Shaolin on the left breast. It had been a while since he’d worn the outfit, but the feel was comfortable—like a pair of old shoes broken in exactly how you wanted them to be. Noah had missed this during his time in California.
The Noah Reid Series: Books 1-3: The Noah Reid Action Thriller Series Boxset Page 7