Fortune

by Ian Hamilton

  “No, I want you to stay here for at least another day. Keep your ear to the ground and let me know if there are any signs of trouble brewing.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  It was impossible to get a taxi anywhere near the hotel, so Uncle walked to the jetfoil terminal. The boats left hourly, and he arrived just in time to get a first-class ticket on the one leaving at midnight. As soon as he settled into his seat, Uncle took out the racing form, but for once it did not hold his attention. His mind kept drifting back to the young girl and the lunacy of the attack on Yin’s men.

  There weren’t many checks and balances in Macau. The police were notoriously corrupt, so the local gang wouldn’t have thought twice about their drive-by shooting. But they should have been more cautious when it came to Yin’s men. All the Kowloon-based gangs had a reputation for being tough and vengeful, and those headed by Man and Yin were the most feared.

  Uncle hadn’t misled Fong when he said he would call Yin, deliberately putting it off until he was home in Fanling. He needed time to think about how best to handle the conversation. He and Yin weren’t friends, but they were respectful towards each other. When Uncle had made his first move to invest in China’s special economic zones, Yin was one of the first two Mountain Masters who considered joining him. Yin had ultimately backed off, but Tse, from Happy Valley, hadn’t, and he had since reaped profits that made his gang the wealthiest on Hong Kong Island.

  Yin had never openly regretted his refusal, but once in a while, when there was a price increase for the knock-offs that had made Uncle’s gang wealthy, he’d phone Uncle and ask him to withdraw it. “We were almost partners,” he would say. “I left that money on the table for you.” Sometimes Uncle cancelled the increase and other times he didn’t. But he had never once even hinted to Yin that he’d had a chance to get in on the ground floor and had blown it.

  Thoughts about Yin and the injured girl dominated Uncle’s mind until the jetfoil arrived at the pier in Hong Kong Central. Half an hour later a taxi dropped him off at his one-bedroom apartment in Fanling, above the Blind Emperor Restaurant.

  The apartment was so sparsely furnished that it astonished the few friends who had been there. In the living room, a solitary red leather reclining chair sat facing the window, flanked by two small metal folding tables — on one sat his phone, on the other a large ashtray, a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, and several pencils. Next to the living room was a small kitchen. It had a fridge in which Uncle kept San Miguel beer, bread, butter, and marmalade. And a two-ring burner, which he couldn’t remember ever turning on. The bedroom had a double bed, a four-drawer dresser, and a doorless closet in which hung four black suits and a row of white shirts.

  Uncle took a San Miguel from the fridge and eased into the leather chair. He took a few sips and then reached for the phone. A woman answered after six rings.

  “I am sorry for calling so late, but I need to speak to Yin,” he said.

  “He’s not here,” she replied.

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “I have no idea. He rushed out of here a few hours ago without saying where he was going.”

  Uncle’s spirits sagged as he realized his chances of preventing an escalation of the feud were already diminishing. “When he comes home, or if he calls, could you ask him to call Uncle in Fanling. I don’t care what the time is.”

  “I will.”

  Uncle sat quietly for a few minutes after ending the call. He thought briefly about reaching out to other Mountain Masters who were closer to Yin, such as Ng in Sai Kung and Sammy Wing in Wanchai. But it was late, and if Yin wasn’t reachable, what was the point? Besides, they had probably heard about what had happened in Macau. Unless he was mistaken, they would be keeping their heads down until things settled. His fervent hope was that there was some chance they would.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was two a.m. when Uncle went to bed. Yin hadn’t called, and he hadn’t heard from Fong.

  He woke at six after a fitful sleep. He made an instant coffee, checked his voicemail in the unlikely case that he’d missed a call, and then sat in his chair with the racing form. He scanned his notes from the night before but again found his mind wandering. He tried to force himself to concentrate. Uncle had been introduced to horse racing by Fong, but unlike his friend he loved the fact that the sport lent itself to analysis and logic, whereas Fong would bet on a horse because he liked its name or the colour of its coat.

  If Fong had been in Fanling, he would have gone with Uncle to the track that night. Since he wasn’t, Uncle would go alone and most likely meet Tse or Sammy Wing, who were both regulars. His thoughts of them brought the events of the night before back into his mind. Would Yin have the sense not to retaliate against the Macau triads?

  Uncle made another coffee and carried it into the bathroom, where he shaved, brushed his teeth, and showered. In the bedroom he put on black pants and a white shirt. His unchanging wardrobe was a habit he’d picked up when he left the ranks of the forty-niners — the gang’s street soldiers — for his appointment as assistant White Paper Fan. It was an administrative position primarily responsible for looking after the gang’s finances.

  Uncle had only been in his early thirties when he took the job, young for a position with that much responsibility. His age and the fact that he wasn’t a large man — a shade under five foot six and weighing only 130 pounds — resulted in some people not taking him seriously. He’d decided that the way he dressed and carried himself could partially correct that. From the first week of his new position he had worn only black suits and white shirts buttoned to the collar. Some of the forty-niners had found it amusing and began calling him “Uncle” for dressing like an old man. The nickname stuck, but it didn’t take long for it to be used respectfully, as Uncle’s competence and commitment immediately became apparent.

  Unlike Fong and, indeed, nearly all the other Fanling triad members, Uncle hadn’t been born in Hong Kong and his family had no triad ties. He was born in a village near Wuhan in central China and had escaped to Hong Kong in 1959 by swimming four kilometres across Shenzhen Bay. His entire family had died during the previous twelve months from starvation brought on by Mao Zedong’s Great Leap Forward, or what Chinese people referred to as “the years of slow death.” With him on the swim had been his fiancée, Lin Gui-San, who tragically drowned before she could reach Yuen Long, the town in the New Territories that was their destination. In the thirty-six years since, Uncle had had some business dealings with the Chinese Communists, but the one thing he could never forgive them for was her death.

  Tam, one of the men from Uncle’s village who had also made the swim with him, was related to Tian Longwei, the Vanguard of the Fanling Triad. Tam’s intent was to join the triad as a Blue Lantern — a trainee — and he talked Uncle into joining with him. Tam didn’t last three months, but Uncle stayed and grew to regard the gang as his family. It was a feeling that became more intense with each passing year, particularly when he became Mountain Master at the age of thirty-five and accepted responsibility for the health and welfare of 160 brothers and the extended triad family of about 600 people. He was sixty-one now, but his mind was still as sharp as ever. He showed no signs of slowing down and had no intention of retiring anytime soon.

  One thing he did notice, Uncle thought as he slipped on his black suit jacket, was that he was beginning to reminisce more. He and Yin, Sammy Wing, and Tse had all been young men together, and when he thought of them, memories of their younger selves would sometimes intrude. Yin had been very violent when he was a forty-niner. Uncle thought he had moderated his behaviour in recent years, but he wondered if that was because circumstances hadn’t tested him.

  He’ll use common sense, Uncle thought as he left the apartment and made his way downstairs. He walked from there to the gang’s offices nearly every morning, with two stops in between. The first was at a newsstand to buy the
Oriental Daily News and Sing Tao. He grimaced when he saw that both papers had the Macau shootings at the top of the front page. He put the newspapers under his arm and continued along the street to Jia’s, his favourite congee restaurant.

  He was early enough that there was no lineup, although that wouldn’t have made any difference, because Jia always seated him at once. He had been going to the restaurant for thirty years and couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t there to greet him. She had to be in her seventies, he thought, but despite her age and a body that grew stouter by the year, she showed no signs of slowing down. Neither did her husband, who still manned the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Uncle,” Jia said as he walked through the entrance. “The table at the rear is yours.”

  “Thanks.”

  She pointed to his newspapers. “That was a terrible thing in Macau. How could they shoot that little girl?” she asked, well aware of Uncle’s status as a triad.

  “I don’t know, but it’s inexcusable.”

  She nodded. With her point made, she asked, “What will you have with your congee this morning?”

  “Sausage, duck egg, scallions, and youtiao,” Uncle said, and then walked to his table.

  He looked at the Oriental Daily News first. “Young Girl Shot as Triads Battle in Macau” was the headline. He skimmed through a story that relied heavily on information and quotes from the Macau police. It named the four triads who had been shot and said they were residents of Kowloon. One had been badly wounded, but the police thought he’d live. The little girl who had been hit was eight years old and Macanese; she had been walking past the hotel with her mother. Nothing was mentioned about the severity of her injuries.

  Sing Tao relegated the girl to a subheading under the main headline, which read “Triad Turf War Breaks Out in Macau.” Then underneath, “8-Year-Old Girl Struck by Wayward Bullet.” To Uncle’s chagrin the newspaper article included a quote from a senior officer in the OCTB. “We are concerned that this is not an isolated incident,” he said. “There has been increasing aggression among various triad gangs in Hong Kong, and we are prepared to act swiftly and decisively if the violence in Macau is a prelude to similar actions in our territories.”

  Jia came to the table with a pot of tea and a bowl of congee. Uncle knew the add-ons he’d ordered would come in the second wave. Congee, or rice porridge, was bland by itself, so as Jia poured him a cup of tea, Uncle added white pepper and soy sauce to it.

  When she left to get his other items, he opened the Oriental Daily to the horse-racing section. The paper had a top-notch handicapper, and any pick he made almost automatically lowered the odds on the horse. Uncle read his comments and smiled. Not including the sixth race, the handicapper had matched only two of Uncle’s picks. In the sixth he had chosen the three-to-five shot, and Uncle knew that would reduce the odds to two to five or maybe even something as ridiculous as one to five. Whatever the final number, Uncle decided he would take his chances on a long shot.

  The rest of his food arrived. Uncle added the egg, scallions, and sausage to the congee and dipped the youtiao fried bread sticks into it. He scanned the Sing Tao racing expert’s selections as he ate, which distracted him so much that he didn’t notice Jia had returned to the table. “Excuse me, Uncle, but Fong is on the phone for you. You can talk to him in our office.”

  Uncle felt a touch of apprehension as he slid from the booth. The office was not much bigger than three metres square, with space for a desk, chair, and filing cabinet. He closed the door behind him and picked up the phone. “I hope you aren’t calling to tell me that things have gone from bad to worse in Macau,” he said.

  “The little girl died,” Fong blurted out.

  “How do you know?” Uncle asked, cursing beneath his breath.

  “One of the nurses at the hospital works weekends for my mama-san. She just phoned with the news.”

  “So it isn’t public yet?”

  “No, but it won’t take long for that to change. According to the nurse, there are all kinds of newspaper and television people at the hospital.”

  “Goddamn it!”

  “Did you manage to get hold of Yin last night?”

  “No, but I’ll try again when I get to the office. I hope I can reach him, because now he really needs to back down. That girl’s death will attract more negative attention, and if he attempts any kind of retaliation, he’ll only add to it.”

  Fong hesitated. “There’s something else I need to tell you, boss.”

  “Don’t say Yin has retaliated already!” Uncle said.

  “Nothing that dramatic, but it’s a worry all the same. After you left last night, I went over to the Lisboa to gamble. I was playing roulette when Kan, the Straw Sandal in Tai Po, interrupted my game and said he wanted to speak to me. We went to a bar. I thought he wanted to talk about what had happened at the Hyatt, but as it turned out, he didn’t know anything about it. All he wanted to do was ask me a question . . .”

  “Please get to the point,” Uncle said as Fong paused again.

  “Well, he asked me if you’ve been attending Man’s meetings in Kowloon.”

  “What meetings?”

  “He said he didn’t know their purpose,” Fong said. “He’d just heard that Man has been inviting other Mountain Masters to dinner or lunch, and he wondered if you’ve been included. When I told him I didn’t think so, he seemed to relax. Still, I found the question odd.”

  “I agree, it is strange. Why didn’t Deng come directly to me with the question? The last I heard, he was still Mountain Master in Tai Po.”

  “Kan said he’s incapacitated. He didn’t want to go into detail, but he said Deng will be out of the loop for at least a month.”

  Uncle had known Deng was ill but had been told his cancer was under control. “Assuming that’s true, why did Kan speak to you?”

  “He and I have always been straight with each other. We’ve developed a certain trust over the years.”

  “Are you the only Straw Sandal he’s questioned about the meetings?”

  “So he claimed.”

  “He should ask more of them, and you should talk to some as well. Split the job between the two of you,” Uncle said.

  “Do you suspect that Man is up to something?” Fong asked.

  “Not at all, but it would be foolish not to enquire,” Uncle said. “Keep it low-key, though.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “And Fong, I’ve changed my mind about you staying in Macau. The girl’s death may alter the way the police here respond. I’d like to have you by my side in Fanling.”

  “I’ll head for the jetfoil terminal as soon as I’ve had breakfast.”

  Uncle put down the phone and stood silently in front of a desk littered with invoices and receipts. There was a poster on the wall that showed twelve horses thundering down the stretch at Happy Valley. He looked at it absent-mindedly, his thoughts alternating between the potential impact of the young girl’s death and the reflexive uneasiness that Kan’s question to Fong had triggered. He sighed heavily, then left the office and returned to his congee.

  Twenty minutes later, Uncle said goodbye to Jia and headed for the triad headquarters. It was a sunny, brisk morning, the kind that came too rarely to Hong Kong — the norm was hot, humid summers and damp, dark winters — and walking in such weather usually lifted his spirits. Not this time. Uncle’s mind was focused on the phone call he had to make to Yin.

  He neared the dress shop that occupied the ground floor of the two-storey building housing the triad office, and nodded at the two forty-niners standing guard on either side of the entrance. They opened the door for him and he climbed the stairs.

  Headquarters was a large, open space with a scattering of desks, chairs, and filing cabinets, surrounded by seven enclosed offices, one for each member of the executive committee. Mo, the assistant White
Paper Fan, who handled accounting, was the only person already at work. He stood up when Uncle entered the room. “Good morning, boss,” he said.

  “How did we do last night?” Uncle asked.

  “It was a typical Tuesday. Business was slow everywhere.”

  “There’s a good card at Happy Valley tonight. I expect we’ll get lots of action in the betting shops.”

  The betting shops had been their largest source of income until the Hong Kong Jockey Club opened its own off-track operations. The gang’s shops were still very profitable, but not close to what they had been. More than 70 percent of the triad’s money now came from its Chinese operations; in fact, Uncle could have closed all their Fanling businesses and still have been able to look after the people who depended on him. But the Fanling businesses provided jobs and a sense of purpose, and those had a value that went beyond money.

  “I’m going to watch the races at Dong’s Kitchen,” Mo said. “I like the atmosphere there, and of course you can’t beat the food.”

  “Say hello to Tian for me,” Uncle said. His old mentor was still active as the triad’s Vanguard and also managed the betting shop at Dong’s. “Now, I have some phone calls to make and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “I’ll tell anyone who arrives,” Mo said.

  Uncle settled in behind his desk and reached for the phone to call Yin. It rang four times before he heard the voice of the woman he’d spoken to the night before.

  “I’d like to speak to Yin,” Uncle said.

  “He’s not here.”

  “This is Uncle calling. Did you tell him I want to speak to him?”

  “He didn’t come home last night. I haven’t seen or heard from him.”

  “When you do hear from him, please tell him it’s urgent that he contact me.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said.

  Uncle shook his head as he put down the phone. Was Yin really not at home or was he simply avoiding him? He sat back in his chair and weighed the options. Doing nothing wasn’t one of them. He thought again about reaching out to Sammy Wing or Ng, and decided to call the Mountain Master of Sai Kung first.