Lucky sucked off the last of the joint, and flicked the burnt roach off the roof. He didn’t like the thoughts of being sacrificed or swallowed up. Trust no one was the one motto he believed in. But like the Romans and the Mongols, wasn’t it all jing deng, destiny? If so, was there a way out for him? Take his fat accounts and run? Change his identity? Disappear?

He laughed at his own momentary fear.

No need to panic, he thought. There was plenty of time yet. A pair of Chinese tour buses swung through Chatham Square below, bound for Atlantic City.

Lucky imagined cases of pills in the belly-holds of the coach buses stealing down I-95, a million tabs of Ecstasy rolling south from Montreal, party pills bound for clubs and dance joints all along the eastern seaboard. Tons of tax-free cigarettes from the Indian reservations. Let the Fuks ride shotgun on the deliveries. Fuckin’ A, he thought, the Ghosts could skip the muleing altogether, and just pick up the pills at the scheduled stops. They could spend more time on distribution. The volume would increase and the Legion would lessen its exposure and risk. If the system worked well, Lucky could see alcohol, fireworks, AK-47s, and China White, all flowing down the pipeline.

Ka-ching ka-ching, already counting the money.

Lucky had heard other stories from the streets. Rumor had it, the Hung Huen—Red Circle Triad—had some unsatisfactory dealings with the Hip Chings.

Lucky considered his new grudging respect for the Hung Huen. Green Circle, yellow circle, fuckin’ pink circle, it was all the same to him; Chinese secret societies. He saw it all as Fu Manchu bullshit that the whitey gwailos played, impressed by that crap with the candles and incense and chicken blood with the zombie chanting. In reality though, Lucky knew the triads were huge, sophisticated Chinese gangs that were major criminal players in Europe, and in Central and South America. More recently, they’d made inroads into North America by way of Canada.

Lucky knew he needed to be careful the Ghosts wouldn’t be swallowed or sacrificed, yet he felt it was too early to set up a sit-down deal with the triads. See how the bus routes worked out first, Lucky figured. Besides, a partnership of the On Yee and the Bak Bamboo triad controlled the buses that carried junkets to casinos in Atlantic City and to Foxwoods in Connecticut. The Bak Bamboo was considering expansion of their routes to include Chinatowns within the tri-state area. He wanted to see what arrangements surfaced before he made his move.

See what happens, Lucky smirked, slowly remembering the value of patience in the face of change. He saw the red flag in the distance, and turned away from the cold wind that whipped in from East Broadway.

Sampan Sinking

Sai Go awoke on his sofa bed, still fully clothed except for his shoes, groggy and unsure how he’d gotten there. He had no idea what time it was, but in the somber light that crept in along the edges of the window blinds, he could make out the closet wall and the mirror above his dresser. Also, the two boxes of summer clothes he’d taken out in case he decided to go somewhere sunny and warm. It was early afternoon, but with a twilight sky outside his window. When he rolled out of the bed, he felt a twinge of pain in his shoulder and was reminded that he needed a haircut, which included a massage.

He pulled out a gray-metal lockbox from under the dresser, dialed the numbers until the combination was right, and opened it. There were the stacks of prepaid telephone calling cards, a few of which he used with his cell phones to take bets, a wireless transmission that couldn’t be traced. Most of the cards were for sale, on consignment from Big Chuck Chan, who was the leading Chinatown distributor of international calling cards. All the gamblers knew Sai Go sold the cards and bought from him because of the dollar discount he offered. Big Chuck was one of Sai Go’s regular bettors and the stack of phone cards served as collateral toward his credit line.

Underneath the stacks was a gun in a holster. He slipped the weapon out of the quick-draw belly-holster and caressed it. The Trident Vigilante was Italian-made, had a matte-nickel finish with black hard-rubber grips, and a six-shot cylinder that took the .32 caliber Smith & Wesson cartridge. The snub-nosed revolver was ultralight, only sixteen ounces, and the thirty-two cartridge produced less kick than the thirty-eight. It was a very practical belly gun, good for close combat but bad for distance accuracy. He had sawed and filed down the hammer so it wouldn’t snag on the draw.

Sai Go didn’t like automatic pistols because he worried they would jam up, and if he kept it on his belly with the safety off, he was afraid he would blow off his balls if he had to quick-draw and caught the trigger wrong. With the revolver, no such problems. Draw and shoot. No cocking action. Simple and quick. He’d seen enough gambler fights to know whoever got in the first hit was usually the winner. The first two shots, the muzzle explosions shocked the eardrums, causing a momentarily freeze. The man who didn’t freeze up was going to walk away. The other man, dead.

Sai Go put his money on the revolver.

At the bottom of the box were two small packs of money, and an envelope that contained a booklet and a certificate for the fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy he’d bought from Nationwide. He had kept up the modest payments, all these twenty years since his wife left, thinking that if he ever remarried, he’d have something more to offer a woman than an aging divorced man who couldn’t even claim a legitimate occupation.

The insurance was like a bonus prize, like a Ginsu knife.

He could remove his ex-wife’s name as beneficiary and could designate a new beneficiary at any time. He didn’t have children, had no one else in mind. Ha! The irony of it all, with him dying now, and no one else to benefit from it. The policy was paid up until next summer, a season he wasn’t expecting to see.

He tucked the envelope back into the side of the box, and removed the packs of money, crisp twenties and fifties, a couple of thousand, emergency cash, run money. Well, it was an emergency now, he knew, and he with nowhere to run.

He imagined a village in the south of China, near Toishan, but far enough away from Guangjo city to still be considered farm country. The village of generations of his family, scattered now, the remaining few relatives there no longer on speaking terms with him, especially after the divorce. Sure, he thought, go home to the village where no one wants me, so they can watch me die?

He was calm, rested now after the long sleep. He had a vision of himself in Thailand somewhere, a sunny tropical vista with brown-skinned girls to ease his remaining days. Spend the nights drinking Singha beer and feasting on satays, chow kueh teow noodles, and tom yum soup.

When he thought better of it, he felt he could just as easily go to Fat Lily’s or Angelina’s for brown-skinned girls, and to Penang or Jaya Village for Thai beer, roti, and hainam chicken. For the sunny vista he could take a bus south on the interstate, or take the train with the glass skylight roof down to Florida somewhere for a few weeks. Somewhere sunny and not too far. A cruise to one of the islands? What would he do with a shipload of lo fan strangers? He could just as well be alone in Manhattan, if he only turned off his cell phones and stayed out of the OTB and Chinatown.

He was taking it all very well, he thought, with some resignation, of course, but what else could he do really? Get hysterical? Get depressed? Beg the gods for forgiveness and salvation? Be hopeful even when the doctors offered no hope? He wasn’t the suicidal type, and even though he feared the pain to come, he didn’t see himself wasting half the time he had left being sick from the radiation. He wasn’t going to roll up in bed and wait to die.