He returned to the New Canton and gave it to Bo, saying, “Look for the race on the deen see, TV, or check the papers. You have the number eight horse, named American Freedom. I hope it’s lucky for you.”

Bo ran her fingers over the red silk, holding the purse as if it was precious, and said, “Thank you,” so softly it seemed she was whispering to herself. She watched him go back out into the street, slowly crossing in the direction of Chatham Square, a tanned face against a dingy gray background of storefronts.

At the far corner, he paused and glanced back, and for an instant she believed she saw a smile on his face.

Space for Time

The world below was a cloudy gray drift of mountain ranges and valleys with the occasional appearance of roads, a small city or village. He’d passed this way many times before, he remembered, flying west from Toronto, where he’d broken in the first credit-card crews, to Vancouver, where the Red Circle was a top player in spite of the authorities.

Now, seated comfortably on Air Canada Flight 688, Gee Sin was cruising at twenty thousand feet, descending toward Vancouver, for a two-night layover before the long flight back to Hong Kong. He saw the Canadian coastline below and took a deep breath, as if a weight had been removed. He was already out, out of the United States, out of American airspace, out of its legal jurisdiction. Out of sight and out of mind.

He would not be present for any investigation into the shootings over the bus routes, or the bad blood between the Fukienese crews, or the feuding tongs. The Red Circle’s financial involvement would be on hold until the Fukienese side cleaned up its own house.

The attention that the shootings brought was disappointing. Best to postpone for now.

Credit-card operations in the numerous cities would proceed as scheduled.

While descending, Sin considered the Chinatown murder of Uncle Four, and decided that the matter of the stolen gold pandas and diamonds would be given to Grass Sandal. He would be instructed to arrange a meeting with the Chinatown limousine driver whom the New York City police had in custody. The incarcerated driver could provide details and clues leading to the missing mistress.

Best to do it from Hong Kong, he thought, where he had vastly more control of matters.

One of the triad’s law firms could start the necessary legal machinery needed to obtain the interview from there.

Otherwise, the holiday had been going well. A handful of shoppers had been arrested, as expected, but the majority were bringing in significant sums. Besides, shoppers could be recruited everywhere; they were expendable.

The volume from the phone and mail-order houses surpassed even his expectations. Grass Sandal had had to close or vacate several receiving locations because they’d filled up with electronic swag after they had been used for a number of weeks. Millions of dollars worth of laptops, camcorders, game systems, cameras, computer software were consolidated for reshipment, then passed through the fences, stores they had arrangements with. The goods were converted to cash and became counterfeit Gucci and Prada bags in Hong Kong, hills of bak fun, white powder in Cambodia, then changed to currency again in Europe, Canada, America.

Cheat the people all around.

The strategy of the triad was paying off.

Courage

Inside the small Pell Street walk-up, Sai Go sat slumped on his sofa, considering Chat Choy’s suggestion that they embark on another gambling junket. Sai Go wasn’t hungry, and didn’t feel like visiting Choy at Tang’s Dynasty like he usually did, collecting bets from the waiters while he was there.

The battery in the bathroom scale had died, but he knew he was still losing weight. The cancer was feeding on him from the inside.

He powered on the TV, muting the sound to the Chinese cable program. The casino at Foxwoods was promoting a cabaret show with Taiwanese talent, Longshot Lee had announced, “sexy” singers and dancers in skimpy neo-mod outfits. The hom sup lo, horny bastard, coming out in him. Twenty-five dollars would cover the round-trip bus, a buffet meal at Woks to Go, and twenty dollars worth of betting coupons and store discounts. Gum Sook had countered with The Plaza in Atlantic City, also staging a Chinese floor show, featuring a troupe of beautiful Malaysian acrobats in holiday costumes. And the buffet was Chinese, not gwailo.

They’d decided on Foxwoods.

What the hell, Sai Go thought, why not go along with them? It’s only three hours up the highway. It was a gwailo holiday but he’d just as soon play a few hands of Chinese pai gow, poker, or some mini-thirteen.

Many of the casinos offered a separate space for Chinese and Asian games of chance, featuring sik bo, pai gow, poker, or dominoes, and bak ka lo, baccarat. They kept blackjack and roulette action conveniently to one side just to keep the girlfriends of the players happy.

He imagined it in his head. Drinks all around, brought out on trays by girls in gaily colored cheongsams. Asian high rollers having a hoot. Winning sometimes and playing it up, but losing, mostly.

It was the last image he saw before passing out.

Afterlife

It was the bleating of the phone somewhere that awoke him. He wasn’t sure if it was one of his cell phones, or the apartment phone. He’d left the lamp and the TV on; some Taiwanese soap opera with subtitles was playing silently.

Sai Go considered answering the phone but fatigue kept his limbs from responding. Then the answering machine came on. House phone, he heard his own hoarse tired voice on the recording.

The caller was Gum Sook, asking if Sai Go had decided to go on the trip to Foxwoods, that he could brew up some tea. “Call Longshot,” he said, “if you want to go.”

Following that, his cell phone rang, and though he turned, reaching, his legs wouldn’t respond. He grabbed for the edge of the bed with his hands and rolled his body over. The cell phone kept ringing.

He was suddenly jolted by deep knifing pain in his legs, in his bones, knees, and ankles. He gritted his teeth, heaving breaths through his clenched jaw, until he could bear the pain no more and crashed into the blackness.

Into the Light

His view slowly settled on the clock radio as he regained con-ciousness. It was afternoon, a Monday, still December. Sai Go recalled the pain in his legs and gingerly moved them. Surprisingly, they carried him off the sofa as if nothing had happened. Relieved, he went to the bathroom sink, splashed water on his face. Painkillers, he was thinking, in case it comes back. They’d surely have something at the clinic.

He thought of returning Gum Sook’s call. He resolved to jup sau may, tie up loose ends. He’d withdraw his twenty-five thousand and close his account at U.S. Asia. He’d like to collect his last debts at OTB, from Lum Kee the fish-ball vendor, and two waiters at Garden Palace.

Send a card to the chun chik, relatives, in Honk Kong. Spread the word. He, Fong Sai Yook, has passed.

Maybe place an ad in the Chinese obituaries.

Return the packs of telephone calling cards to Big Chuck Chan.

Visit Lo Fay, the all-purpose lawyer at the association’s Credit Union. He was good for immigration, divorces, and other loose ends.

He’d ask Gum Sook to call and look in on him twice a week, to report the death when the time came. He’d arrange a cash incentive for Gum Sook.

Sai Go gargled, coughed, and spat into the sink, rinsing from the faucet without looking for blood in the spittle.

He put on his cheap down jacket and went down the stairs, exiting onto the street in the direction of the health clinic, and OTB.