Exploits

by Mike Resnick

  “It's a long story,” he said. “But the gist of it is that I hired on to work on an archeological dig in the Gobi Desert. Our boat docked in Hong Kong on a Saturday afternoon, and a bunch of us came over to the Sin City of Macau for one last fling before going out in the wilderness.”

  “Makes sense,” I allowed.

  “They told us to be back at sun-up on Monday, which was when the truck was leaving. I guess I overslept a little.”

  “And they didn't wait for you?”

  “I didn't get out of bed until half past Tuesday, and I figured they were all gone by then, so I looked around for some way to earn my passage back home. I thought I could be a croupier, or maybe a personal manager for some ladies of the evening, but all the good jobs were taken, and so I wound up pulling this goddamned rickshaw.”

  He took a hard left turn, and suddenly I could see the Macau Inn straight ahead of us.

  “Here we are, Preacher,” he said, sprinting the final fifty yards.

  “Take it easy,” I said. “We ain't in no race.”

  “Sorry,” he said, coming to a stop in front of the hotel. “Sometimes I pretend I'm still outrunning tacklers on the football field back in high school. It helps to pass the time.”

  “You played football?”

  “Sure did,” he answered. “And being an ex-halfback gives me an edge on the competition. If we see a single customer stepping off the ferry or out of a hotel, I always get there first.”

  It was just about that instant that the Lord smote me right betwixt the eyes with a great big heavenly revelation.

  “Are you telling me there ain't no coolie in town can match strides with you?” I said.

  “Not a one,” he said. “I even had a couple of Big Ten scholarship offers—until they threw me off the team for a few minor infractions, that is.”

  “What kind of infractions?”

  “Oh ... Zelda, Thelma, Patti ... those kinds.”

  “Brother,” I said. “How'd you like to get enough money for passage back to the good old U. S. of A. and have a little pocket money left over for an occasional infraction?”

  “You've got a curious expression on your face, Preacher,” he said. “I can't quite tell if you're joking or not.”

  “I never joke about money,” I said. “It's against the Third and Eighth Commandments. Come on inside and let's talk a little business.”

  He pulled the rickshaw over to a side of the road and followed me into the Macau Inn. There was a great big fountain in the middle of the lobby, with about a dozen parrots dangling down from the ceiling in bamboo cages. There was a fat white man in a wrinkled suit and a fez talking to a couple of turbaned Indians in a corner, and an Englishman in tweeds was sitting on a leather chair, smoking a pipe and reading a copy of the China Morning Post. We walked past the check-in desk and turned left at the restaurant, which was just about empty, it being the middle of the afternoon.

  “Have a seat,” I said, escorting my rickshaw driver to a small table.

  “Don't mind if I do,” he replied.

  “By the way, Brother, I didn't catch your name.”

  “Harvey,” he said, reaching out and shaking my hand. “Harvey Edwards, and before we discuss any further business, you still owe me for the ride.”

  “How much?”

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Buy me a couple of beers and we'll call it square.”

  “I can't do that, Brother Harvey,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a couple of coins. “This ought to cover what I owe you.”

  “You got something against beer, Preacher?” he asked.

  “Not a thing,” I answered. “Nothing slakes the thirst like a cold beer.”

  “Then what's the problem?”

  “I ain't got no problem, Brother Harvey,” I said. “But you—you're in training.”

  “For what?”

  “The rickshaw races.”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about? There ain't any rickshaw races in Macau.”

  I grinned at him. “Yet,” I said.

  Suddenly his eyes lit up like little candles. “Oh?”

  “Brother Harvey, I been mulling on it, and I can't see no reason why I should risk the Lord's money playing fan-tan and other games of chance with these local sharks when we can invite ’em into our pool.”

  “You know,” said Harvey with a great big smile, “I can't think of any reason either.”

  “Good!” I said. “Then we're in business.”

  “Fifty-fifty,” he replied.

  I shook my head. “One-third for you, one third-for me, and one-third for the Lord, which is only fair, since He's putting up the money.”

  “He ain't doing the running, though,” said Harvey adamantly.

  Well, we hemmed and we hawed and we haggled, and what it finally came down to was that Harvey and I would split the first ten thousand pounds we made down the middle, and the Lord got Himself a twenty percent option on the rest, provided He produced fair weather and a fast track. That settled, we indulged in a couple of grilled Macau pigeons, and then I started asking him where we were likely to find the biggest plungers.

  “No question about it,” he said. “They're all at the Central Hotel.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You're about the first person I've run across who hasn't,” said Harvey. “It's the biggest building in town, even if it is only nine stories tall. You can see it from just about anywhere.”

  “Maybe I ought to rent a room there instead of here,” I suggested.

  He laughed at that. “They'll be charging you rent every twenty minutes, Preacher,” he said. “It ain't exactly your run-of-the-mill hotel.”

  Which was an understatement if ever there was one.

  We waited til the sun went down and then made our way over to the Central Hotel, which despite its name wasn't a hotel at all. We walked in the main entrance, and found ourselves on the ground floor, which was crawling with coolies. There were small-stakes games of roulette and baccarat and fan-tan going on everywhere, and the girls were just about all in need of a little soap and water and a good dentist.

  “These guys don't look like no high rollers to me,” I said as we began walking across the room.

  “They're not,” replied Harvey.

  “Well, then?” I asked.

  “Follow me,” he said, walking toward a huge, winding staircase.

  The coolies were a little better-dressed on the second floor, and the girls looked a mite healthier. By the third floor, they were playing with British pounds instead of Hong Kong dollars, and we ran into a bunch of Indians on the fourth floor. When we reached the fifth floor, most of the players were Europeans and well-dressed Chinamen, and the girls were so downright beautiful that I remarked to Harvey that I couldn't wait to see what they'd look like once we reached the penthouse.

  “The gambling ends on the sixth floor,” he answered. “The top three floors are just bedrooms.”

  So we made our way up one more flight, and the only difference between the sixth floor of the Central Hotel and the casino at Monte Carlo was that a third of the players here were Chinamen and the girls were all dressed for mighty warm weather.

  “See that big Chinaman in the corner with his back to the wall?” whispered Harvey, gesturing to an ornery-looking feller sitting at a high-stakes poker table. “He's Lo Chung. He owns the place.” He pointed to the others at the table. “That's Bet-A-Million Reynolds, over there is Sir Reginald Thurmund, and that little guy next to Lo Chung is Gerhardt Guenther, the German ambassador.” He sighed. “Must be fifty million dollars sitting at that one table.”

  “They got a privy up here?” I asked as one of the hostesses passed by, and she pointed it out to me. I told Harvey to stay put, then went off by myself, pulled out a handkerchief, folded it into a nice neat square, folded Cornwall's money over it, and then slapped a rubber band around the whole thing, so it looked like I was walking around with maybe forty thousand pounds of cas
h rather than four hundred.

  Then I went back out onto the floor and rejoined Harvey, who was getting a little nervous in the presence of all that money. We wandered around the room, exchanged pleasantries with a couple of hostesses, stopped to watch the action at the roulette wheel and the craps table, and finally wound up at the fan-tan game, where a Greek and a Korean were having a contest to see who could go broke first. I whispered to Harvey to go back to the rickshaw and that I'd meet him there in just a couple of minutes. He looked kind of curious, but he did what I told him.

  “I do love the smell of money,” I said, turning back to the fan-tan table.

  “Perhaps you would like to join us,” suggested the Greek.

  I shook my head. “Too tame for me, brother.”

  He laughed so loud that everyone turned to see what was going on.

  “You find fan-tan tame?” he said.

  “Yeah. It's almost as dull as poker and craps,” I said. I pulled out my bankroll, tossed it carelessly in the air and caught it a couple of times, and then stuck it back in my pocket. “Guess I'll go out looking for some real action.”

  At which point Lo Chung got up from his poker game and walked over to me.

  “Good evening, Father,” he said, bowing low.

  “As a matter of fact, it's Reverend,” I said. “The Right Reverend Lucifer Jones.”

  “It is not often that we play host to a man of the cloth,” he said. “We have a reputation as the Sin City of the Orient.”

  “Well, I'm afraid it's gonna be even less often, brother,” I said. “I like excitement when I bet.” I reached into my pocket and fiddled with my bankroll again. “Nothing all that exciting here, except maybe for that little hostess with the green eyes and dress to match.”

  “We try to accommodate all our guests, Reverend Jones,” he said, looking greedily toward my pocket. “Perhaps if you would tell me what type of gambling excites you...?”

  “Glad you asked, brother,” I said, kind of gently shoving him aside and speaking to the room at large. “Ladies and gents, I came here by rickshaw, just like a batch of you folks did—and I got forty thousand pounds that says my rickshaw puller can whip any rickshaw puller you put up against him at any distance from fifty yards to six furlongs at equal weights.”

  “Now just a minute, Reverend Jones!” said Lo Chung. “This is my gambling establishment. You cannot arrange your own transactions with my customers!”

  “Sorry, Brother Lo Chung,” I apologized. “I certainly didn't mean to step out of line. I suppose I'd best take my leave of you.”

  I walked to the head of the stairs, and then stopped and turned back to the room. “The race starts in front of the Macau Inn at nine o'clock tomorrow morning,” I said. “I'll cover any and all bets.”

  Then I ran down the stairs just before a couple of Lo Chung's bouncers could throw me down. I saw the cutest little lady serving drinks as I passed the third floor, but I didn't have time to start no conversations and I figured if I just grabbed her and carried her down the stairs with me the extra weight would slow me down enough so the bouncers could catch me, and so a brief and tender romantic moment went unrequited.

  I yelled to Harvey to get ready to roll as I burst out through the front door with a couple of hundred coolies staring at me, but no one followed me, so thankfully he didn't have to use up no energy or calories or nothing getting us out of there, and ten minutes later we were back at the Macau Inn, sitting in the bar, him sipping an iced tea and eyeing my beer the way I had eyed that little hostess on the third floor.

  “Have you given any serious thought to how you plan to cover all those bets tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Me and the Lord'll think of something,” I said. “After all, we got all night, ain't we?”

  “All night isn't that long, Preacher.”

  “The Lord made the world in six days,” I said. “That's one for each continent, the way I figure it. Now, if He could make Asia in a day and have time left over for creating the sun and the moon and swiping one of Adam's ribs, surely He don't need all night to solve this minor inconvenience.” I finished up my beer. “You just make sure you don't bust no legs coming out of the starting gate.”

  “I could beat most of the local coolies on one leg,” answered Harvey. “Don't worry, Preacher—it's in the bag.”

  “All right,” I said. “It's about time you headed home and got a good eight hours, so you'll be all fresh and ready to go in the morning.” Then I changed my mind. “You know, now as I come to think on it, it's probably better than you spend the night here. Can't chance you running into traffic and getting all tuckered out on your way here tomorrow morning.”

  “I don't have any money for a room.”

  I tossed him my room key. “Take mine,” I said. “I'll get another. You can pay me out of your share of the winnings.”

  He picked up the key and headed off to the room. Then, just to make sure he didn't do nothing to damage his wind on the eve of the big event, I rounded up all the girls in the lobby, rented another room, and made sure that none of ’em were available just in case he came looking for a little infraction. It was a long and arduous chore, but I figured I owed it to him, and I was sure that my Silent Partner would understand that I was only doing it for the benefit of His tabernacle.

  I got up a bit before sunrise, tiptoed out of the room, and went down to the front desk, where a young Chinaman was smoking a waterpipe and doping out the races.

  “Got a safe deposit box for hire, brother?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said the clerk, pulling out a box and handing me the key. “That'll be one Hong Kong dollar.”

  “How'd you like to make some real money?” I said.

  “I wouldn't be adverse to it,” he admitted.

  “Good,” I said. “Comes nine o'clock, this place is gonna be crawling with rickshaws and big spenders. A lot of them are going to want someone responsible to hold their bets.” I pulled a pair of hundred-pound notes off my roll, which was still wrapped around the handkerchief, and handed them to him. “This ought to make it worth your while.”

  “Yes, sir!” he said with a great big smile.

  “Now, as you can see,” I said, sticking the roll into the box, “I'm putting forty thousand pounds in here. You're my witness.”

  “Right,” he said, barely taking his eyes off his own two hundred-pound notes, which was probably close to half a year's wages for him.

  “Okay,” I said, handing him the box. “Lock it up for safekeeping.”

  He put the box back in place, locked it, and returned the key to me.

  “Now, just so you've got this straight: you're legally empowered to take bets up to forty thousand pounds. Once you've reached the limit, or there ain't no more money being wagered, stick it in another lock box and keep the key yourself.”

  “Then what?”

  “The winner gets the contents of both boxes.” I leaned across the counter and whispered in his ear: “And if things go right, this could be a daily chore for you—at the same rate of pay.”

  “I'm more than happy to be of service, sir,” he assured me with a greedy grin on his face.

  “Somehow I thought you might be,” I replied.

  Then I went off to wake Harvey, took him down to the restaurant for a breakfast of orange juice and tea, and walked back into the lobby at about a quarter to nine. It was filled to overflowing with coolies and their backers, all lined up to lay their bets with the clerk.

  At nine o'clock sharp, we all walked outside, where Harvey and 23 other rickshaw pullers lined up across the broad street. Then it was just a matter of setting the conditions, which turned out to be twice around the block, or just under half a mile. Harvey was pawing at the ground with his feet, and his eyes were bright and excited, and I thought he might break out whinnying any second.

  There must have been a good five hundred people crowded up and down the street, not all of them Chinamen, and finally we let Bet-A-Million Reynolds fire the
gun that started the race.

  Harvey opened up a quick two lengths on his field before they hit the first corner, and was leading by twenty yards when they passed the finish line the first time. They disappeared from sight around the corner a second time, and when they hit the homestretch Harvey was only leading by a length—but as he passed by he winked at me, and I realized he was just trying not to discourage the competition from trying him again. He won by about half a length, and before I could go to the desk to pick up our winnings, Sir Reginald Thurmund and Ambassador Gerhardt Guenther were demanding a rematch that night.

  I hemmed and hawed as if I thought Harvey was too tuckered out to run again, and finally let them talk me into it, for midnight, sharp. We told the crowd when to come back, and then Harvey and me went to the desk and picked up 37,000 beautiful British pounds, counted it a couple of times and stood there admiring it for a few minutes, and then put it back in the safe.

  “Easiest money I ever made for a rickshaw ride!” he laughed.

  “We should just about double it tonight,” I said, “and then we'll start running you in handicaps.”

  “Handicaps?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “After this weekend we'll never get another even race, so you'll probably have to tote weights in your rickshaw, just like a racehorse.”

  “Make the race downhill and the weights might actually help me go faster,” he suggested.

  “That little law of physics ain't exactly lost on me,” I replied. “Ain't no law says you have to run the same course every time out.”

  Well, we loafed around the hotel for most of the afternoon, but when I saw Harvey smiling at a couple of early-blooming flowers of the night I sent him to his room for a nap, and then, just to make sure that he couldn't give in to temptation, I took them off to my own room for the next couple of hours, where I got me an education in various Chinese arts that were even more complicated than fan-tan.

  I could have spent another few hours saving Harvey from further temptation, and generous Christian gentleman that I am I was all set to do so, but at about seven o'clock he pounded on my door to say that he was going down to the restaurant to grab some dinner. I didn't want his stomach to go cramping up on him, so I took my leave of my lovely companions and went with him to supervise.