by J. M. Lee
“Then how could you win so big?”
“All I did was exploit the maggots in the casino,” I explain.
“What are you talking about?”
I tell her about the first day we went to the casino with our fake IDs. Dash lost all our chips, and we had to skip dinner. Dash lay in his bunk back home, dejected. “It’s going to be impossible to win,” he grumbled. “It’s a giant food chain. The lion’s on top, then the leopard, the elephant and antelope, small rabbits, and finally, mice.”
“What?”
“The owner of the casino is the lion. The floor manager, head of security, and guards are small predators. The cashiers and cheaters are crocodiles and hyenas. We’re the food.”
“Oh. So then who are the maggots?”
“There are no maggots.”
“There are always maggots in a food chain,” I explained. “They eat the lion’s corpse. We can’t win when we fight the lion, but maybe we can defeat the maggot.”
Dash sat up. “Cashiers and prostitutes!”
“No,” I said. “They’re more like the hyenas.”
Dash twirled his fedora. “Dealers!” he cried. “Some dealers have an understanding with security. They sometimes don’t give all the money up, or they siphon the customer’s bets at the table. If they’re all in on it, they can get away with it. The dealer swipes the cash, the guard looks the other way, the cashier doesn’t record that amount. That’s why they keep switching everyone’s places. They won’t prosecute even if a dealer gets away with it. It’s bad publicity.”
“Really?”
“Why would they advertise that their employees are stealing from the customer?”
That was what we would do. Rotten dealers, guards, and cashiers—we could leverage this.
“What are you thinking?” Dash asked eagerly. “Do you have an idea?”
“We’ll do a big spring cleaning,” I said cautiously.
The following day, I told Yong-ae all about it.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said. “Keep your head down.”
“I’m not going to be stupid. We’re ready. We just need $5,000.”
“There’s no way you can get that kind of money,” she scoffed. “Let me get it for you.”
“I don’t want to drag you into this,” I protested.
“You already have. I’m investing. $5,000 is nothing compared to the amount of debt I have.”
Dash and I went from casino to casino, studying security guards and dealers. Yong-ae’s money funded our research of maggot ecology; soon we discovered a thriving habitat at the roulette table at the Tomorrow. Dash made hundreds of small bets as I examined their tactics and gathered data. Some days we lost a bit of money, but other days we won and raised our stakes.
Angela looks at me suspiciously. “So you wanted to be caught by the floor manager?”
I nod. “Of course. Because that allowed us to come and go as we pleased.”
“But it could still be fraudulent gambling,” Angela points out. “How else would you win so consistently?”
The wheel spins dizzily before my eyes. “It was simple. We were placing our bets on the least likely number.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Angela says. “How do you make money by betting on a number nobody is betting on?”
“If someone put $30,000 on black, I would put $1,000 on red.”
“But the probabilities don’t change,” Angela says, looking confused.
“Of course they don’t. But what if the dealer wants the $30,000? What happens if he can control the game?”
“Oh . . .” Angela starts nodding. “He would have the ball stop on red.”
“They were using electromagnets to move the balls and the roulette wheel,” I tell her.
THE DEATH OF A FUGITIVE
Now free, Yong-ae got on a plane to Seoul. Having spent every last penny on Yong-ae’s debt, we were destitute. And we couldn’t even enter a casino. We moved to a smaller room with mold in the walls. Hunger dogged us as Dash began losing weight again. We had to find work. We couldn’t find employment in a legitimate casino, but we were able to find jobs at an illegal casino on the docks. It was a small operation with impressive stakes. People came from all over the world, stimulated by the heightened danger and high risk. The casino received wires over the legal limit and pocketed foreign exchange gains. Dash worked as a security guard and I took over the cage.
Dash pleaded with me every morning. “Let’s just do one more game and leave this place. Let’s go to Seoul.”
I was hesitant, as much as I wanted to go to Seoul. “But we don’t really need money. I only wanted to do it to pay back her debt.”
“Then why did we come all the way here? To be flat-out broke?”
“We got to be rich,” I tried. “We were able to buy Yong-ae’s freedom.”
Dash’s veins popped in his neck. “That selfish bitch? She used you and left us here! We’re stuck here because of her!” He yanked his jacket off the hanger and slammed the door on his way out.
He came back a week later, completely transformed. His eyes were sunken, his hair was stiff, and his face was dirty. He flung himself onto his bed. “Gil-mo, you know how much I value you,” he began. “Well, it doesn’t matter if you don’t. I just need you to do me a favor.”
I nodded, shocked at the way he looked.
He rubbed his dry lips. “Just one last time,” he pleaded. “Then we’ll leave.”
I stared into the distance, shaking my head. I smoothed my pants with my hands.
Dash sighed. “Look, let me tell you what I’ve done. I thought I’d do one last round and make enough to leave. So I borrowed $5,000 from the manager and joined a blackjack game. I won a little at first. I should have left. I really should have. I lost everything. So then I borrowed more. It was already going to be impossible to pay it back, so . . . I ended up borrowing $50,000. He cut me off. I’m never going to be able to pay it back. He suggested another way.”
“What is it?”
“Three days from now there’s going to be a huge blackjack game in the suites at the Four Seasons. Two guys from Saudi Arabia, the heir to the Kowloon Hotel in Hong Kong, and a businessman from Shanghai: $200,000 each.”
“So?”
“They want you to play. I didn’t realize he lent me the money because of you. I’m supposed to bring you to the game. If not—”
I understood. If I didn’t go, Dash would never get away, and he might float up as a half-rotten corpse on the beach. His body might never be discovered. Then how would I be able to deliver his death?
“This will really be the last time,” Dash said desperately. “Think about it, it’s achieving balance and symmetry. People have so much, and we have nothing. We just have to find the right balance, taking a little money from people who have too much. Then we’ll leave. I promise.”
I did like balance and symmetry. I picked up a deck of cards and began to shuffle. We had less than seventy-two hours to prepare, and I had to craft a strategy to win against these high rollers.
Our black limousine slid to a stop in front of the Four Seasons. Dash, in a black suit and dark sunglasses, wiped the sweat on his forehead. We entered the elevator and pressed 28. A lucky number—the sum of all of its factors except itself came out to 28. I hitched up my knapsack; Dash had insisted I bring it. The doors opened to two men waiting for us. They led us to the suite at the end of the hallway—it had three bedrooms, a meeting room, and an office, and everything smelled pleasant. We were overlooking the ocean. Around the oak card table in the middle of the meeting room sat four people—two men in traditional Saudi clothing and two Asians in suits. The Arabs were cousins of Saudi royalty, gamblers who played extensively in Las Vegas and Monte Carlo. The young businessman from Shanghai was Min Zengzhi, and David Ching was the heir to the Kowloon Hotel fortune. Retired dealer Jolly Cai was standing there; he was renowned for his skillful dealing and high win rate.
I joined them at the tabl
e. Everyone took out bundles of cash from bags their bodyguards had carried in and piled them on the table. I took one-hundred-dollar bills out of the bag Dash handed me and stacked them in front of me.
Cai shuffled the cards, sending them dancing around the table. I hunched my shoulders and stared at the cards. Someone offered drinks. David Ching picked something that was on the rocks. The Saudis grabbed non-alcoholic beer, and I asked for Coca-Cola. I was poured a tall, frosted glass of soda. Cards were dealt again. Soon, I was familiar with each of their personalities and the dealer’s habits. I could predict the cards in Cai’s hands. The men’s faces grew tense. Fear hung over us. I wasn’t afraid, though. Nor was I tense. This made me the most daring player at the table. Now down a hundred thousand, David was chain smoking. I coughed. The smoke swirling overhead and my cough broke the Saudis’ concentration. It was now past six, and David had lost $120,000 and the old Saudi had lost $30,000. The younger Saudi had won $40,000. When I won $50,000, I got up from the table. The manager glanced at the others and requested a short break.
He followed Dash and me as we went into the other room. “What’s going on?” he whispered. “You’re on a roll.”
“I’m done,” I said. “Now we’re even.”
“You’re not done,” he hissed. “Nobody stops playing until someone wins it all. Not a single bill can move off the table until someone’s done. There’s only one way for you to pay me back. Win the whole pot, and I’ll write off your friend’s debt.”
“That wasn’t the deal!” Dash said hotly.
“We have to follow the rules of this room,” the manager snapped. “If you try to leave now, who knows what those guys will do to you.”
We were stuck. We had to continue and try to take the whole pot. I went back to the table. David lost his calm and began to make increasingly risky moves. The stakes grew larger, and even the Saudis, who had remained cool throughout, began to lose their composure. It was dark now, but the cards kept going around. Shuffle, deal, count, bet, split, deal, count, bet. David was drunk. The Saudis began to increase their bets, only to be defeated in the last hand. Around eleven p.m., most of the cash had moved; it was in front of me. David had folded a while ago and was now passed out in the bedroom. The younger Saudi gave the rest of his cash to his cousin and folded. The goddess of fate was on my side. The older Saudi was out after two hands. Min Zengzhi soon lost the rest of his cash; the game was over.
Dash packed two bags full of cash. The manager watched contentedly. The day’s game could be summed up with a simple formula: 200,000 × 4 − 50,000 = 0. The four others had lost $200,000 each, I had won $800,000, Dash had paid back his $50,000, and the manager had made $750,000. We were left with nothing.
Two black limousines were waiting for us in front of the hotel. The manager carried the bags and got in the car in the rear. I got in after him. Dash sat in the passenger seat. The guard car in front led the way out of the hotel driveway. We merged onto the dark shoreline road.
The manager shifted his gaze from the bags to me, then to Dash, grinning widely.
“Didn’t I tell you he’s amazing?” crowed Dash.
The manager took out a small bottle of whiskey from the bar and downed it. “He’s an animal! We’re going to be great partners.”
I stared out at the black ocean gliding by outside.
Dash’s voice hardened. “We paid you back. We’re done. I promised him.”
The manager threw back some more whiskey and shook his head. “Trust me, you’re going to like this. You’ll be rich soon enough. Did you know that people line up to ask me to back them? I’ve chosen this guy here. You should both be grateful.”
Dash looked helpless.
The manager’s grin froze and he whipped around to look behind him. “The Shanghai assholes are tailing us.”
We looked back. Two black cars were speeding toward us. Our driver gunned the gas and they followed suit. The manager called the escort car ahead of us. One of the black cars changed lanes, sped up, and cut us off. The brakes screamed and I lurched forward. Our escort car slowed down, but it was already quite far ahead of us. Four men got out of the black car that had cut us off. They pulled their guns out. The manager took a gun out of the middle console. Our escorts ran toward us, shooting. Three of them fell but they did get two of the assailants. Our front window shattered and the driver slumped forward.
“Step on it!” yelled the manager. “We need to get out of here!”
Dash pushed the driver out of the way and squeezed into the driver’s seat. He picked up the driver’s gun and stepped on the gas. The car shot forward with a roar. The manager ducked and fired through the broken back window as Dash began shooting out of his window while careening along the road. The gunshots grew fainter.
The manager regained his smirk and leaned back. “See? I told you we’d be a fantastic team.”
His phone rang; it was one of his colleagues. The manager explained what had happened and directed him to find us. “You can track my car’s GPS,” he said, and hung up.
Dash halted the car with a screech.
“What are you doing?” shouted the manager. “Keep driving!”
Without a word, Dash turned around and pointed his gun at the manager, whose face drained of color. Dash pulled the trigger. The blast was muffled under the sound of waves crashing. Warm blood spurted out of the manager’s chest and splattered my face. I screamed out the window: “He’s dead!”
Dash reached behind and grabbed me by the throat. “Shut up, Gil-mo!” he hissed. “We would never have been able to get away as long as he was alive.”
The lights along the winding road danced on the water. “But . . . but you’re not a murderer!”
“Nobody’s born a murderer,” Dash snapped. “You only become one once you kill someone.” He took out two bundles of cash from one of the bags and shoved them in my jacket pockets. “Go to the port. There’s a boat called Yellow Marine at the docks. Tell the guy there that Richard Chang sent you. Give him a thousand dollars, and he’ll take you to the Hong Kong ferry docks. Go to the Hong Kong International Airport.” He took out an envelope from his inner pocket. He showed me an airplane ticket. “We have seats on the 2:20 p.m. flight to Seoul tomorrow.” He took his own ticket out and showed me. “You have the window seat. I have to tie up some loose ends here. I’ll see you on the plane tomorrow.” He studied me before pulling me in for a hug.
He smelled like sweat and blood. I squirmed but he wouldn’t let go. To distract myself, I counted the knobs of his spine with a finger. I counted up to twelve. Suddenly a screech of tire. Dash shoved me away and put the car into gear. “Run, Gil-mo. To the harbor. Okay?”
I hesitated. I rubbed my thighs.
“Did you hear me? Get lost!” shouted Dash. “What are you, stupid?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to do.
Dash’s voice turned gentle. “Gil-mo, I’m sorry. You’re not stupid. People who call you stupid are the stupid ones.” He smiled.
I nodded. He leaned across me to fling open my door. Salty wind rushed into the car. He shoved me out. I landed on my stomach on the warm asphalt and watched as he revved the engine and disappeared around the corner. Everything smelled like exhaust. I got up and stumbled toward the harbor. A black sedan came roaring down the street toward me. It had to be the car following our limo’s GPS signal. I began to run. Dash didn’t kill the manager by accident, I realized. He had already arranged for a boat to Hong Kong. He had bought plane tickets. And he had told me to bring my knapsack. This was all so reckless. Cars screeched at a distance and something crashed. I heard gunshots. It grew quiet. I ran even faster. I was at the docks. I looked for the yellow boat.
I sat in my seat, 23A, on the Korean Air flight to Incheon. The seat next to mine was still empty. Passengers entered, but I didn’t see Dash. Soon, everyone was on board. Three people rushed on at the last minute. The flight attendants helped them put their bags away and checked to ensure that ever
yone was seated and buckled in. Still, the seat next to mine was unoccupied. The plane pushed off and rolled onto the runway. With a roar, the scene outside the window shot past, making me dizzy. The vibration of the wheels on the ground ceased and the runway grew smaller. I was flying. Sunlight streamed in through my small window.
“Would you like a newspaper?” A flight attendant was smiling at me, a dimple in her cheek.
I selected the South Asia Morning Post. The headline jumped out at me. OVERNIGHT SHOOTOUT BETWEEN ILLEGAL GAMBLING RINGS ON SHORELINE ROAD IN MACAU. I read on. The Public Security Police Force of Macau announced that a shootout had occurred on the shoreline road in Macau last night. Seven died and four were injured. Five bodies were recovered, all killed by a .38-caliber revolver. Three abandoned cars were found near the bodies. Another car 1.5 kilometers away from the scene contained the bodies of illegal gambling tycoon Can Xiahong and an associate. Police believe that they were killed during their escape from the main shootout. Conflicts between illegal gambling rings occur frequently, resulting in murders, bombings, shootings, and attacks on police. In recent years, a concerted campaign against illegal gambling has helped reduce such incidents. Police are investigating the whereabouts of gang members suspected of fleeing the scene.
My eyes slid over to the photograph of the scene. Cars riddled with bullets, bloodstains on the asphalt, shattered glass. The driver’s seat of our limousine soaked in blood. Next were headshots of the dead. Dash was there, smiling, next to six others. My friend, who ate to compensate for his past, who was dogged by hunger, who wanted to be a novelist and spin tales that sounded true, was dead. I wanted to wipe his fat face and scarred body with cotton balls and deliver his death. Instead, I rubbed his smiling face in the paper with my palm, smearing the ink. I knew I would need a lot of stamps for him, since he was so heavy; I didn’t stop praying for a long time.
I opened my eyes. Clouds billowed outside the window. Dash was looking in. He was flying, smiling happily. “Dash, isn’t it hard to fly next to the plane?”
