The Wolves (10 page)

“I’ve missed you.” Jian smiled shyly, leaned down, kissed his cheek. She wore a pale blue silk dress that draped her slim body perfectly.

Cheung wondered if he would bed her this trip. Probably not. She would no doubt agree if he asked. But he knew he could be rough. Inevitably, he grew angry at his conquests if they didn’t do what he wanted. And ashamed of them if they did, especially if they seemed to like it. He preferred to see Jian as untouched and perfect.

Or maybe he just liked his women younger.

“To your table.” Xiao pushed the button for the forty-eighth floor, reserved for the biggest whales. This particular elevator made only three stops: the garage, the main lobby, and forty-eight. As they rose, Cheung flipped open his gold cigarette case, another gift from 88 Gamma, and reached for a Dunhill. Macao banned smoking in its casinos, but the rule didn’t apply to men like him.

The elevator door opened into a lobby whose glass north wall offered a stunning view of the nearby casinos and the city beyond. “I can’t wait for the Sky Casino,” Xiao said. “On a clear night we’ll be able to see Hong Kong.”

“As if the nights are ever clear around here.” Cheung felt a pleasant impatience building. The cards were so close. He walked down the corridor that led to the VIP suites. At the far end, an open door beckoned.

Inside, Cheung found himself in a windowless room ten meters square, two baccarat tables side by side. The air was cool, with a faint jasmine scent. A painting of cherry blossoms by the Chinese master Qi Baishi adorned the back wall. Practically no one outside China knew Baishi’s name, but he was a favorite of the new Chinese elite. The painting was worth at least fifty million dollars.

The tables were ready for play, dealers waiting, chips stacked high, cards shuffled and in the long plastic trays called shoes. Six decks in each shoe, three hundred and twelve cards in all, embossed with the 88 Gamma logo, a forest of skyscrapers growing out of a globe.

The dealers stood and bowed as Cheung entered. He chose the table on the right, the seat directly across from the dealer, a position that offered the best read on the cards.

“General. We’ve been waiting for you.”

The dealer was a heavy man with a smoker’s rasp. Lin. Cheung had gambled against him a dozen times. While the hosts and waitresses were uniformly deferential, the dealers had more freedom. Some seemed to root for Cheung and be upset if he lost. Others didn’t hide their desire to beat him, as though the casino’s money belonged to them. Lin belonged in the second category. Cheung would take pleasure in knocking him down tonight.

“Here I am.” Cheung stubbed out his cigarette. “To begin, fifteen.” As in million.

“Fifteen.”

Cheung always bought in for fifteen, so the stacks were already counted. Lin tapped them for the security cameras before pushing them across the green baize. Four stacks of ten sky-blue chips, ten
million dollars. Four stacks of ten orange chips, another four million. And two stacks of ten mint-green chips, the final million. Ten stacks in all, an even hundred chips. Lined up against the rail of the table they stretched not even fifty centimeters from edge to edge. Together, they were worth more money than the average American made in a lifetime. Cheung flipped two of the mint-green chips back.

“Ten thousands.”

Lin tucked the chips into his drawer, slid back one more stack, ten yellow chips worth ten thousand Hong Kong dollars each. Cheung used those to tip the waitresses.

—

I
N THE MOVIES
, high rollers like Cheung carried suitcases full of cash to fund their gambling. In reality, Cheung had brought only clothes. A week before, he had wired forty-one million Hong Kong dollars from a Credit Suisse account he controlled under a fake name to an equally anonymous Citibank account run by a Macao junket operator. The junket company kept seven hundred thousand dollars as a “travel and conversion fee” and sent the rest to 88 Gamma. Both the junket company and the casino knew the money was Cheung’s. But his name was never attached to it, a prudent precaution. Cheung’s gambling wasn’t a secret, but the size of his wins and losses were. They might attract attention in Beijing. China’s Ministry for State Security spied on Macao’s casinos, looking for government officials and party leaders. But 88 Gamma guarded its VIP rooms to keep the ministry’s operatives at bay.

Cheung took other precautions, too. On his first trips to Macao, he had brought friends. More recently, with his bets and his extracurricular appetites growing, he traveled alone. In any case, arriving by himself and with only a few dollars in his pockets added to the pleasure of the night. When he showed up this way, he could indulge the fantasy
that the casino had
given
him the chips because it valued his company so highly.
We’ll pay you to play with us.

Usually, Cheung started small, betting a hundred thousand dollars a hand, and worked his way up. If he was winning, he increased his bet size gradually. If he wasn’t, he might stay small for hours, then throw down a series of million-dollar bets, trying to shock the gods onto his side. But tonight he thought of the cat, its boldness on the highway. He decided to open fast. He pushed eight sky-blue chips into the box in front of him marked
Player
. A two-million-dollar bet.

“Two million.” Lin’s voice held a hint of surprise. “Starting with the maximum.” Even 88 Gamma had limits. Two million per hand was the official maximum. In truth, the casino took bets as high as five million from regulars, gamblers whom the managers could be sure would return after a big win.

“Don’t be scared! Deal the cards.”

Lin pulled the first card of the night, the burn, from the shoe. He flipped the card up, showed it to Cheung. A king. A zero.

“A fine card. Let’s go.”

Lin pushed aside the burn, snapped out the first hand of the night. He passed the first and third cards to Cheung, placed the second and fourth on the spot on the table marked
Banker
. Cheung reached for his cards, leaned in close. No serious baccarat player turned over his hand too quickly. To do so was to invite the worst kind of luck. No, the cards had to be squeezed and pinched until they revealed their precious secrets. Cheung turned up the edge of the first card. In ultra-high-limit games, decks were never reused, so players could treat the cards as badly as they wanted.

A five of diamonds. An okay card, though hardly perfect. Eights and nines were the ideal starting cards, face cards the worst. Cheung flipped it over to show Lin.

“Let’s see what you’ve dealt yourself.”

Lin turned over the cards in the
Banker
space. Two fours. An eight. A natural eight. Lin smirked, not trying to hide his glee. Cheung’s margin for error had vanished. He needed a four for his second card to win the hand, or a three to tie. Otherwise, he would lose to Lin without even the chance to better his hand.

“Two million,” Lin said.

Cheung ignored him, leaned so close to the table that his cheek nearly touched it. He thought of the cat, fearless in traffic, only one goal. He turned up an edge—and found himself peeking at a four of spades.

Making nine. A natural nine. The best possible hand.

“Ta made niao
,
”
Your mother’s dick. Cheung lifted the card high, spun it down. Security cameras caught everything in this room, so Cheung didn’t worry about losing the hand if the card skipped off the table. “Can you add that, or do you need my help?”

“Nine. Player wins. Two million.” Lin picked out eight sky-blue chips and slid them across.

Cheung looked up, caught Jian’s eye. She stood in her customary position beside the Baishi painting. Their proximity made both of them more beautiful. She came over and he reached up and wrapped an arm around her waist, leaned in to smell her honeysuckle perfume.

“Are you surprised, Jian?”

“Not for a second, General.”

“A Johnnie Walker Blue. A double.”

—

S
O WENT THE NIGHT
. Cheung’s wins mounted hour by hour. He drank steadily until the room blurred into a single frame, the table and nothing more. Aside from the scotches, he neither ate nor drank. In fact, he
didn’t leave the table at all. His bladder ached, but he didn’t want to risk disrupting the field of luck that had settled over him. Finally, he lost three straight hands and pushed himself from the table. He stumbled, nearly fell, but Xiao grabbed him. His mouth tasted of ash and whiskey and he could hardly see.

He steadied himself, looked at his watch. Nine a.m. He’d gambled through the night. He looked at the chips—and the plaques beside them, coated with a deep black metallic sheen like the skin of a luxury car. Each plaque was worth one million Hong Kong dollars. He had four stacks of ten to go along with all his chips. How much had he won? Sixty million? More?

In twelve hours.
Had anyone ever won like this?

He stumbled to the toilet and held himself upright as he pissed all over the floor. No matter. They’d clean it up. They’d do whatever he wanted to keep him happy so they could get their hands on the money he’d taken. Anything at all. He could squat like a monkey on the table and pull down his pants and open his bowels. Xiao would smile and move him to the other table so he could keep playing.

But no, he was done tonight. He had won all he could for now. To push further would be to spit at the gods. He would lose everything if he went back.

What he wanted was a woman. A girl. A little bird who would be properly impressed with
his
little bird, which, truth be told, was hardly bigger than his thumb. Years ago, in a hotel in Shanghai, a whore had laughed at it. He’d beaten her until her screams brought security to his door. He’d shown them his air force identification. They’d given her a clout, too, and taken her away.

Cheung didn’t know why that memory came to him now. He hated it and yet some part of him enjoyed it, the way her face had
changed when he’d stopped slapping and started punching, the fear in her eyes—

No. Enough.
He would enjoy this night. This morning. Morning, yes. He laughed into the empty room, grinned at the skull in the mirror. He turned on the taps, buried his face in cold water until he was sober enough to know he could ask Chou-Lai for what he wanted, make his point without speaking too clearly. And he staggered back to his fortune.

HONG KONG

D
uberman was halfway through an hour on his elliptical trainer when his iPhone buzzed, a call from the casino. He didn’t want to stop working out, but no one at 88 Gamma would call him on his personal phone without good reason.

“Sir? It’s Malcolm.” Malcolm Garten, who ran the ultra-high-limit rooms. “Are you all right? You sound out of breath.” Years of kissing up to big players had given Garten a tendency to brown-nose.

“Get to it, Malcolm.”

“It’s about the general.”

General Cheung Han. A great customer. He’d come in the night before. “He need a credit line? Not a problem. Whatever he wants.” Unlike some whales, the general paid his chits quickly. Maybe he worried 88 Gamma would rat him out to the air force.

“No, sir, he’s up. Sixty-two million.”

Duberman whistled. No wonder Garten was upset. In truth, Duberman didn’t mind. Cheung wasn’t a hit-and-run player. Even if he hung on this trip, he’d be back soon enough. The math would grind
him down. It always did. In the meantime, he’d remember this night.
Big wins breed bigger losses.

“So what’s he want? To up his bets to five million? You don’t need to call for that, Malcolm. Keith can handle it.” Keith Huang, the casino’s executive director.

“No, sir, he seems to be done. In fact, he’s passed out. But before he did, he had a special request for Chou, and I thought you should know about it.”

Garten briefed Duberman on “special requests” from the whales, so Duberman knew that Cheung preferred Vietnamese women. And that they sometimes ended their sessions with him with bruises and black eyes. He wondered what Cheung could have said to upset Garten. He and Chou-Lai had heard plenty of unpleasant requests from the whales over the years. They understood the job.

Whatever it was, Duberman didn’t want the NSA or the Chinese government to hear it.

“We’ll talk face-to-face. Here. Figure an hour?” Duberman would have time to finish his workout and take a shower.

“Yes, sir.”

Duberman hung up. He had just started to move again when Gideon appeared in the doorway, a sheet of paper in his hand.

“Not now—”

“You know those manifests from Hong Kong International—”

Duberman paused again. Gideon handed him the sheet.

The Chinese border authorities closely monitored the airport’s real-time immigration records, and Duberman’s guys hadn’t found a way to see them. But every other week, the border-control desks sent a list of names and nationalities to the airport’s management. HKIA kept its own meticulous records of how many foreign nationals had landed,
mainly for marketing purposes. Gideon had found a local private security company that could provide the list for a mere ten thousand Hong Kong dollars a pop. Duberman assumed the list would be useless. It didn’t contain photos or other biometric identification or even passport numbers, just names and countries. Wells wouldn’t possibly fly in under his real name. But for ten thousand HK a pop, they could afford to take the chance. And there, halfway down the page—

John Wells. United States.

“Do we know when, exactly?”

“It’s not sorted by date, but it has to be sometime in the last two weeks.”

This morning was turning more interesting by the minute.

“Wonder why he used his real name.”

“Not for us. Probably sending a message to the White House. He knew they’d see it.”

“So the CIA knows he’s here,” Duberman said. “Are they helping him?”

“At the least, they aren’t after him.”

Not a happy prospect. Wells was lethal enough without help.

“You asked for it,” Gideon said.

Duberman folded the note into a paper airplane, flicked it at the bulletproof glass that looked out on the city. Let Wells come. His luck couldn’t last forever, especially now that Gideon’s men knew he was here. “Now let’s find him.”

“I’ve already told our guys. If he’s around, we will. Especially if he goes to Macao.”

The surveillance cameras at Duberman’s mansion in Tel Aviv had caught Wells clearly. Every security guard at the 88 Gamma Macao casino now carried photos of him, and the casino managers had promised a reward to anyone who spotted him. The casino’s facial-recognition
software was looking for Wells, too. 88 Gamma had installed the system years before to spot card counters and chip thieves. It was nearly unbeatable. A month before, it had spotted a grifter whom 88 Gamma had banned the year before, even though the guy had gained twenty-five pounds and grown his hair long.

“Meantime, I put a second guard at the gate,” Gideon said.

“Why’s that?” The voice belonged to Orli. She stood in the doorway, a light sheen of sweat on her arms and legs. She’d added a daily hour of Krav Maga, the Israeli self-defense training that combined boxing and judo, to her workouts. The new muscle made her even more beautiful, as far as Duberman was concerned. He fetched the list for her.

“Take a look.”

She scanned the list. “Wells? Good. I hope he comes by, so I can meet him.”

“Chop chop?” Duberman raised his hands, a mock karate stance.

“No fancy moves for him. Just a bullet in his head.” She turned for the doorway. “I’m taking a shower. When you’re done in here, you should get wet, too.”

“I have a meeting in an hour.”

“Fifty-five minutes more than you’ll need.”

“Shameless,” Gideon said.

Orli waved at him as she walked out.

“That she is,” Duberman said. But he understood. Beauty conferred all manner of privileges, including the chance to express desire frankly. Put more bluntly, who didn’t want to hear a supermodel talk dirty? He scurried after her to their private quarters.

—

A
N HOUR LATER
and much relaxed, he greeted Malcolm Garten in a meeting room whose centerpiece was a meticulously designed
six-foot-high model of the new Sky Tower. Garten didn’t reach the top of the model. He was a small, carefully groomed man, his blue suit pressed and his hair tightly combed. His jittery eyes betrayed his tension.

“Malcolm.”

“Mr. Duberman. Sir.”

“Sit. You look tired.”

Garten plopped down like all his muscles had given up at once. “I was up all night watching Cheung. Craziest run I’ve ever seen.”

“How many drinks did he have?” Duberman knew that Garten was desperate to tell him what Cheung had wanted. Better to slow him down.

“Seven or eight, all doubles. Whiskey.”

“Any drugs?”

“I don’t think so, no. His thing’s booze. After the fourth, I told the bartenders to water the next one down, but it didn’t fool him. He tossed it over his shoulder like a pinch of salt, made us bring a new one. By the end, he was completely gone. Could hardly talk. Cursed at the dealer when he lost, grabbed for his chips when he won.”

“He could still gamble, though.” Duberman wasn’t asking. They could always gamble. He’d once watched a poker player collapse onto the table during a hand. The guy insisted on finishing before admitting he was having a heart attack.

“Finally, he went to the bathroom. He was gone long enough that we wondered if we should send someone in. But he came out on his own. Talking about monkeys. It sounded like nonsense to me, and my Mandarin’s pretty good. I double-checked with Chou-Lai, and he agreed. Gibberish. I asked Cheung if he wanted to play anymore. He said no and cursed at me, told me I was trying to steal his money. At that point, I cleared out the room so it was just him and Chou and me.
We sat him down, got a couple of cups of coffee in him. It didn’t sober him up, but it perked him up, if you see what I mean.”

“Sure.”

“Then he started talking about wanting a woman. Chou said fine. And Cheung grabbed him and said no, Chou needed to understand, the ones before were all too old. Way too old. And the thing is, his taste runs young, anyway.”

“I know.”

“But we didn’t tell you, last time he was here, Chou took him where he goes when he’s got to push the limits. He told me afterward, Cheung picked out the youngest in the whole shop, fifteen or sixteen maybe. She looked like a boy. So if that’s way too old—”

Garten stared at the floor.

“I have four girls myself, sir. These guys, they want drugs, they want an orgy, they want dog meat with a side of shark fin, I’ll chalk it up to human nature. Not pedophilia. Maybe Chou doesn’t care, but I do.”

“You’re sure that’s what he wanted.”

“Yes, sir. Chou told him unripe fruit could make him sick and he said no, he didn’t care, the smaller, the better. The more tender. I didn’t know what to say. Thank God, he passed out.”

“Where is he now?”

“We put him in his suite on forty-two. Guards outside. They’ll text me if he tries to leave.”

Duberman sat beside Garten, patted his shoulder. “Sounds like it was a tough situation and you handled it great.”

“Thank you, sir. So now what?”

Duberman knew what he ought to say.
Cheung crossed the line. Sixteen is one thing, that’s the age of consent lots of places. Even fifteen. But this,
no. It’s not just illegal. It’s immoral. We’ll make sure he never comes back to 88 Gamma.

“Here’s what I think. Based on how much he drank, he’ll sleep all day, wake up with the worst headache of his life. He won’t even remember what happened, and if he does, he’ll be ashamed. When he wakes up, show him what he won. I’ll bet he’ll bank the winnings and go home.”

“Do I tell him he’s banned?”

“No, nothing like that. As far as I’m concerned he drank too much, made a mistake. We’ll leave it there. We’re not in the business of shaming our customers.”

“So what happens next time?”

“I promise, we’ll never help him with anything like that.”

“Because he’s going to ask again.”

“Malcolm, I need to know you’re on board.”

Garten stared at Duberman, fear and anger jostling in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. Duberman understood. He couldn’t afford to quit. Not with four kids at home.

“Say it for me.”

“I’m on board.” The words choked out.

“It goes without saying, you keep this to yourself.”

“Count on that.” Garten couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Duberman let the insubordination pass. If and when Cheung came back, he would keep Garten away.

“Good. Go back to Macao. Get some sleep.”

“Yessir.” Garten stood, walked out with slow careful steps, like he was eighty and not forty. He didn’t look back. When he was gone, Duberman sat alone staring at Hong Kong, thinking about the real source of his fortune, a dead wiseguy named Jimmy the Roller.

—

T
HIS WAS THE EARLY EIGHTIES
. Las Vegas still felt like the frontier. Barely a half-million people lived in all of Clark County, huddled together against the heat and the scorpions. But for the first time, the FBI was putting pressure on the local Mob. Jimmy and his buddies were trying to move into legit businesses. Motels that rented by the hour. Football hotlines promising winners for the low, low price of $4.99 a minute.
We are 8–1 this
year on Monday night, best record anywhere, call now for
this week’s lock . . .

Okay, maybe semi-legit.

The origins of Jimmy’s nickname were lost to history. Depending on his mood, Jimmy claimed it came from the five-figure roll of cash he carried, to the late-night visits—
rolls—
he paid unlucky debtors, or to his forearms, sticks of solid muscle that indeed resembled oversized rolling pins. A trip to a pizzeria downtown had opened Jimmy’s eyes to the nickname’s possibilities.
Must have been ’75, that idiot Ford was President, I’m at this joint on Fremont. The owner says “Hey, Roller,” waves the pin at me. Hits me, I gotta carry one of those, it’d be perfect. Not just because it matches my name, unnerstan’? My business, I don’t want to kill you because then how you gonna pay? I smack you with that thing it doesn’t kill you, doesn’t even put you in the hospital, it just hurts like a—

No one argued the logic.

Duberman came to Jimmy with eyes open. He wasn’t desperate in the conventional sense. He wasn’t a degenerate gambler or a husband who needed to pay a pregnant stripper to leave town. He wanted to buy a casino. One-third of a casino, to be precise. A dump in Reno called the Sizzlin’ Saloon. Two hundred and ninety-five rooms, sixteen blackjack tables. Duberman was a young manager at Flamingo Hilton, known for his hard work and his eye for showgirls.

He should have waited his turn at Hilton, worked his way up. But even by Vegas standards, he was ambitious and impatient. The Saloon was run-down and barely breaking even. But it had a great location, down the block from a new Harrah’s. Duberman
knew
he could turn it around. At two and a half mil, it was a steal. Not even ten grand a room. He found two more guys at Hilton to take the chance with him, managers in their late forties whose careers had topped out. They had one question for him. Where would he get his share?

He told them not to worry.

To fight the Mob, Nevada had created a “black book,” formally called the Gaming Control Board Excluded Person List: wiseguys, cardsharps, and assorted ne’er-do-wells barred from setting their steel-toed shoes in any casino in the state. Smarter than his buddies, Jimmy had stayed off the list. Nothing kept him from exercising his God-given right to throw chips on a table and pray for rain. Twice a month he stopped by the Flamingo for blackjack and craps. Despite his famous bankroll, he gabbed more than gambled. Duberman suspected that Jimmy was prospecting for business, guys who needed quick cash, and not hundreds of dollars but thousands or tens of thousands.

In his effort to go straight-ish, Jimmy had hooked up with Clark International Depository Trust. The bank’s lofty name belied the fact that its branch network consisted of two dingy storefronts in North Las Vegas. Jimmy found borrowers to sign promissory notes with Clark at ruinous rates. He and his friends put up a third of the cash and made sure the loans didn’t bust. In turn, they received half the profits, plus a chunk of the bank. A fine deal for all involved, long as Jimmy convinced his clients to repay their debts. Thus the rolling pin.