9
Nick
•
MACAU
“Please tell me we’re not riding in one of those,” Mehmet Sabançi grimaced to Nick as they disembarked from the plane and saw the fleet of matching white stretch Rolls-Royce Phantoms awaiting them.
“Oh, this is typical Bernard,” Nick smiled, wondering what Mehmet, a classics scholar who hailed from one of Istanbul’s most patrician families, made of the sight of Bernard Tai emerging from a limo in a mint-green chalk-striped blazer, orange paisley ascot, and yellow suede loafers. The only son of Dato’ Tai Toh Lui, Bernard was famed for his “brave sartorial statements” (as Singapore Tattle so diplomatically put it) and for being Asia’s biggest bon vivant, perpetually hosting wild parties at whatever louche jet-set resort was in fashion that year—always with the hippest DJs, the chillest drinks, the hottest babes, and, many whispered, the best drugs. “Niggas in Macauuuuw!” Bernard exulted, raising his arms rapper style.
“B. Tai! I can’t believe you made us fly in this old sardine can! Your G5 had a time-to-climb I could grow a beard in! We should have taken my family’s Falcon 7X,” Evan Fung (of the Fung Electronics Fungs) complained.
“My dad’s waiting for the G650 to launch into service, and then you can kiss my ass, Fungus!” Bernard retorted.
Roderick Liang (of the Liang Finance Group Liangs) chimed in, “I’m a Bombardier man myself. Our Global 6000 has such a big cabin, you can do backflips down the aisle.”
“Can you ah guahs stop comparing the size of your planes and let’s hit the casinos, please?” Johnny Pang (his mother is an Aw, of those Aws) cut in.
“Well guys, hold on to your balls, because I have a very special treat arranged for all of us!” Bernard declared.
Nick climbed wearily into one of the tanklike cars, hoping that Colin’s bachelor weekend would proceed without incident. Colin had been on edge all week, and heading to the gambling capital of the world with a group of testosterone-and-whiskey-fueled guys was a recipe for disaster.
“This wasn’t the Oxford reunion I was expecting,” Mehmet said to Nick in a low voice.
“Well, aside from his cousin Lionel and the two of us, I don’t think Colin knows anyone here either,” Nick remarked wryly, glancing at some of the other passengers. The lineup of Beijing princelings and Taiwanese trust-fund brats was definitely more Bernard’s crowd.
As the convoy of Rolls-Royces sped along the coastal highway that skirted the island, gigantic billboards flashing the names of casinos could be seen from miles away. Soon the gaming resorts came into view like small mountains—behemoth blocks of glass and concrete that pulsated with lurid colors in the midafternoon haze. “It’s just like Vegas, except with an ocean view,” Mehmet remarked in awe.
“Vegas is the kiddie pool. This is where the real high rollers come to play,” Evan remarked.
As the Rolls squeezed through the narrow lanes of Felicidade in Macau’s old town, Nick admired the colorful rows of nineteenth-century Portuguese shop houses, thinking that this could be a nice place to bring Rachel after Colin’s wedding. The limos finally pulled up in front of a row of dingy shops on rua de Alfandega. Bernard led the group into what appeared to be an old Chinese apothecary with scratched glass cabinets selling ginseng root, edible bird nests, dried shark fins, fake rhino tusks, and all manner of herbal curiosities. A few elderly ladies sat clustered in front of a small television set, watching a Cantonese soap opera, while a rail-thin Chinese man in a faded Hawaiian shirt leaned against the back counter eyeing the group with a bored look.
Bernard looked at the man and asked brashly, “I’m here to buy ginseng royal jelly.”
“What type you want?” the fellow said disinterestedly.
“Prince of Peace.”
“What size jar?”
“Sixty-nine ounces.”
“Let me see if we have some. Follow me,” the man said, his voice suddenly shifting into a rather unexpected Aussie accent. The group followed him toward the back of the shop and through a dim storeroom lined from floor to ceiling with neatly stacked rows of cardboard cartons. Every carton was stamped “China Ginseng for Export Only.” The man pushed lightly against a stack of wide boxes in the corner, and the whole section seemed to collapse backward effortlessly, revealing a long passageway glowing with cobalt-blue LED lights. “Straight through here,” he said. As the guys wandered down the passageway, the muffled roar became louder and louder, and at the end of the hall, smoked-glass doors parted automatically to reveal an astonishing sight.
The space, which resembled a sort of indoor gymnasium with bleachers on both sides of a sunken pit, was packed standing room only with a boisterous cheering crowd. Though they could not see past the audience, they could hear the blood-curdling growls of dogs tearing into each other’s flesh.
“Welcome to the greatest dogfighting arena in the world!” Bernard proudly announced. “They only use Presa Canario mastiffs here—they are a hundred times more vicious than pit bulls. This is going to be damn shiok, man!”
“Where do we place the bets?” Johnny asked excitedly.
“Er . . . isn’t this illegal?” Lionel asked, peering nervously at the main fighting cage. Nick could tell Lionel wanted to look away but found himself curiously drawn to the scene of two huge dogs, all muscle and sinew and fangs, rolling viciously in a pit smeared with their own blood.
“Of course it’s illegal!” Bernard answered.
“I don’t know about this, Bernard. Colin and I cannot risk being caught at some illegal dogfight right before the wedding,” Lionel continued.
“You are such a typical Singaporean! So damn scared of everything! Don’t be so fucking boring,” Bernard said contemptuously.
“That’s not the point, Bernard. This is just plain cruel,” Nick interjected.
“Alamak, are you a member of Greenpeace? You’re witnessing a great sporting tradition! These dogs have been bred for centuries in the Canary Islands to do nothing but fight,” Bernard huffed, squinting his eyes.
The chanting of the crowd became deafening as the match reached its grisly climax. Both dogs had clamped tightly onto each other’s throats, locked in a Sisyphean chokehold, and Nick could see that the skin around the brown dog’s throat was half torn off, flap-ping against the snout of the other dog. “Well I’ve seen enough,” he grimaced, turning his back on the fight.
“Come on, lah. This is a BACHELOR PARTY! Don’t shit on my fun, Nickyboy,” Bernard shouted over the chanting. One of the dogs gave a piercing shriek as the other mastiff snapped into the soft of its belly.
“There’s nothing fun about this,” Mehmet said firmly, nauseated by the sight of the fresh warm blood squirting everywhere.
“Ay, bhai singh, isn’t goat-fucking a tradition in your country? Don’t you all think goat pussy is the closest thing to real vag?” Bernard countered.
Nick’s jaw tightened, but Mehmet just laughed. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
Bernard flared his nostrils, trying to figure out whether he should feel insulted.
“Bernard, why don’t you stay? Those who don’t want to be here can head to the hotel first, and we can all meet up later,” Colin suggested, trying to play the diplomat.
“Suits me fine.”
“Okay, then, I’ll take the group to the hotel and we’ll meet up at—”
“Wah lan! I organized this specially for you, and you’re not staying?” Bernard sounded frustrated.
“Er . . . to be honest, I don’t care for this either,” Colin said, trying to look apologetic.
Bernard paused for a moment, supremely conflicted. He wanted to enjoy the dogfights, but at the same time he wanted everyone to witness the profuse ass-kissing he would receive from hotel management the minute they pulled up to the resort.
“’Kay lah, it’s your party,” Bernard muttered sulkily.
The sumptuous lobby of the Wynn Macau boasted a huge gilt mural on the ceiling that featured animals of the Chinese zodiac, and at least half the assembled group were relieved to be someplace where the animals were covered in twenty-two-carat gold instead of blood. At the reception desk, Bernard was having one of the classic fits he was renowned for the world over.
“What the fuck! I’m a VVIP here, and I booked the most expensive suite in this entire hotel almost a week ago. How can it not be ready?” Bernard raged to the manager.
“I do apologize, Mr. Tai. Checkout time for the Presidential Penthouse is four o’clock, so the previous guests have not yet vacated the room. But as soon as they do, we’ll have the suite serviced and turned around for you in no time at all,” the manager said.
“Who are these bastards? I’ll bet they’re Hongkies! Those ya ya Hongkies always think they own the world!”
The manager never broke his smile throughout Bernard’s tirade. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the business of Dato’ Tai Toh Lui’s son—the boy was such a bloody brilliant loser at the baccarat tables. “Some of the grand salon suites reserved for your party are ready. Please allow me to escort you there with a few bottles of your favorite Cristal.”
“I’m not going to dirty my Tod’s setting foot in one of those rat holes! I want my duplex or nothing,” Bernard said petulantly.
“Bernard, why don’t we visit the casino first?” Colin calmly suggested. “It’s what we would have done anyway.”
“I’ll go to the casino, but you guys need to give us the best private VVIP gambling salon right now,” Bernard demanded of the manager.
“Of course, of course. We always have our most exclusive gaming salon available to you, Mr. Tai,” the manager said deftly.
Just then, Alistair Cheng wandered into the lobby, looking slightly disheveled.
“Alistair, so glad you found us!” Colin greeted him heartily.
“Told you it wouldn’t be a problem. Hong Kong’s just thirty minutes away by hydrofoil, and I know Macau like the back of my hand—I used to skip school and come here all the time with my classmates,” Alistair said. He caught sight of Nick and went over to give him a hug.
“Aiyoh, how sweet. Is this your boyfriend, Nickyboy?” Bernard said mockingly.
“Alistair’s my cousin,” Nick replied.
“So you guys played with each other’s cocks while growing up,” Bernard taunted, laughing at his own joke.
Nick ignored him, wondering how it was possible that Bernard hadn’t changed one bit since they were in primary school. He turned back to his cousin and said, “Hey, I thought you were coming to visit me in New York this spring. What happened?”
“A girl happened, Nick.”
“Really? Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Her name’s Kitty. She’s an amazingly talented actress from Taiwan. You’ll meet her next week—I’m bringing her to Colin’s wedding.”
“Wow, I can’t wait to meet the girl who finally stole the heart-breaker’s heart,” Nick teased. Alistair was just twenty-six, but his baby-face good looks and laid-back persona had already made him renowned for leaving a trail of broken hearts all over the Pacific Rim. (Aside from ex-girlfriends in Hong Kong, Singapore, Thailand, Taipei, Shanghai, and one summer fling in Vancouver, a diplomat’s daughter at his college in Sydney famously became so obsessed that she attempted to overdose on Benadryl just to get his attention.)
“Hey, I heard you brought your girlfriend to Singapore too,” Alistair said.
“Word travels fast, doesn’t it?”
“My mum heard it from Radio One Asia.”
“You know, I’m beginning to suspect that Cassandra has me under surveillance,” Nick said wryly.
The group entered the sprawling casino where the gaming tables seemed to glow with a peachy, golden light. Colin crossed the opulent sea anemone–patterned carpet and approached the Texas hold ’em table. “Colin, the VIP salons are this way,” Bernard said, trying to steer Colin toward the sumptuous salons reserved for high rollers.
“But it’s more fun to play five-dollar poker,” Colin argued.
“No, no, we’re moguls, man! I created that whole scene with the manager just so we could score the best VIP room. Why would you want to mix with all these smelly Mainlanders out here?” Bernard said.
“Let me just play a couple of rounds here and then we’ll go to the VIP room, okay?” Colin pleaded.
“I’ll join you, Colin,” Alistair said, sliding into a seat.
Bernard smiled tightly, looking like a rabid Boston terrier. “Well I’m going to our VIP room. I can’t play at these kiddie tables—I only get hard when I’m betting at least thirty thousand per hand,” he said with a sniff. “Who’s with me?” Most of Bernard’s entourage peeled off with him, with the exception of Nick, Mehmet, and Lionel. Colin’s face clouded over.
Nick took the other seat beside Colin. “I have to warn you guys, two years in New York has made me quite a cardsharp. Prepare to be schooled by the master . . . Colin, remind me what game this is?” he said, trying to lighten the mood. As the dealer began to expertly flick the cards across the table, Nick quietly fumed. Bernard had always been a troublemaker. Why should things be any different this weekend?
SINGAPORE, 1986
It all happened so fast, the next thing Nick remembered was the feeling of cold damp mud against his neck and a strange face looking down on him. Dark skin, freckles, a shock of brownish-black hair.
“Are you okay?” the dark boy asked.
“I think so,” Nick said, his vision coming back into focus. His entire back was soaked in muddy water from being pushed into the ditch. He got up slowly and looked around to see Bernard leering at him, red-faced, arms crossed like an angry old man.
“I’m going to tell your mum that you hit me!” Bernard shouted at the boy.
“And I’m going to tell your mum that you’re a bully. Plus, I didn’t hit you—I just pushed you away,” the boy replied.
“It was none of your bloody business! I’m trying to teach this little dick here a lesson!” Bernard seethed.
“I saw the way you shoved him into the ditch. You could have really hurt him. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” the boy replied calmly, not the least intimidated by Bernard.
At that point, a metallic-gold Mercedes limousine pulled up to the driveway outside the school. Bernard glanced at the car briefly, and then turned back to Nick. “This isn’t over. Get ready for part two tomorrow—I’m really going to hun tum you!” He got into the backseat of the car, slammed the door, and was driven away.
The boy who had come to Nick’s rescue looked at him and said, “You okay? Your elbow’s bleeding.”
Nick looked down and noticed the bloody scrape on his right elbow. He wasn’t sure what to do about it. At any moment, one of his parents could arrive to pick him up, and if it happened to be his mother, he knew she would get all gan cheong if she saw him bleeding like this. The boy took a white, perfectly folded handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Nick. “Here, use this,” he said.
Nick took the handkerchief from his rescuer and held it to his elbow. He had seen this boy around. Colin Khoo. He had transferred in this semester, and he was hard to miss, with his deep-caramel skin and wavy hair with the strange light brown streak in the front. They weren’t in the same class, but Nick had noticed during PE that the boy had swim practice alone with Coach Lee.
“What did you do to piss off Bernard so much?” Colin asked.
Nick had never heard someone use the term “piss off” before, but he knew what it meant. “I caught him trying to cheat off my maths test, so I told Miss Ng. He got in trouble and was sent to Vice Principal Chia’s office, so now he wants to pick a fight.”
“Bernard tries to pick a fight with everyone,” Colin said.
“Are you good friends with him?” Nick asked carefully.
“Not really. His father does business with my family, so I’m told I have to be nice to him,” Colin said. “But to tell you the truth, I can’t really stand him.”
Nick smiled. “Whew! For a second I thought Bernard actually had one friend!”
Colin laughed.
“Is it true you’re from America?” Nick asked.
“I was born here, but I moved to Los Angeles when I was two.”
“What’s LA like? Did you live in Hollywood?” Nick asked. He had never met anyone his age who had lived in America.
“Not Hollywood. But we weren’t very far—we lived in Bel Air.”
“I’d like to visit Universal Studios. Did you ever see famous movie stars?”
“All the time. It’s no big deal when you live there.” Colin looked at Nick, as if assessing him for a moment, before continuing. “I’m going to tell you something, but first you have to swear not to tell anyone.”
“Okay. Sure,” Nick replied earnestly.
“Say, ‘I swear.’ ”
“I swear.”
“Have you heard of Sylvester Stallone?”
“Of course!”
“He was my neighbor,” Colin said, almost in a whisper.
“Come on, that’s bullshit,” Nick said.
“I’m not bullshitting you. It’s the truth. I have a signed photo from Stallone in my bedroom,” Colin said.
Nick jumped up onto the metal guardrail in front of the ditch, balancing himself nimbly on the thin railing as he moved back and forth like a tightrope walker.
“Why are you here so late?” Colin inquired.
“I’m always here late. My parents are so busy, sometimes they forget to pick me up. Why are you here?”
“I had to take a special test in Mandarin. They don’t think I’m good enough, even though I took classes every day in LA.”
“I suck at Mandarin too. It’s my least favorite subject.”
“Join the club,” Colin said, jumping up onto the railing with him. Just then, a large black vintage car pulled up. Ensconced in the backseat was the most curious woman Nick had ever seen. She was rotund with the most immense double chin, probably in her sixties, dressed entirely in black with a black hat and a black veil over her face, which was powdered an extreme shade of white. She looked like an apparition straight out of a silent film.
“Here’s my ride,” Colin said excitedly. “See you later.” The uniformed chauffeur got out and opened the door for Colin. Nick noticed that the car door opened opposite from the way other cars normally did—outward from the end nearest to the driver’s door. Colin climbed in beside the woman, who bent down to kiss him on the cheek. He looked out of the window at Nick, clearly embarrassed that Nick had witnessed this scene. The woman pointed at Nick, talking to Colin while the car idled. A moment later, Colin jumped out of the car again.
“My grandma wants to know if you need a ride home,” Colin asked.
“No, no, my parents are on their way,” Nick replied. Colin’s grandmother rolled down the window and beckoned Nick to come closer. Nick approached hesitantly. The old lady looked pretty scary.
“It’s almost seven o’clock. Who’s coming to fetch you?” she asked in concern, noticing that it was already getting dark.
“Probably my dad,” Nick said.
“Well, it’s far too late for you to be waiting here all by yourself. What is your daddy’s name?”
“Philip Young.”
“Good gracious, Philip Young—James’s boy! Is Sir James Young your grandfather?”
“Yes, he is.”
“I know your family very well. I know all your aunties—Victoria, Felicity, Alix—and Harry Leong’s your uncle. Why, we’re practically family! I’m Winifred Khoo. Don’t you live at Tyersall Park?”
“My parents and I moved to Tudor Close last year,” Nick replied.
“That’s very close to us. We live on Berrima Road. Come, let me call your parents just to make sure they are on their way,” she said, reaching for the car phone on the console in front of her. “Do you know your telephone number, dearie?”
Colin’s grandmother made fast work of it, and soon discovered from the maid that Mrs. Young had unexpectedly jetted off to Switzerland that afternoon, while Mr. Young was held up by a work emergency. “Please call Mr. Young at work and tell him that Winifred Khoo is going to be sending Master Nicholas home,” she said. Before Nick knew what was happening, he found himself inside the Bentley Mark VI, sandwiched between Colin and the well-cushioned lady in the black veiled hat.
“Did you know your mother was going away today?” Winifred asked.
“No, but she does that a lot,” Nick replied softly.
That Eleanor Young! So irresponsible! How on earth Shang Su Yi ever allowed her son to marry one of those Sung girls, I will never understand, Winifred thought. She turned to the boy and smiled at him. “What a coincidence! I’m so glad that you and Colin are friends.”
“We just met,” Colin interjected.
“Colin, don’t be rude! Nicholas is a classmate of yours, and we’ve known his family for a long time. Of course you are friends.” She looked at Nick, smiled her gum-baring smile, and continued. “Colin has made so few friends since moving back to Singapore, and he’s rather lonely, so we must arrange for you to play together.”
Colin and Nick sat there completely mortified, but in their own ways rather relieved. Colin was astonished by how friendly his normally disapproving grandmother was being toward Nick, especially since she had previously forbidden any guests at their house. He had recently tried to invite a boy from St. Andrew’s over after a swim meet and had been disappointed when his grandmama told him, “Colin, we can’t have just anyone over, you know. We must know who the family is first. This isn’t like California—you have to be so very careful about what sort of people you associate with here.”
As for Nick, he was just glad to be getting a ride home and excited that he might soon discover whether Colin really had an autographed photo of Rambo.