Ch. 63 – A Winning Hand Needs the Right Pieces

Tony’s phone started ringing again, and he got to his feet. His rubbed as his neck, which chafed from the sport jacket he had put on for the occasion—he’d bought the thing when he was younger and thinner. But hey, impressions were everything in the show business, which protesting counted as a part of. He breathed out and answered the call. Tony said.

Xian said.

Tony said. With age came a truckload of clumsiness. Or maybe that was just Tony specifically.

Xian lamented.

Tony asked. Tony laid a hand over one of the scars on his torso, which had been wet with blood while he wrestled in the dark with that damned Leopard, his cold knife sawing in and out of Tony like he was a hunk of meat.

Xian replied, stammering over himself.

Tony ended the call and stuffed the phone in his trouser pocket, and began lumbering toward the front door. The already taxing walk was made worse by the few props he’d prepared: a package full of Hack alley’s various overdue bills—some from utilities and such, but mostly from rent. They were mostly bills from Bernard, to be exact. And the poor fellow was dead center in Tony and Xian’s crosshairs.

Any merry old rebellion needed a good target. But since the Leopards were a scary group to oppose, they’d have to work up the crowd a bit before that was possible: give the good folks of Chinatown some confidence and energy. And who did everyone love to hate? Landlords. Good old Bernard had it coming.

Tony shivered in the fresh air, which at least partly numbed his neck to the chafing. Xian was waiting over by his car beyond the entrance to the alley, checking his phone, and rubbing his nose. He glanced up at Tony and stood there, smile on his face. He was savvy enough to let Tony keep his pride, and not come forward a few steps to guide him towards the car. Xian did open the passenger seat door, though, and Tony nodded in thanks, gripping on the car’s frame and crumbling a bit of the chipped paint off as he hoisted himself in.

Xian started the car and pulled away from Hack Alley, driving towards the seedier part of their already seedy Chinatown.

Tony asked.

Bernard wasn’t the only one who’d jacked up rent on his tenants. Derrick had been calling Hack Alley’s list of patients who were due for check-ups, and many of the patients, who had postponed appointments, or nixed them altogether, had mentioned their rent woes. The White Leopards were definitely putting the squeeze on all the landlords in the area.

Derrick had done his part, letting Tony know that Bernard had been double-dipping; the landlord had added an entire person’s worth of protection fee onto the rent, even though there was no way the Leopards had increased the Bernard’s protection fee by that much per property.

Bernard was sitting at his usual seat when the two of them entered the room. If he was healthier, Tony might’ve run over and grabbed Bernard by the collar to give him a scare—demanding an explanation—but instead they merely walked up to Bernard from behind and tapped his shoulder.

Bernard brushed them away while he took a drag from a cigarette. The smoke glided across his gold-rimmed glasses, which he kept pushing up with his cigarette hand. He kept reaching over to table to take Mahjong tiles— the curls of his greying permed hair bobbing up and down—as if nothing had happened, until Tony cleared his throat. Bernard asked.

Tony said, his voice bursting through the din of the clattering mahjong tiles, and idle conversation at the table. The other players at the table looked up, their hands slowing. Talk of rent had caught their attention right away.

Tony practically spat the last part, and heads all throughout the parlor looked from side to side, checking for a Leopard who might lose his shit at the insult.

Bernard said.

Xian asked, coming up from behind Tony.

Tony shouted, holding up the stack of bills he’d brought along and waiving them around, practically flinging them at the seated players as he spun around.

More and more eyes were on him now. People really loved to watch a ruckus. Tony took in as much air as he could, and let his eyes bug out, spraying spittle, and snapped his sport coat. Tony’s face scrunched up, and he let the tears flow, as he half-acted half-vented in front of the whole parlor. He choked on the last word, a clever improvisation that came from the real pain in his heart.

One of the players at Bernard’s table picked a bill up and squinted at the number, before turning to the man seated next to him and whispering.

Bernard pushed his glasses up and cleared his throat. Bernard said.

Tony pulled a chair off of a neighboring table, set it down right next to Bernard, and sat on it, squeezing himself in between Bernard and his protesting neighbor at the Mahjong table. Tony’s role was to play the blunt, belligerent drunk, and he was good at it.

Bernard tsked, and started moving his ashtray and drink out of the way of Tony’s elbow, but Tony grabbed Bernard’s bottle, and after a glance at the swirling white liquid, took a swig from it. It was just a swig, to get in character—that was all. The liquor’s burn hit his throat like scalding hot water from the shower spout: hot, but oh, so good. Tony asked.

Bernard tried to snatch the bottle away from Tony, but Tony straightened up and held it out like he was preparing a toast, and the bottle was instantly out of the reach of Bernard’s grubby little hands. Bernard took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke out his nostrils in a burst.

Tony squinted down at Bernard. Tony stood up with more gusto than he should’ve, and the sound of chairs scooting away came from behind him, as well as a wave of mutters, and some excited whispers. Bernard kept a straight face, but gripped his chair with white knuckles as he pushed his glasses up. He was a small man, but he shrank down even more as he avoided Tony’s gaze.

Tony looked around and started swaggering around the table, swinging his arms, and forcing a few mahjong players to duck or dodge.

The parlor full of Mahjong players murmured among themselves, and shot glances at Tony, although some were so absorbed in their games they continued to clack their pieces, even amid the room’s sudden change in mood.

One by one, most of the hands in the room went up. There were a few who had met his eyes, but were still keeping their hands down, which meant they had already paid out to the Leopards.

Xian stepped out in front of Tony. As planned, he would be taking the spotlight from here on out. Xian said, with the exact same tone of voice as he’d used when he’d been practicing the line at Hack Alley the day before.

a bald man asked. He was relatively young, amid the crowd of mostly middle-aged men and elderly.

Xian said.

The parlor broke into more murmuring.

a voice yelled out from the back. A man in a button-up shirt came running out from the back. It was the Mahjong Parlor owner. The shirt’s collar was stained with sweat, but it fit him well, at least.

Tony shrugged and pretended to focus on his bottle, which he had only taken one, tiny swig from, as the Parlor owner came up to him. He cleared his throat, and nudged Xian, who was about to start on another tirade about the Leopards.

Xian whipped his head around and stopped mid-sentence, before he slipped Tony a wink and put his hand on the Parlor owner’s shoulder. Xian said, almost bellowing, so that the whole shop could hear him.

The middle-aged men in the crowd grumbled in affirmation, and then people began to shuffle out of the parlor, following Xian, who pushed through the crowd, but kept a single, manicured hand up in the air, so people could spot him.

Tony slipped a few dollars into the Parlor Owner’s sweaty palm, and clapped him on the shoulder. Tony said, before following the rear of the crowd out into the street. It was a sight to see: a bunch of smoking, drinking men, emerging from a den of sin to organize a boycott against one of the largest, most vicious gangs in the New Shore City area, and the one that ruled Chinatown with an iron fist.