The survivor

Thursday
Twenty-Seven

Six thousand, three hundred and ninety-six miles away, in the entertainment district of Macau, Hong Kong, the Man with the Bamboo Spine sat in a stiff-backed chair made of black walnut wood and dyed-black leather. Cigarette smoke floated all around him.

It was ten p.m., local time, and the night was only beginning on the sixth floor of the Hotel Lisbon. This was the Lotus Flower Room. The deep red walls and ornate golden decor gave away the location to anyone who understood the significance.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine was not alone. Six men sat at the table with him. Four were Chinese, and two were white. The white guys had already laid down their hands.

The game was Texas Holdem. Once non-existent in Macau, it had caught on like wildfire. And the Man with the Bamboo Spine was pleased with the game, not only because he enjoyed it, but because he was very, very good at it. He was already up forty K. And this hand was going well.

His face helped him win. It was poker perfect. The disease had made sure of that, pulling back his skin so tight that expressions did not display across his harsh angular features. With eyes as black as oil sludge, he waited his opponent out.

‘Drink, sir?’

He turned his head and spotted the waitress, a diminutive girl with a pretty face and large fake breasts.

‘Hot water.’

The waitress hurried off across the room, her black high-heels clicking loudly on the marbled floor.

Across the table, the younger man finally bet. He was then checked by the big blind, and the Man with the Bamboo Spine raised them both. By the end of the round, the pot was past two hundred K and rising, and the last card could not have been a better one. King of hearts, completing the royal flush. He had the best hand of his life.

Then his cell rang.

Only one person ever called this phone. It existed for one purpose. So when it went off, a loud but ordinary ring, the Man with the Bamboo Spine put his cards down flat on the table and picked up. He listened for less than ten seconds, said, ‘Yes,’ and hung up.

With a royal flush for his hand and over four hundred thousand dollars in the pot, the Man with the Bamboo Spine stood up from the table and said, ‘Fold.’ Without another word, he took the elevator down to the ground floor where his driver was waiting.

It would take him twelve and a half hours to reach Vancouver, Canada, and the length of time was disconcerting.

Every minute was precious.