The first dish arrived, a cold appetizer plate with crunchy jellyfish and thinly sliced marbled ham and fat nuggets of smoked goose. Then double-boiled sharks’ fin soup. Then abalone with baby bok choy, crispy fried grouper, lacquered slices of Peking duck, all accompanied by more wine, this time a red Bordeaux.
Kaiser Shih ensured my plate was always full, repeatedly asking if I was enjoying the food. In truth, every morsel was too greasy and overseasoned, crossing the line from decadent to debauched.
The police chief and the vice mayor told loud stories in Cantonese—which I tried in vain to follow—that ended in backslapping, wild guffaws. They debated the handicapping tip sheets for upcoming races at the Macau Jockey Club, where they all appeared to be members. Linlin stifled a yawn and excused herself to go to the bathroom, and I wished I could get up and follow. But what would I say to her? What could we possibly have in common besides both wishing to be elsewhere?
The waitress brought bowls of chilled honeydew sago and a platter of cut fruits (which I awkwardly declined). Linlin returned to the table with fresh lipstick, and I suspected she must have sat on the commode scrolling through her phone to pass the time. Once the men had finished their dessert, the vice mayor ordered a round of cognac, a glass of which they forced on me.
A toast, he said. To new partnerships and new profits!
Everyone shouted, Gan bei!
My head spun in sluggish circles. Each blink was a battle to raise my eyelids. The waitress entered clutching the leather check holder, and I straightened, momentarily buoyed by having had the foresight to hand my credit card to the ma?tre d’ upon arrival.
But instead of bringing me the check, the waitress went to Boss Mak.
They know me here, he said, scrawling his name on the receipt. They’d never let you pay.
I told them Winnie had insisted.
Boss Lady can pay the next time she comes, said the police chief, whose skin tone by this point had darkened to maroon.
All at once I remembered the red envelopes I’d brought in my purse. I passed them out with both hands, saying, A small token from me and Fang Wenyi.
Boss Mak reached underneath the table and brought out an enormous shopping bag in that unmistakable shade of orange. And a present from us to you.
This, I hadn’t anticipated. I’d brought no other gifts and didn’t know what to do.
Open it, said the vice mayor.
Yes, urged Kaiser Shih and the police chief.
Even Linlin perked up.
The vice mayor asked the waitress to clear the dirty glasses, and she went one step further and laid clean white napkins over the soiled tablecloth. I set down the lightly grained orange box, undid the brown grosgrain ribbon, and folded back layers of white tissue.
A gasp escaped me. Nestled in the box was a rare crocodile Birkin 25, the color of merlot, of rubies, of blood. The men beamed at me, pleased with my astonishment. Linlin’s red-lacquered finger inched toward the bag. Boss Mak swatted her away.
I held the Birkin up to the chandelier. It seemed to pulse like a living, breathing thing. From every angle it appeared authentic, worth at least forty thousand dollars.
My vision blurred. I blinked a couple times. How did you get this?
Boss Mak said, I have a contact at the Zurich boutique. He winked. Even if ninety-nine percent of people can’t tell the difference between a real and a superfake, we can.
The bag was worth ten times the cash in all the red envelopes combined. That’s when I grasped just how determined Boss Mak was to join that transplant list. He smiled serenely at me, the very picture of a man who always got what he wanted.
Another toast, cried the vice mayor, who had at some point refilled our glasses. To friendships, old and new!
Gan bei, gan bei, gan bei!
After the cognac bottle had been emptied, we stood and gathered our things and rode the elevator to the ground floor. Linlin helped Boss Mak into the back of his Range Rover. I was scanning the parking lot for my driver when the police chief said, It’s not yet eleven, let’s hit the KTV lounge.
My eyes watered. I could have fallen asleep right there on the ground. I had to get up early to drive to Hong Kong for my grandma’s birthday. I said, I drank too much, I have jet lag, please, I can barely stand.
But they didn’t care. Kaiser Shih’s large hand clamped onto my wrist and pulled me along, saying he’d already texted my driver and sent him home. Someone pushed me into a roomy SUV, and I lay back, grateful for a place to rest my head.
Minutes later Kaiser Shih nudged me awake and guided me out of the car. A high-speed elevator spirited us skyward to a swanky lounge with sumptuous velvet couches and low mahogany tables scattered beneath fluorescent purple lights. The host led us to a private room with a pair of generous sofas facing a screen that filled the entire wall. Above our heads glinted a mini disco ball.
While the police chief passed out cigars, I went in search of the restroom and then to the bar for a double espresso, which the bemused bartender slid toward me. When I returned to the group, a waiter was setting down bottles of Dom Pérignon and Johnnie Walker Blue Label and yet another complimentary fruit platter. A treacly string intro filled the air, and the vice mayor sang tenderly about the lover who had walked out the door without so much as a glance. He had a pleasant baritone voice, warm and resonant, impossible to square with his coarse manners and loud clothes.
Halfway through the song, a gaggle of girls in identical black strapless sheaths with numbered tags pinned to their waists spilled through the door. Despite the heavy makeup, I could tell they were young, a few maybe even in their teens.
Out, out, the police chief said, waving his arms as if herding cattle.
Only karaoke tonight, said Kaiser Shih.
The girls sheepishly filed back through the door. The vice mayor kept singing without missing a beat.
The police chief exhaled a ring of cigar smoke and rolled his eyes. I already told them when we arrived, No girls.
Kaiser Shih handed me a glass of champagne, which I resolved not to drink, and said, Sorry about that.
I asked, What are the tags for?
He pretended not to understand the question.
The numbers. On the girls.
Oh, that. So you can request the girl you like. But I don’t know much about it, I only come to sing.
Is that how Boss Mak and Linlin met?
It was a sincere question, but Kaiser Shih snickered. Linlin has a college degree. She’d die if she heard you.
My headache surged back with a vengeance. I combed through my purse for the Advil bottle, before realizing I’d left it in the hotel room. I thought of the underage factory girls who longed to be waitresses who longed to be hostesses who longed to be mistresses of wealthy old men.
I really don’t feel well, I said to Kaiser Shih.
I must have looked deathly because instead of brushing it off, he put down his drink and said he’d call me a car.
The other two men were singing a duet with a swaying salsa beat. They waved and cheerfully told me, Take care, walk slowly, perhaps eager to call the girls back into the room.
Out on the sidewalk, I leaned against a pillar, clutching the orange shopping bag to my chest. When a blue sedan slowed, Kaiser Shih opened the passenger door.
I thanked him and shook his hand.
Until next time, he said.
My chest constricted. I ducked into the car and doubled over, slashed by the knowledge that I was, irrevocably, one of them now.
What other shady business dealings did these men have their hands in? Horse betting, casinos, perhaps other forms of counterfeits—electronics, pharmaceuticals, worse? Winnie had never voiced any interest in branching out from handbags, but I’d seen how impossible it was to walk away from a profit, how even the firmest moral boundaries could stretch and tear.