Solomon liked his boss; everyone did. He was lucky to be one of Kazu’s boys and to be invited to the famous monthly poker games. There were guys in Kazu’s team who had worked for Travis for ten years and had never been asked. Whenever Phoebe said Japanese people were racist, Solomon would bring up Etsuko and Kazu as personal evidence for his argument to the contrary. Etsuko was the obvious example of a Japanese person who was kindhearted and ethnically unbiased, but Phoebe barely understood her, since Etsuko’s English was terrible. Kazu was Japanese, and he had been far kinder to Solomon than most Koreans in Japan, who had occasionally eyed him with suspicion as a wealthy man’s son or as competition at school. Yes, some Japanese thought Koreans were scum, but some Koreans were scum, he told Phoebe. Some Japanese were scum, too. There was no need to keep rehashing the past; he hoped Phoebe would get over it eventually.
It was time to discard, take new cards, and place bets. Solomon threw away a useless nine of diamonds and a two of hearts, then picked up the jack and a three he needed for a full house. Luck had never left him. Whenever Solomon played cards, he felt strong and smooth, like he couldn’t lose; he wondered if he felt this way because he didn’t care about the money. He liked being at the table; he liked the bullshit guy talk. With this hand, he had a solid chance at the current pot, which was easily over a hundred thousand yen. Solomon bet thirty thousand. Louis and Yamada-san, the Japanese Aussie, folded, leaving Solomon, Ono, Giancarlo, and Kazu. Ono’s face was blank and Giancarlo scratched his ear.
Ono bet another twenty thousand, and immediately, Kazu and Giancarlo folded. Giancarlo said, laughing, “You two are assholes.” He took a long sip of his whiskey. “Are there any more of those chicken things on sticks?”
“Yakitori,” Kazu said, “You live in Japan; dude, learn what to call chicken on a stick.”
Giancarlo gave him the finger, smiling and revealing his short, even teeth.
Kazu signaled to the waiter and ordered for everyone.
It was time to show hands, and Ono only had two pairs. He’d been bluffing.
Solomon fanned out his cards.
“You son of a bitch,” Ono said.
“Sorry, sir,” Solomon said, sweeping the money toward him in an easy, practiced manner.
“Never apologize for winning, Solly,” Kazu said.
“He can apologize a little for taking my money,” Giancarlo retorted, and the others laughed.
“Man, I can’t wait until I put you on one of my deals. You will be hanging out with boxes of due diligence all fucking weekend, and I will make sure you only get ugly girls to work with,” Ono said. He had a doctorate in economics from MIT and was on his fourth marriage. Each successive wife was even more gorgeous than the prior one. As a very senior electronics banker during the Japan boom, he had made obscene money and still worked without stopping. Ono said that the purpose of hard work was simple: Sex with pretty women was worth whatever it took.
“I will find the worst deal with the maximum diligence. Just for you, my little friend.” Ono rubbed his hands together.
“He’s taller than you,” Giancarlo said.
“Status trumps size,” Ono replied.
“Gomen nasai, Ono-san, gomen nasai.” Solomon bowed theatrically.
“Don’t worry about it, Solly,” Kazu said. “Ono’s got a heart of gold.”
“Not true. I’m capable of holding a grudge and taking vengeance at the most opportune moment,” Ono said.
Solomon raised his eyebrows and shivered. “I’m just a boy, sir,” he pleaded. “Have mercy.” He proceeded to make neat stacks of cash in front of him. “A rich boy who deserves some mercy.”
“I heard you were filthy rich,” Giancarlo said. “Your dad’s a pachinko guy, right?”
Solomon nodded, not sure how he knew.
“I used to date a hot Japanese hapa who played a lot of pachinko. She was an expensive habit. Figures you know how to gamble. It must be that clever Korean blood,” Giancarlo said. “Man, that girl used to go on and on about the tricky and smart Koreans who owned all the parlors and made fools out of the Japanese—but, man, she used to do this crazy thing with her tits when—”
“Impossible,” Kazu said. “You never dated a hot girl.”
“Yeah, you got me, sensei. I dated your wife, and she’s not very hot. She’s just a real—”
Kazu laughed. “Hey, how ’bout if we play poker?” He poured soda into his whiskey, lightening the color considerably. “Solly won fair and square.”
“I’m not saying anything bad. It’s a compliment. The Koreans here are smart and rich. Just like our boy Solomon. It wasn’t like I was calling him a yakuza! You’re not going to get me killed, are you, Solly?” Giancarlo asked.
Solomon smiled tentatively. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard these things, but it had been a very long while since anyone had mentioned his father’s business. In America, no one even knew what pachinko was. It was his father who’d been confident that there would be less bigotry at the offices of a Western bank and had encouraged him to take this job. Giancarlo wasn’t saying anything different from what other middle-class Japanese people thought or whispered; it was just strange to hear such a thing coming from a white Italian who had lived in Japan for twenty years.
Louis cut the cards, and Kazu shuffled and dealt the guys a fresh hand.
Solomon had three kings, but he discarded them one by one in three consecutive rounds, then folded, losing about ten thousand yen. At the end of the night, he paid the tab. Kazu said he wanted to talk to him, so they walked out to the street to hail a taxi.
17
You lost on purpose. The three kings came from you,” Kazu said to Solomon. They were standing outside the izakaya building. Kazu lit a Marlboro Light.