SHALL WE PLAY A GAME?

A true tale of ‘near-crime’ in the Far East…

The first morning I awoke in the city of Vientiane, in (The People’s Democratic Republic of) Laos, I eschewed sightseeing and went searching for better internet. That’s part of the daily ritual in southeast Asia — ‘connection’ is gold when you’re a stranger in a strange land, and solid wifi bars piggybacking on a satellite feed are like hitting the motherlode.

Found a good coffee shop (read: French — colonialism has its rewards, and a quality macchiato with authentic croissants is high on that list), and was having a smoke outside. Marlboro Golds are $1.50 a pack, so I was indulging in cancerous economics of scale.

A pair of women walked by (late 20’s? You can never really tell in this part of the world), and began talking with me. They seemed fixated with my biceps — flattery will get you everywhere when you’re teetering on the tipping point of middle age — and really happy that I wasn’t the usual ‘snobby European’.

“We want to show you Laos hospitality, since you are so nice. Come to lunch at our sister’s!”

I said: “Hmmm…well…I reallllllly need to work. It’s important.”

“Oh come on…only one or two hour. We pay for Tuk-Tuk there…you pay back. Great lunch. Meet family. Tell us about Vancouver, because our sister is going there in March” (that was what started our conversation on the street)

I said: “Okay, but if you poison me, I hope you get good price for my passport.”

They laughed, one of them called me ‘adorable’, and I went with them to the suburbs. I stepped through an iron security gate and into a sitting room. An older woman — maybe 40? — met me, gave me strong coffee, and started asking about my rainy Canadian home.

The other girls were like: “Don’t drink coffee until we do — then you know it’s not poison. We put food on table. You relax…you the man.” These are things that don’t tend to happen in the other (ie: my) hemisphere. You wouldn’t hear me complaining.

Before eating, their older brother came downstairs. He looked a little high. Opium’s as common as green tea and caramel-topped frappucinos in these parts, but seemed friendly enough. He was a big guy. Stocky. Receding hairline. Definitely looked like he could handle himself, and had many times before. Whenever he spoke, all the girls were silent. I guess you could say that he was ‘the man’, no matter how much I wanted to be.

During lunch (fried fish, curried beef, noodles and pig liver, coconut sticky rice with brown sugar) he asked me what my job was. I said I was a writer. I asked his. He said he was a blackjack dealer in the VIP room at a casino here, and had worked in Macau for 7 years before. That’s no small pond.

He asked if I played. I said that I did, and remembered painful losses at the tables in Aruba in my late teens. (at least the drinks were free, and some divorcees from NY thought of me as their rabbit’s foot).

He asked if my math was good. I said that it was. He told me how — if he likes someone — they can come into the casino to his table, and he can help them make big money, which they split 50/50.

“I help man from Indonesia win 50K last night, and he only gives me 5% back!!! I would love revenge against him soon.”

Then he tells his sister to make me a strong coffee, and invites me upstairs to see his ‘system’. One of the younger sisters — the super flirty one with the doe eyes and the Hans Christen Andersen witch’s mole on her upper lip — comes to watch. I sit in a small bedroom with a foldout card table, a metal box of betting chips, and a deck of cards.

We play a few hands, and he shows me his system. It’s his way of counting cards, using hand and word signals, and leveraging the house rules in one’s favour. He says I should come into the casino to make big money, and split 50/50.

“No camera in VIP room. Important people in Asia — government, celebrity, mafia — want to be private. Only use one deck, so easy to count cards.”

I learn everything, thank him, and say that maybe one night I will come in, but I have so little money at present.

“It’s okay…I can front you money if you come, and then we split winning. I can’t play in Asia, as I am official dealer. They would know.” He pulls his thumb across his throat, and I’m suddenly reminded of my old professional wrestling hero (with a murder-suicide legacy) Chris ‘the Crippler’ Benoit.

The doorbell rings.

Big sister (who made lunch) says “Your other guest is here.”

It’s the man from Indonesia. The one who shafted the dealer. He’s here on an unscheduled visit to gamble more and make a payback plan for the casino later that night. He’s a short man, sporting an expensive-looking grey suit, scarlet tie and kercheif, alligator briefcase, slick silver-black hair, diamond jewelry, and manicured hands. His eyes are beady. Piercing. Scary, pinprick pupils. He reminds me of a starving pig who has just smelled a fresh pail of slop being dumped in his trough, and you’re the one standing in the way of it. His welcoming smile is a little too big.

He sits at table and says: “So…are you here to play too? We play.”

The dealer says to him: “This Canadian…he already lose 5K this morning, so maybe he want to stop.”

Then he winks at me. The dealer fucking winks at me. I start feeling VERY uncomfortable.

The Indonesian says: “You stay…we MUST play.”

He opens his briefcase. It’s full of cash — easily $50K US— and a small handgun. I’d tell you it was a snubnose .38 to sound cool…but all I know is it had a handle, a muzzle, and a trigger.

They’re both looking at me. The dealer’s too big to take out, and I see him watching my hands. The slick man is just a twitch away from grabbing the gun. I sense people in the doorway behind me, and the room goes cold. I won’t be fighting my way out of this.

I only have one card to play from my own deck — the earnest, naive Canadian card.

I say: “I’d love to…but I am writing a book. If I don’t send the latest to my publisher by midnight PST — which is one hour from now — I will lose my advance. This is really important to me — it’s my life’s work.”

The tiny Indonesian pig-man laughs loud, and the dealer does too. The room goes even colder.

The little sister beside me goes quiet, wrings her hands, and lowers her head. The brother says something to the sister. The older sister steps forward, blocking the exit was a curved paring knife and a plate of browning apple slices.

I stand.

“No disrespect. I am here for three more days. We could meet at the casino…when I have better clothes and finish my work. They’ll be worried if I don’t meet my deadline for the book. They’ll know something is wrong, and call my hotel to hunt for me.”

The slick man narrows his eyes and leans forward.

“You come tomorrow. 1pm. Promise.”

He shakes my hand.

I nod…leave the room…go downstairs…and remind everyone of my deadline.

They call a tuk-tuk taxi, and encourage me to stay inside out of the sun. I tell them I LOVE sunshine — it’s like summer here for me! — and head outside. Quickly.

I wait on the street, and a tuk-tuk comes. The girls hop in with me. They say something to him. I say: “Fountain — 50Thousand Kip” ($6 US). He takes me to this central Vientiane landmark — a place with lots of foreign and local witnesses — and I get out. I shake the girls’ hands, and wish them well with a big, cheery, ‘nice to meet ya, eh!’ Canuckian smile.

The little sister with the big eyes and the glossy lips and the bicep kudos and the spider-legged mole hugs me. She pulls me close, squeezes my arms, and whispers in my ear:

“I think you like Robert Downey Jr. Iron Man. Good actor. Very good.”

The tuk-tuk pulls away, and I beat it down an alley in the opposite direction.

Two hours later, I’m kissing my instincts on the mouth…and booking the next bus to a harmless, scamless, hippie enclave in the south.

Welcome to Asia, bitches. Better keep your wits close, and in a bulletproof carry-on.