The Man Game (43 page)

Do you think the tunnels still exist?

Ken said no, he didn't think they did. They were like the workers' tunnels for the early sewers, he explained. They had the Chinese labourers and the prison chain gang make the whole thing.

Did you know, he said to Minna, that your mouth is shaped like an infinity symbol when you smile?

Who, me? said Minna, wrinkling her nose. Her percipient mind still enjoyed shallow compliments. I knew the bowl of her vanity was deep enough to hold many more gushes than that
clever little sputtering compliment. My only chance was to get her away.

Moving upstream, I started to say: Actually, I just remembered how I got that bed—

Ken cut me off: Check this out, I found this a little while ago.

We peered into an old tin can. Inside it was something made out of clay or the like.

What is it? Minna asked.

The mummified body of a canary. It's wrapped in old newspapers, he said.

That's so biz
ar
re.

I found it all in a small pink purse—from around the 1880s, Ken guessed, by looking at the can. The newspaper had long since faded and crumbled into illegibility. When I poked my head in and took a second look I realized that it was indeed a small bird. Its eyes were shut. Even more delicate in death than in life, with just the slightest shade of yellow left on its dried body—I was visibly moved.

What a you think it is? I asked.

Ken explained that he believed it was the pet of a girl at the Wood's brothel. And he knew this because of something to do with one of the tunnels, but I wasn't listening carefully enough to understand how the path that led from the Stag & Pheasant to a VIP gambling room in the coach house behind Wood's whorehouse had anything to do with a mummified canary.

The day after the man game RH celebrated the snakehead's departure with a day of opium and hashish in a slumhouse, and then, after stumbling across the street, celebrated further with a poker game in the coach house behind Wood's.

He heard the canary in the distance, peeping from a window on the second floor. The Whore Without A Face's canary. It whistled a brief melancholy scale once a minute. No man had ever set eyes on the bird, nor on its owner.

RH played poker with Mayor McLean, the successful Jewish capitalist Oppenheimer, and George Black, the local butcher. Weak competitors, weaker men still. His mind was stretched like a cat's cradle between their hands. It was chilly along the floor and too warm around head level. The cigarsmoke was a mask. He had to think fast. At the moment he had a pair of Queens in his pocket and the ante was high.

Quite a riot your city's lumbermen held not long ago, yes? said RH, looking to his own chipstack. Right under our noses. Fools and their pranks. Disturbs the semblance we once had a order and discipline around here. And all these men stomping around on precious real estate. Almost wondered if these activities are being condoned.

The mayor, seated at RH's right, knew the comment was intended for his ears. He said: What's that supposed to mean, eh? Now, listen, RH, I just heard aboot this myself only a few hours ago. Asking around, by all accounts what you're talking aboot was just some whisky party with a bit more dancing than usual. Ha ha. Your riot. You make it sound like we're all going to get our throats slit because a couple guys started lobbing fists.

The mayor was a rough man underneath his thin skin of political pretense, and Alexander enjoyed flushing out his true self, a salesman.

Perhaps you're right, and what would I know aboot the mind a these woodsmen? I've so little experience. But these gatherings seem to be more and more frequent, if I'm not mistaken. If memory serves, said Alexander, the paper reported six hundred citi
z
ens out to cheer the departure a those twenty coolies last month.

I read the same. Old news, grunted the mayor.

The round of betting done, everyone paid to see the flop.

Quite a fearsome group, I dare say, said RH. Why, I dare say there wasn't six hundred
teeth
among two hundred ruffians that day.

Ha ha, said George Black, that's a laugh.

I remember more support, though I hardly worry, said the mayor.

Twenty Chinamen received more public support than the vote.

What?

The total, what was it again? Five hundred, give or take the men you convinced to vote twice.

More old news. RH, please, play cards. Why bring this up again, after all? Do I come
here
to talk aboot the el
ec
tion, no. Your theories don't hold water with me, never have. Let a sleeping dog …

Ah, yes. What was it? We're all North American
China
men.

You
said
it, not me, said the mayor. Well, al
as
, popular opinion wasn't on your side. What can I say?

Oppenheimer slid four more red chips in after his first three and leaned back fraudulently.

George Black squinted at the flop, the cards remained wrong. RH's mouth was dry and he broke a sweat. He was about to trap them all, in cards, in life, all of it in his pocket. Even his enemies would do as they were told. Lying to the mayor, he said: I never
said
it myself, but it has a certain eloquence. It's true, isn't it? I can at least appreciate … and—, well, regardless a the words exactly … one can twist any words to smear a man with magnanimous intentions for his people.

The mayor squeezed his forehead. Time stands still for you, does it, RH? The vote is over. Try again next time. At least a hundred men heard you say those words, and were—

Again your numbers. Twenty-five men at a union meeting.

And they hear—

They misrepresent a comment I made, foolishly attempted to reason with your klans—. Does this mean you're going to hold a parade every time you run another dozen Chinamen out town?

I believe it's worth the effort, said the mayor, scratching his unnecessary cummerbund. I'm sorry we disagree on the issue, my friend. May we continue—

A handful a Chinamen? Hardly worth the blink a your brown eye.

An inferior race overrunning our country? Never happen on my clock.

I'm a capitalist, not a Cassandra, said Alexander. I only know they have inferior bargaining power, which my accounts department approves of.

You're completely backwards. This must be why Hastings Mill is plagued with strikes. It's your own damn blood you've given inferior bargaining power. And I shouldn't need to remind everyone how your accounts department is a disembodied head.

Oppenheimer choked on his hair tonic.

All this effort to rid us a our best economic asset against Ontario, said RH. It's interesting, and yet you ignore the threat posed by dissidents within our White population.

Men, said George Black. How's aboot some poker? Alexander, it's your—

Yes, I'm tired a prattle, said the mayor. If I wanted prattle I'd be home with my wife.

Yes, ahem, said RH, feigning a last look at the top corners of his cards, seeing Oppenheimer's raise, and doubling it. If he read his mates, they weren't expecting him to go large. He had the cards. His nerves hit full gallop as half a minute elapsed in no time. Not giving the mayor a chance to think, RH said: So am I to assume you know aboot this lurid game the men in this town are at, very indecent and anarchistic, I should add.

Yes, I had the unfortunate occasion a seeing it one time a while back. Heard it's pretty popular with skid road types. The mayor spoke while he fondled his chips. All this talk, RH. What barn are you circling? This game you keep talking aboot, I've wanted to mention the same to you—. Say, what are you up to?

I should ask you the same.

Aren't the crowds mostly men from your mill? Including Chinamen in the gambling, too, I hear. And Litz and Pisk, the players, aren't these bohunks your employees?

Former, said RH.

George Black sloughed his cards across the table after a torturous decision no one noticed. I fold, he said.

Ah,
my
responsibility? Alexander was irked by the moisture around his collar that made him twist his head. Does
my
jurisdiction suddenly extend beyond the—the—

The mayor was stacking and restacking his chips, said: I see now what you're after. You want me to take care a this mess for you? He shook his head with fatherly disdain. Why not say so?

Pardon?

Don't come walking in all proud to me when you're pussyfooting around for a favour.

I beg your pardon?

You want me to clean up your mess, right? That's what you're asking?

I'm not in charge a the
law
, said Alexander, stiffly. If you're content to see mobs a men gambling openly in the streets, and the indecency. This is crime, not a mess. My employees are your citizens. What they do—

Ah, said Oppenheimer, to see a strong man broken by a criminal habit, that's a sadness, that's a pity. He shook his head. The easy way to money never pays. Nothing saves like hard work.

RH agreed vigorously: Indeed, indeed.

The mayor muttered and punched himself in the head. You deal with Chinamen, you deal with snakeheads … I don't know, RH … He measured his chips in smacking stacks of five. He saw Oppenheimer's raise and Alexander's raise, pushing a few paltry chip towers into the middle of the table. The mayor looked Alexander in the eyes and said: All in.

All in? said Oppenheimer. His head fell back. All in, ay-ay-ay, I'm all in. One thing I hate is all in. Yeah, you heard me, I'm all in, too, you bastard.

George Black said: Glad I got out when I did.

Oppenheimer said: I want these steamers to battle it out. This kind of poker isn't what I came for anyway.

Ha ha ha, said George Black. That's right. Let's see some blood. Come on, Alexander, call. Put your money where your mouth is.

RH made a quick estimate. If the mayor won, he was out. Was it worth the risk? He'd liked his hand a lot until
the mayor went all in. On the flop, Oppenheimer started the betting after they all saw a Queen of spades, as well as a ten and an eight of spades. Alexander knew from memory that his pocket cards were Ace, King of spades—beautiful black royalty. A flush on the flop, he felt quite confident to bet high and see who got scared, see who was still chasing. It seemed to Alexander that the mayor was using the off-chance he had the straight flush to make him fold a strong hand.

RH said: All in.

The mayor nodded cosmically, and said: Good, let's see their faces. He turned his cards over, Jack and nine of spades—straight flush.

All told, RH lost two dollars. It was getting late he had to go, klahowya. It was on to Peggy for yet another chance to spread open his wallet and get fucked out of his money.

While the mayor expanded his empire of chipstacks, Alexander's knees cracked as he stood to leave. The mayor said: Pleasure to see you as always, RH.
And
I will consider what can be done aboot your problem.

They shook hands.

I'd recommend the man game be outlawed, RH said from the doorway as he casually beheaded a fresh cigar.

You would, eh?

Yes. First, it is indecent, and second, it promotes gambling. Promotes gambling, the mayor said with a chuckle, twisting his own cigar in his mouth. Promotes
assimilation
more like … well, I'll look into it.

As he left the coach house, RH took a moment to breathe the night air. It was a night of daunting shades. The barebones trees pleaded for leaves. They wore raggedy crinolines of fog. Weather was a greater force than any other on earth. This morning he'd predicted to his wife a cold evening. Instead it was relatively warm and foggy. He walked up to the porch and opened the back door to Wood's, stood in the cloak room, and held his breath. Going from the pure clean air of British Columbia to the smog of human lust, even for a regular, took
some acclimatizing. As the eyes required adjustment to the darkness, so did the nose.

In the smoking parlour at the other end of a house decorated in King George's castoffs, RH Alexander heard the rowdy talk of axemen.

Swinging crouching dancing kick. It was a swinging kick. Like the beam a your schooner swinging by on deck, knocking out legs.

It was point after point for Litz and Pisk. I don't know aboot Campbell. He's too small. He can't move, he's thick. His eyes, he might be blind the way he squints all the time.

I think it's he's angry.

That squint's anger? If that's anger, he's in trouble. Never bet on him. Never. His one move. That Faint. No. Pisk could do five Cherry Tree Clutches
in a row
to get him a win against that naive bohunk Campbell, shit
{see
fig. 10.1
}
.

Damned near invincible. Brute strength though. Not finesse, character? Muscle. The man game is aboot
more
than muscle. It's aboot strategy and, you know, not just aboot muscle.

Who coaches?

A gust a wind. So far's we know they make it up themselves.