Murder in Vegas: New Crime Tales of Gambling and Desperation Read online

  My mother heard him come in and stopped her chopping and turned around.

  “It’s a letter from Shanghai,” he said, nodding at the light blue envelope in his hand. We could see he had opened it.

  Mom stared at him. “From Shanghai? We don’t know anyone there.”

  Both my parents had been born in China, but came to the states when they were little kids. They met one another in their last year at Northwestern and were married a couple of years after that. I was born in Chicago.

  “It’s from Uncle Ho,” my father said.

  My mother put down her knife and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “I thought Uncle Ho died in the Cultural Revolution.”

  My father nodded. “That’s what I thought. That’s what everyone thought.”

  By everyone, my father meant our relatives, who were scattered all over the U.S. In typical Chinese fashion we got together every few years for big reunions. The elders liked to exchange memories and tell Uncle Ho stories, which always led to talk of gambling. It seems, at a very early age, Uncle Ho had been a Gambling Master, which in Chinese lingo makes Michael Jordan a Basketball Master.

  Everyone liked telling Uncle Ho stories. The relatives tried topping one another with a new piece to an old story, or an entirely new one. And since they all thought Uncle Ho was dead, it didn’t matter if the truth got bent a bit.

  “Uncle Ho is coming here,” my father said.

  My mother frowned. “What do you mean he’s coming here?”

  “I mean here. Las Vegas.”

  My mother had the next toss, but her sudden stony silence said she was deferring to my father.

  The way he cleared his throat told me she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

  “He’s coming to Vegas on one of those casino-sponsored deals there’s been so much talk about.”

  “You mean Uncle Ho is one of those ‘whales’?”

  My mother sent me a look that would freeze Salt Lake.

  I should have known better, but it just popped out. I dipped my head in apology and tried to look contrite. I did a retake on the “whales” story.

  It hit the news a couple of months ago. American casino interests had decided to take advantage of the big economic boom in China and the Chinese centuries-old love of gambling. They were sending agents over there to scout for rich guys who liked high-stakes games. They called them whales. Once a whale was sighted, the only thing he had to do was offer some proof of his wealth, then the agents took care of the rest. They helped with visas, air travel, and hotels. It was only at the gaming tables in Vegas that the high rollers were on their own. And guess what? The casinos were counting on them losing big.

  The media loved the story and ran all over the place with it. Reporters speculated about where the whales’ money came from, with edgy suggestions that it was hot, embezzled, or siphoned off from companies and corrupt government agencies. Another flyer was that the money came from smuggling—drugs, arms, trafficking in women.

  A few reporters got to the practical question of how these rich guys managed to get their money out of China, since the country had rigid restrictions on currency going offshore. The conclusion was that a lot of people were getting paid to look the other way.

  “The whole thing is going to start all over again,” my mother said.

  She was a little off the point, but I knew what she meant. So did my father. He nodded.

  Three years ago the relatives had come to Vegas. It was the off-season, rates were good, and we took over one of the small hotels on the outskirts of town. There was a swimming pool for the kids and a room large enough to have a real Chinese banquet on our first and final nights. The Strip offered plenty of entertainment of all kinds. The relatives weren’t opposed to gambling, in fact they loved it.

  My parents never went near the casinos. They skirted the slots, which were everywhere, as if they sprayed the plague. The relatives didn’t quite believe it. Some came close enough to suggesting my parents were secret gamblers. It was in our blood, after all. It could be traced to Uncle Ho, which is what my mother meant when she said it was going to start all over again.

  In all fairness, when someone moves here it’s sort of taken for granted that gambling is a big draw. I was only five when my parents made the move, so I don’t remember a lot, but I’ve heard their story enough times so it feels like it’s my own. We had been living in Chicago, where my father had a good job as an accountant, when out of the blue, through one of his clients, he was offered a partnership in a big firm in downtown Las Vegas. Mom freaked out. Sin City!

  The two words became a drumbeat in her head, until she was driving home from work one day and heard a long-range weather forecast for the Midwest. The coming winter was supposed to be the coldest in fifty years. Record snowfalls, ice storms, and power outages. She started thinking about the bitter winds off Lake Michigan and soon she was on the phone checking out housing, schools for me and job opportunities for herself. She was a physical therapist. When she discovered she could line up a job before we even left Illinois, the deal was done. Vegas it was.

  According to my mother, when the relatives got wind of our Nevada move, the phone lines crackled with so much gossip they could have caused a power failure all their own. It went on, not just for months, but years. It’s sort of quieted down, but it’s not a dead issue. And now Uncle Ho was coming to our town.

  The relatives would have to be told. First, of course, that he was alive and then that he was coming here to gamble, at the invitation of the casinos. It was easy to see why Mom was upset.

  She looked at my father and reached for the letter. He handed it to her and pulled a chair away from the table and sat down.

  “It’s in English,” she said.

  Dad laughed. “Did you think I’d suddenly learned to read Chinese?”

  Neither of them had ever learned to read the language.

  “How is it that your Uncle Ho knows English?”

  I was careful not to laugh. Actually, Uncle Ho was my father’s relative. It’s a bit complicated. He was the youngest son of my father’s grandfather’s youngest uncle. It’s easier to say in Chinese.

  My father shook his head. “I don’t know any more about Uncle Ho than you do. I never met him. All I know are the stories. You’ve heard the same ones I have.”

  “Maybe he had someone write the letter for him,” I said.

  This time my mother eyed me with approval. “That’s a possibility. You were right about something else, James. It looks as though your Uncle Ho is one of those whales. He’s going to be put up at one of those fantasyland hotels on the Strip.”

  Now he was my uncle.

  She looked at my father. “At least that means he doesn’t expect to stay with us.”

  This didn’t sound like my mother at all. It seemed a little inhospitable for the legendary Uncle Ho to come all the way from Shanghai and not stay with us, if only for an overnight. We had a guestroom with its own bath, so it isn’t as though we didn’t have the space. But I kept my mouth shut.

  My mother handed the letter back to my father. “He’s arriving tomorrow. You didn’t tell me that.”

  The level of electricity between them had just shot up. I decided to make myself scarce. I put my Coke can in the recycling bin, mumbled that I’d be back later and went out the side door, grabbing my basketball out of habit. It was hot, but I was used to it. The court was about three blocks away. Some of the guys were bound to be there. A few shots and another pickup game wouldn’t be bad. Then I’d run home and get cleaned up again in the outside shower. I didn’t remember much about Chicago, but in terms of climate the change had been a great trade.

  At supper that night we sat down to the stir-fry and steamed rice and Dad gave me the news. “We’ve decided to meet Uncle Ho’s plane. His flight from Los Angeles gets in at four tomorrow afternoon. We’ll let him decide if he wants to spend time with us.”

  Somehow I didn’t think Uncle Ho would be satisfied w
ith a quick hello at the airport, otherwise he wouldn’t have sent us the letter. But my parents were feeling their way, and there was no point in my adding to their confusion.

  “How will we recognize him?”

  “Your mother thought of that. We’ll take along a sign with his name on it, put it on a stick and hold it up. That way he will be able to find us. Maybe you could take care of the sign, James.”

  “Sure. What should it say? Uncle Ho?”

  My mother was quick to answer. “No. Mr. Ho.”

  “Got it.”

  The other thing they decided was not to call the relatives just yet. “It’s better if we wait until Uncle Ho gets here. There will be more to tell them after that.”

  It’s hard to remember exactly what happened that next day, except that there were more surprises. We left for the airport with lots of time to spare. My parents were nervous. I was curious. When we got there, parked the car and started for the terminal, I was carrying the sign. There weren’t a lot of people around. Sunday can be a sleepy day. A lot of people go to church, although it was a little late in the day for that.

  I was the first to see him, seated on a bench off to the side of the terminal entrance, in the shade of some eucalyptus trees. He was holding a sign with his name on it. He saw mine. We waved our signs at each other. His baggage was alongside him, not very much—a small suitcase and two square boxes, tied with heavy cord. A bamboo pole was threaded through a loop at the top of each box. They were identical, cube-shaped, the size that could hold a basketball.

  My father apologized for being late, even though we were early. He explained we thought the plane wasn’t due for another half-hour.

  It turned out Uncle Ho hadn’t come by plane. Someone had driven him from Los Angeles.

  “Where are all the others?” my mother asked.

  Uncle Ho looked puzzled. “Others?” he repeated.

  “Your traveling companions. Your letter said you were coming with a group.”

  He nodded. “They will come later. They are taking a trip to the Grand Canyon.”

  Through the years, without really knowing it, I’d formed my own image of Uncle Ho—someone sort of ancient, drawn in charcoal, stepping out of the pages of an old storybook. Since yesterday, I had been trying to recast him as a high roller, wooed to Las Vegas by big gambling interests. I couldn’t get it to work. And now, here he was, in the flesh. What I saw didn’t match anything I had imagined.

  It was hard for me to get a fix on his age. His hair was thick like mine, but streaked with a lot of silver. He wasn’t real old, but he sure wasn’t young. He would have been ordinary looking if it weren’t for the scar that ran from the center of his forehead down to his left eyebrow. I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d got that. It must have been some gash. Blood must have poured into his eyes.

  The pajamalike pants and gray quilted jacket he was wearing sure made him look more like a peasant than a millionaire. But a lot of Chinese dress that way. Besides, during the Cultural Revolution, Uncle Ho had been a peasant. He’d been sent to the countryside to work in the rice fields. According to all the stories I’d heard, he had died there, drowned in a ditch. It wasn’t an accident.

  I was a bit surprised by what my father said then, but Mom wasn’t having any trouble with it, so I guessed they must have worked it out.

  “Uncle Ho, we would be glad to take you to your hotel, but if you would like to come to our house, you are welcome.”

  Uncle Ho stared ahead for a minute and then responded with a nod. “I would be glad to go to your house.”

  My father motioned to Uncle Ho’s suitcase. I picked it up. Uncle Ho reached for the bamboo pole and brought it to his right shoulder, balancing one box in front of him and the other behind. Another charcoal drawing slid across my mind.

  My parents led the way. Uncle Ho followed and I took up the rear. We were an odd little procession.

  At the car my mother suggested Uncle Ho sit up front with my father. I helped him with the seat belt. We didn’t usually drive along the Strip, unless we had to, but Dad thought it was a good idea to show Uncle Ho where he would be spending his time when he hooked up with the rest of his group.

  As we approached the skyline of hotels, archways and towers, brightly lit even in broad daylight, Uncle Ho leaned forward. He nodded. “I have seen many pictures in travel brochures. But it is different, when it is real. It reminds me of when I went to Beijing for the first time and saw the Forbidden City. It can be described, but it cannot be imagined.”

  Our house was in one of those residential communities that have a tidy look about them, uniformly landscaped plots, planted with cactus and shrubs indigenous to the desert, and groundcover that doesn’t need much water. Ours was a two-story with a two-car garage. On the first floor there was a large family room, kitchen and dining area, and my parents’ bedroom. The second floor had three bedrooms.

  My parents left it to me to take Uncle Ho upstairs. I carried his suitcase up first and then came down to help him with the two boxes. He took one and I reached for the other. I’d been expecting it to have some weight, but it was so light, it almost flew out of my hand.

  Uncle Ho chuckled. “It flies like a bird, even when the bird is not there.”

  I’d already spoken more Chinese that day than I had in a year, but even so I thought I’d misunderstood him. I replayed what I thought he’d said, and it came out the same way. I didn’t get it.

  I led the way into the guestroom and showed him where the light switch was and how to work the blinds. I opened the empty bureau drawers, the closet and the door to the bathroom. I demonstrated how the shower worked and decided I didn’t need to show him how to flush the toilet. If he had traveled this far, he knew what that was all about.

  “I don’t know your name,” he said to me.

  “It’s James.”

  “That is short, like my name. Ho.”

  There were a lot of questions I would have liked to ask him, but it didn’t feel right just yet. I said he probably wanted to unpack and take a rest. He should come down when he felt like it, or I would knock on his door when my mother had supper ready.

  Back downstairs I saw that my parents’ bedroom door was closed. I could imagine the questions they were asking each other.

  When we were seated at the dinner table that night my father explained to Uncle Ho that he and my mother had to leave for work early the next morning. “James is on vacation from school this week, so he will be here to take care of you.”

  Uncle Ho nodded. “My needs are simple. I will try not to be too much trouble.”

  An awkward silence began. It didn’t look like Uncle Ho was about to initiate anything and my parents had the idea that it was impolite to ask questions. We’d heard so many stories about Uncle Ho, I thought it would be great to hear his side of things.

  I began slowly, wary of my parents’ reaction and a little uncertain of my language skills. I apologized in advance for mistakes I would make.

  “You are doing very well,” Uncle Ho said. “You have a question to ask me, I will try to answer it.”

  That put me on the spot. If I clammed up now, it would be a great loss of face. The relatives talked a lot about that.

  What I really wanted to know was how he had gotten to be a Gambling Master, but I sure couldn’t start off with that.

  “I was wondering where you lived when you were my age. And what sort of things did you do?”

  “And you are how old?”

  “I’m sixteen.”

  Uncle Ho nodded. “We lived in Shanghai then. I also went to school. I was studying mathematics, but my family was poor and I needed to earn money. I raised crickets. Fighting crickets. I learned how to be a cricket handler and then to manage cricket fights. Many people came. They paid admission and they placed bets. The profits were good.” He stopped there, and I could see he was waiting for my next question.

  I wasn’t sure just what to ask. I sure didn’t know anything about
crickets, so I went with the obvious. “How did you get interested in crickets?”

  He chuckled. “Many children in China have crickets as pets. They are good companions. You can keep them close to you at night and listen to them sing. They are small and fit in a box you can put in your pocket. There are many different kinds of cricket boxes. Some are made from dried gourds, others from bamboo, clay, and fine woods. It is said that the last emperor kept his cricket in a box inlaid with ivory and gold. Antique cricket boxes are collector’s items now.”

  We heard a lot more about crickets that night, with Uncle describing a cricket fight. “Fighting crickets are very aggressive,” he said. “When two rivals enter an arena, they will jump at each other’s heads, biting sharply, until one is vanquished.”

  I heard my parents leave for work the next morning and rolled over, looking forward to sleeping in. It was spring break. Then I remembered Uncle Ho. I set my alarm to sleep another hour.

  When I got up I saw that my mother had slipped a note under my door. “Try to find out when the rest of Uncle Ho’s group is supposed to arrive, and what hotel he will be staying at. I’ll try to get home early, but it won’t be before five. Dad and I are driving in together, so you can use my car. You might want to take Uncle Ho on a little sight-seeing tour.”

  Uncle Ho’s door was closed when I headed downstairs, but he heard me and opened the door.

  “Hi, Uncle Ho. How about some breakfast?”

  “I would like to show you something first.” He motioned me into the room.

  He had slept in the twin bed close to the window. The quilt was neatly folded back. But it was the other bed that got my attention. Two birdcages sat on top of the bedspread.

  I had understood him. “It flies like a bird even when the bird is not there.”

  “I will need your help,” he said. “I must find a shop that sells birds.”

  Okay. What’s a birdcage without a bird?