But the passion, the concentration, and, of course, the competitive spirit were genuine and authentic. One of the things that makes Go such a fascinating spectator sport is the wagering, and there were two ten-dollar bills on the table. I looked over the board, and clearly the older man had the edge. Within five minutes, he won the game and scooped up the money.
“You’re good,” I called out to the old man.
He bowed his head.
“I’m better,” I said.
The crowd, who had not spoken a word of English, obviously understood enough of it to laugh out loud.
“You have money?” the old man asked. “Or you just have mouth?”
He put a ten-dollar bill on the table.
I opened up my wallet, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and laid it next to his ten. The crowd let out a collective guttural sound—the male Chinese version of oooh.
“You have money?” I said. “Or you just have mouth?”
The old man reflected for a few seconds, then dug into his pants pocket and came up with a bunch of tens, fives, and ones. Not enough. He stuffed it back in his pocket and opened an ancient wallet with an equally ancient hundred-dollar bill inside. He unfolded the bill and placed it next to mine.
I sat down.
I was black and went first. There’s an ancient Go proverb: Play fast, lose fast. And to his credit, the old man treated me with respect from the start. He played thoughtfully—not as if I were some loudmouthed white guy ready to be relieved of a hundred bucks, but as if I were truly a worthy opponent. After five minutes, he realized that I was.
The game lasted almost an hour. Neither of us dominated, and the highly partisan crowd went silent as we approached the endgame.
And then I made one bad move. Not just bad. Dumb. Really dumb. I knew it, the old man knew it, and he knew I knew it. His fingertips tugged at a few wispy gray hairs on his chin, and he stared at me, puzzled at first, and then it came to him.
I was throwing the game.
He snapped a white stone down on the board, and the crowd erupted with laughter, applause, and home team pride.
He won.
I stood up and turned to the platoon of smokers that had tripled in size since I’d set down the first stone.
“I am good,” I told them. “He is better.”
They clapped and hooted, and once again I bowed to the victor. “This game has left me very hungry,” I said. “Where would I go to get the best dim sum?”
The old man smiled. “Best dim sum? My mother’s house. Guangdong Province. But I think I take all your carfare.”
The group yucked it up again at my expense.
The old man reveled in it. “But if you willing to settle for not-so-bad dim sum, go to New Wonton Garden across street.”
I bowed again, nodded to Kylie, and we headed toward the restaurant.
Like I said, I’m a gamer, and I had just invested a hundred bucks and an hour of Kylie’s time and mine playing a mind game with an old man I’d never seen before.
Now I had to sit patiently in the New Wonton Garden, sipping tea, eating not-so-bad dim sum, and waiting to find out which one of us had won the game.
Chapter 37
Teresa Salvi took off her robe and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. “Sixty-three years old and still a size four,” she said. “Not bad.”
Her closet was as big as a master bedroom, and there was a second one just like it. This closet was for daytime wear. She walked through the racks of dresses and pulled out a Dolce & Gabbana midi—charcoal gray. She had stopped wearing black years ago, but she was going to see Father Spinelli, and the dark gray would make the right statement—still in mourning, but moving on with her life.
The shoes and the bag were Prada, and when she finished dressing, she took another look in the mirror. Joe would approve. He wanted her to dress classy—not like those rich bimbo housewives on the reality shows.
She made sure her checkbook was in her purse. Father Spinelli had asked her to join him for tea in his study, and that could mean only one thing. The church needed money.
“No more than ten grand,” Joe told her as she was leaving the house. “It’s October, and you know he’s going to hit us up again at Christmas.”
Teresa already had a higher number in her mind, so she just kissed her husband and said, “Don’t worry. Whatever I give will be for a good cause.”
Two good causes, she thought as she drove her beige Buick Regal the mile and a half to St. Agnes. Joe sometimes forgot the respectability factor. The newspapers always painted her husband like some kind of monster. But every time he donated to the church, Father Spinelli was out there spreading the word to the congregation about how generous the Salvi family was. It helped balance things out.