The Last Trade by James Conway Page A

broad-shouldered Chinese man emerges out of a shadow to address her. “Well, well.”
    She shrugs.
    The man takes a drag on his cigarette, then jerks his head down the hall, beckoning her to follow. At the end of the hall she is led through another hatch, where another man opens a door, nods at her, and leads her down a flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs she stands at the head of a large, undecorated, and sparsely furnished room that has been transformed into a gambling hall. As she looks over the twenty-two round tables, half of which are occupied by poker players, all but three of whom are men, she takes off her coat without assistance and hangs it on a wall hook. She straightens her dress, a sleek, black, snug, silk-spun viscose number that plunges in front, revealing enough cleavage to turn the head of even the most hard-core gambler. She makes a show of walking across the floor to the banker sitting at a small table covered with a red cloth and stacks of chips.
    â€œI can only take cash from you. No credit.”
    â€œI understand.” She opens her purse and tosses him two crisp piles of Hong Kong hundred-dollar bills.
    â€œThis is not my rule. It’s the rule of Mister C.” C as in Cheung, as in a lieutenant in Hong Kong’s powerful Sun Yee On triad.
    She scoops up the chips and turns, looking for a table.
    â€œHe is on board tonight.”
    â€œTerrific,” she replies over her shoulder. “Give him my regards.”
    Five minutes later she’s sitting at a table drinking a double absinthe and staring at a lousy hand. Then another and another. Within fifteen minutes she’s down three thousand U.S. and three double absinthes and staring at her rapidly vanishing stack of chips. “Maybe you should try roulette,” one of the players, a young businessman from Amsterdam, tells her after she folds. “Maybe a beautiful woman like you is too dignified for a game like Texas hold ’em.”
    She antes up and stares at the man, the only blond in the entire room. “Maybe a handsome man like you,” she replies, “should find a nice dark corner of the barge where he can go to properly and thoroughly fuck himself.”
    She wins the next hand, almost a thousand U.S., by calling the Dutchman’s bluff and beating him with three eights. As she stacks her winnings, she sees Dominick Cheung in the back of the room, going from table to table, making the rounds.
    Two hands later she sees a Londoner’s raise of two thousand and follows it by raising another three. When the cards are flipped, she’s staring at two pair, jacks and sevens, not enough to match his three nines.
    The banker shakes his head. He can’t help her. “Cash only for you.”
    She takes a sip of absinthe and closes her eyes as it burns down her throat and spreads across her chest. When she opens her eyes, the young, short, handsome sociopath Dominick Cheung is standing in front of her. “So, how can we help you tonight, sexy lady?”
    She stares at Cheung but doesn’t speak. How you can help me is no secret, she thinks: You can kill me, you can let me kill you, or you can give me some money.
    Cheung smiles. “Come,” he says, gesturing toward a cabin door adjacent to the bank table. On the other side is a small office cluttered with old newspapers and magazines, a stained white leather couch, and three orange plastic desk chairs. He gestures with his right hand toward the couch. “Sit.”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œSo tell me, how is the financial terrorism business?”
    She shrugs. “Booming. More bad than we could ever hope to keep up with.”
    â€œDo you know how much you owe us now?”
    â€œNinety-six?”
    â€œOne twenty-two, U.S. This is quite a substantial sum.”
    â€œThis is true.”
    â€œAnd rather than come here tonight with a plan or, call me crazy, a payment, you seek more.”
    She