Chapter 33: The Gambling Incident

In a casino where profit comes before all else, the rules are as varied as the faces around the tables.

Even if you possess a fortune, without local connections, you won’t see a single cent; and should you have a friend to vouch for you, the cash you receive is nothing but high-interest loans. The moment the chips are in your hand, you owe interest—fifty for every thousand borrowed, per day, counted from the very instant the money changes hands, even if only for a minute. In the jargon of the gambling world, this interest is called “water money.”

Anyone who introduces a new gambler receives a commission, known as a “head fee,” the amount of which depends on how much the newcomer is willing to wager.

Chen Anlong, a man who indulged in every vice—wine, women, and gambling—had heard from Deputy General Manager Zhang of Happy Family that just two days ago, the man had walked out of this very den with over two hundred thousand in winnings.

For those addicted to gambling, the lure is irresistible. Introduced by Deputy General Manager Zhang, Chen Anlong arrived at the casino, where he was greeted by a minivan driver—the casino’s own man and the one to pocket the head fee for bringing in a new player. Zhang, having only made the introduction, would get nothing.

For the casino’s staff, these side commissions supplement their fixed daily wage, so it’s no wonder the reception was so warm.

The introducer, knowing only that Chen Anlong owned a factory, was unfamiliar with him and hadn't bothered to ascertain his background. When Chen Anlong began to loudly demand his money, the man paid him no mind.

Feeling snubbed and humiliated, Chen Anlong, spoiled and used to getting his way, slammed the remaining bundle of a hundred thousand—already unwrapped—onto the table. Pointing at the introducer, he spat out a string of clumsy Cantonese learned after moving to the mainland, cursing, “Damn you! On the phone you were all sweet talk, promising to back me up if anything happened. Now that I’m asking for my money, you’ve gone mute. You must be in on this together, trying to set me up. There’s something wrong with this place—give me back the four hundred thousand I’ve lost!”

Losing and grumbling about it is one thing; but to say there’s something wrong with the casino—that’s taboo. Accusations like these cast a shadow over the establishment’s reputation.

Because Chen Anlong’s hands were small, when he slammed the cash on the table, two bills slipped out. One of them flew right into the face of a man who’d been the banker earlier, winning several hundred thousand, and was now sitting at the table as a player.

The man, in his fifties and of unremarkable appearance, was actually the village head—a figure of some standing in Zhangmutou. To be struck in the face with money was a grave insult. He roared, “Guangzai! What kind of casino are you running here? Someone’s making a scene and you just stand by? How can you expect to keep your doors open?”

Guangzai—the man addressed—was the casino boss, a notable figure in the Zhangmutou underworld; otherwise, he couldn’t run such an operation.

Hearing the village head’s words, Chen Anlong, already reckless with anger, broke another taboo. Violence would scare off the other gamblers.

Guangzai approached, wearing a mask of affability, and swept the cash off the table. “Mr. Chen, come with me to the tea room downstairs. I’ll get you your hundred thousand. I’ll hold on to this for now; I’ll settle up with you after the game. Just remember—we clear debts as soon as the play is done.”

Chen Anlong, convinced he’d intimidated Guangzai into lending him the money, stood with an air of self-satisfaction, complaining, “If you’d just given me the money earlier, none of this would’ve happened.”

Jiang Fan, unfamiliar with the casino’s ways, was deceived by Guangzai’s pleasant demeanor, and followed behind Chen Anlong without suspicion.

But as soon as they reached the lobby on the first floor, Guangzai’s tone turned cold. Pointing at Chen Anlong, he barked orders to two enforcers by the door: “Teach this bastard a lesson. Make sure he remembers—not to yap like a mad dog and accuse me of running a crooked game.”

Chen Anlong was only about five foot five. Jiang Fan, though taller at five nine, was slight and failed to draw Guangzai’s attention. He figured his two burly men could easily handle any trouble, and if the skinny one tried to intervene, they could deal with him just as easily. There were more lookouts outside, but Guangzai made no arrangements for them; with his orders given, he headed back upstairs.

The casino’s muscle fell into two categories: those inside, charged with keeping order among the gamblers, typically armed with short, easily concealed weapons—knives or stun batons—effective for emergencies but unlikely to frighten off the clientele; and those outside, responsible for security, on guard against both police raids and rival gangs, armed with machetes and steel rods, sometimes even with stun guns, though the latter were reserved for dire situations.

At Guangzai’s word, the two enforcers drew machetes from behind their backs and advanced on Chen Anlong. This was standard practice—brandishing weapons not only intimidated but also minimized their own risk.

It was only when Guangzai turned hostile that Jiang Fan realized the danger. He may have despised Chen Anlong, but his job was to protect him; personal grievances had no place in his work.

He pulled the trembling Chen Anlong behind him and whispered, “When I make my move, run for the door—get to the car and leave as fast as you can. Don’t worry about me.”

Chen Anlong, too frightened to speak, nodded vigorously.

Seeing Jiang Fan step in, the two enforcers closed in, machetes raised. One sneered, “If you want trouble, we’ll oblige.”

Jiang Fan assessed the layout, slowly retreating to draw them away from the door and clear an escape route for Chen Anlong.

When he reached the center of the lobby, he realized that if he attacked, Chen Anlong would be exposed behind him, at risk from the flashing blades.

Better to strike first. Pivoting, he seized Chen Anlong’s arm, shoved him to the right, then swiftly swept a leg, toppling one enforcer. Rolling forward, he brought his elbow down hard on the man’s face.

In one fluid motion, he sprang to his feet, now holding the fallen man’s machete.

On someone else’s turf, anything could happen. He meant to finish quickly, but found Chen Anlong, paralyzed with fear, hadn’t budged, ignoring his warning and standing frozen.

The enforcers, realizing Jiang Fan was far from ordinary, decided to target the weaker Chen Anlong.

“Coward! Come at me if you dare,” Jiang Fan shouted, drawing their attention and shoving Chen Anlong toward the door.

Stumbling, Chen Anlong finally made it outside, flinging the door open and running for the car.

Seizing the moment, the remaining enforcer swung his machete at Jiang Fan’s head.

If the blade landed, it would peel away flesh if not kill outright—there was no time to dodge. In desperation, Jiang Fan turned his head aside, raised his left arm as a shield, and simultaneously slashed at the enforcer’s waist with his own blade.

Neither expected Jiang Fan to attack even while defending; both were wounded.

Protected by a thick jacket, the enforcer was less hurt than Jiang Fan, who wore only a thin shirt. Seeing Chen Anlong escape, the man shouted, “Get over here! I need backup!”

Hearing the call, Jiang Fan, despite his bleeding arm, slashed again at the man’s thigh. The enforcer dodged back, but Jiang Fan leapt high, kicking him hard in the face.

His injured arm had thrown off his balance; the kick lacked power, and the enforcer merely staggered, clutching his face, but did not fall. Realizing he was outmatched, he yelled again for help.

Chen Anlong’s car was parked a scant twenty-five feet from the door. He scrambled inside, ordered the driver to start the engine, and—remembering his debt—told him to honk twice, hoping Jiang Fan would hear and escape as well.

The sound of the horn reached Jiang Fan, reassuring him that Chen Anlong was safely away. His arm was bleeding heavily; to avoid worsening the wound, he feinted a slash at the enforcer’s head. The man raised his own blade to block.

Seizing the opening, Jiang Fan kicked him hard between the legs.

The enforcer collapsed in pain, and Jiang Fan bolted for the door.

Upstairs, the noise from the gambling room had drowned out the calls for help, but the lookouts outside had heard everything.

As Jiang Fan burst through the door, he saw Chen Anlong’s car still waiting, but five more enforcers, machetes in hand, were only a dozen feet away.

He didn’t know how many more were lurking nearby, and with the distance to the car, if he dashed for it, they might cut him off and surround the vehicle.

Fearing another ambush, Jiang Fan bellowed, “If you want to die, come at me! Go! Don’t wait for me!” Then, gripping his machete, he strode straight toward the advancing men.

Seeing Jiang Fan ready to fight to the death, they hesitated. Chen Anlong, hearing the shout, hurriedly ordered the driver to speed away.