The Man Game (69 page)

Gamblers had good reason to rethink their biases. Like horses before the race, the men were eyed for their gait, physique, temperament, and breeding. Beasts. Bloodsucking. A spider's nest of tired, greedy eyes dilated black with high hopes for blood and sweat and a life-changing win. Sweet chickamin. In 1887 there was even a saying in Vancouver's Chinatown: Every win is as enlightening as a shot of moonshine, every loss is as cruel as a dawn of sobering sunshine.

Litz took a couple of quick jumps, closer then closer to hovering, until he felt satisfied with his float and pointed a long index at Campbell and said: You got no idea what you're in for, eh?

I got a couple moves I want to show
you
, said Campbell.

You'll have to show me first, said Bud Hoss, who appeared from behind a fence wearing only his histrionics, ready to play the man game. Naked and stocky as a tankard, he said: You'll have to get through me if you want to try Litz.

'The fuck are you talking aboot?

I'm playing today.

That so?

Right it is, said Hoss.

What absurdity is this? said Vicars, loudly echoing the many voices asking the same question in simpler terms.
Who'm I betting on here? Is this man game cancelled?

No, it's not fucking cancelled, spat Litz. I'm still here, and if I must, I'll see to it each and every one a you sees your ends. But this is an official announcement that Hoss here's part a mine and Pisk's crew.

He is, eh? said Clough, who hugged himself roughly, a substitute for crossing his arms. What, thought you said you could do this all yourself?

Why should I waste my energy on so many a your bohunks? said Litz.

And Hoss here is our first, said Pisk. Then we'll take it from there.

What makes the cripple
third
on a team? said a gold panner in tar-smeared overalls with a broken nose, burnt chin, and a full mouth of gold teeth.

Pisk's been the last to play right from the start, explained Moe Dee in that voice of his, audible across rivers. Ever since the man game started. You protect your player under attack, who is Pisk, so that makes Litz first. If not Litz, then this dude. Last player can start a match whenever he wants. Last player can hold back to wait, see what happens.

Furry's trying to get to Pisk, said the panner.

Daggett's trying to get Pisk out a the city once and for all.

Nothing I hate worse than to see Whitemen taking out their conflicts on Whitemen, said a dissenter, a specialist, a saddlemaker. Didn't none a you know there's a band a men going down to Chinatown right now to take care a the real problem in your lives?

See, said Molly, sweeping her wedding ring against his cheek, I made it easy for you to spectate. You don't have to be on the street with the rabble.

Thank you, yes, I appreciate that.

I'm very excited. To think all this was scorched earth not even a year ago.

The ground is still black, he said.

How much the city has changed since we arrived.

Do you plan to claim responsibility any time soon?

How unfair a you, darling Chinook. You love me, though, don't you? she asked.

Oh, yes, look, it says so on my sleeve, he said.

Shh, watch the man game, she said.

He frowned. Did you plan for all this to transpire?

Oh, naturally, said Molly, holding her Stars & Stripes at a pause from her mouth. A course I did.

There was a noncommittal rap on the door to the office and Molly shrugged when Sammy looked at her to see if she had anything to do with this as well.

Yes, enter, said Sammy, assuming it to be Toronto.

RH Afterlife inched through the door to his accountant's office and crept along the wall like a wet insect, a millipede man sneaking along the wallpaper, afraid of the exposure, looking like a prisoner in his own mill, jailed for what? For falling for the perfumes of the Orient, and now he was shackled to his heavy fate. Mr. Erwagen, I have terrible …, and seeing his accountant seated at the open window beside his wife, the beautiful Mrs. Erwagen, he began to hear it all again: the riot on the front steps of Hastings Mill. He was sure that if he so much as poked his head up to the window a sharpshooter would split his scalp open. And here the Erwagens were watching in plain view. Anguish had kept him locked in his own office, doubling his dosage, hoping that by the time they torched the mill he'd be dead. He staggered thus towards the window and the Erwagens, who regarded him with what must have been great pity. But when he finally took his first look and saw the mob in front of the mill, all he said was: Oh, lord. Then he backed away and pressed himself flat against the wall. He could feel his cold flesh tight against his skeleton. The
Erwagens showed more pity. The rioters, the Knights of Labour, the Anti-Asiatics, the Whitemens were on his doorstep, here to exact revenge. His blood would merrily be spilled. His heart would be stolen and played with on the streets like a kickball until they lost interest and a dog sat down to gnaw on it. The riot was his end, he was sure of it now. It did not matter he was an old man. He still was not ready to die. Never. His vision blurred and started to go black at the edges, as if on the brink of a faint. He said: Are they here for … me?

It's a man game, said Erwagen.

A man game? said Alexander, regaining a little. At a time … like this? Who?

Looks mostly like our own men, said Erwagen. I see a lot a Chinamen and lumberjacks and millhands and such and such. The game's not begun yet, but the crowd seems in good spirits.

You don't say? said Alexander, becalmed. His writing hand fixated on his beard as he felt the first few twists of a strategy forming in his mind. The other hand was still unconsciously gripped to the curtain, but beginning to relax of its own accord. He mumbled something and then articulated: I thought it was only just outlawed.

Perhaps the po-lice are attending to the rally down at the City Hall, offered Molly in her musical voice.

Y-yes, said Alexander, remembering, but not really, something about his wife dashing out the door not long ago to put a stop to it all. I suppose those KOL rabblerousers are …

I'd rather my wife see
this
than that, said Sammy.

Well, said RH Alexander with a forced-sounding, war-weary laugh, ha ha, we should shut the mill down early today then, eh? What time is it? Six P.M. already, eh? Shall we allow the rest a our men to enjoy this beautiful evening? Yes, let's give them a break to watch the man game.

A wise and charitable gesture, sir, said Sammy Erwagen. Your men will surely enjoy the spectacle … Why,
quickly then. Call off the work. Look at them now. Two a them are ready.

Unable to resist a giant grin, RH took a place at the windowsill and leaned a hand against the shutter as the wintry warm evening air fanned him. Ah, yes, I recognize … that's Mr. Litz, a former employee a ours. A good man. I'd put my money on him if I were down there. And look at all the Chinamen. I never realized. Yes, I simply must close the mill so our employees can enjoy this game.

You got some tricks up your sleeve, eh? they heard Clough say. Hoss is going to play for you? Fine then. It's Campbell versus Hoss rematch. Get your wagers in.

The whores were out on the porch and up by the fence to watch the fire burn across the street in the shantytown. They teethed on their fingernails and glanced worriedly at the rioters. The fire kicked up a lot of smoke, blowing its ash right at them. Thankfully the flames weren't strong enough to climb the dike; Dupont Street homes weren't in immediate danger. Still, they could see orange and red globules of flaming char drip and hiss and land on their reflections in the dark waves.

The mob arrived once again at the flipped-over vegetable cart. All it took was one timberstick to light the whole thing. They'd been throwing cottonwaste on it all night to fuel a quick blaze. It was this second giant bonfire that finally drove the girls back inside. Peggy dashed to her back office where she rang her special
direct line
to the fire brigade. The line had been put in by the kind old captain and his men; courtesy, they told her, of the mayor himself. When the bell rang at the station the firemen ran from where they'd been watching the man game back down Dunlevy to get the fire truck. Harnessing it to the horses, they were on their way. As they rounded a corner on their way to Dupont the horses trampled an American tourist to death.

Sammy heard RH Alexander below him on the porch, telling his men to back away from the potted plants, laughing and berating them and saying: Come on, let's hear it for the man game. Raving applause every time he said it.

Sammy said: What do you think RH has in mind, inciting the men like that?

Molly batted her eyelashes as if to shoo away a mite. That's none a my business, she said. I've no idea what prompts that man's actions. She pressed the cigarette to her lips, inhaled, and said with a drifting smoke: A wonder he's able to manage this mill. If it weren't for your system, he'd likely sink. Man can't make a decision unless it gets him money, mink, or muscle.

Money, mink, or … well, I had no idea you harboured such strong feelings towards Alexander.

He is a tool. A magic wand. You can snap him. Compared to him, I am a hat full a tricks. Without him, I'm very normal. With him, I am the whole show, you see? I need him, but I don't have to like him for it.

Yes, said Sammy, comprehending a little more the lawlessness of his wife's soul.

Sunday, February 20, 1887. Some kind of day. Sammy watched over thousands of men gathered to watch the game. There were men on the peaked rooftops seated with their knees up, men crowded along the balconies of the Stanley Hotel to catch a view all the way from Powell Street. There were close to fifteen hundred Chinamen. Felt like more. There were droves of lumberjacks and throngs of fishermen. There were heathens and providers. Coal miners and farmers and stevedores, and none of them with perfect eyesight. Not a bank in the world knew any of their names. They lived one suit at a time. Today's jacket was faded and frayed at the cuffs and two buttons had been replaced and both armpits had been mended and the pockets were in different places than when it was bought. Chapped lips, gold teeth, moustache: a portrait of a man in 1887.

The first match of the afternoon, a rematch no less, was about to take place: Hoss versus Campbell. Over at Furry & Daggett's side of things, Campbell got some final punches and pushes of moral support before he walked to the centre of the open space. He'd beat this guy before, and not too long ago at that. Campbell looked at all the new faces in the crowd. Most had never seen a man game before, and they stared and jostled and called out fiercely to Campbell, who found himself, though unable to admit it, growing ever more disgusted with his own audience.

The men scuffled to the centre of the pitch, shook hands quickly and split apart again, signalling the game was on. Campbell went up to individuals and pushed them back. Give us some fucking room, eh, before I strip you down and man game you in front a all your buddies. Campbell was raw as a burnt board, his each and every muscle extruding from his bones as if peeling apart the skin from the strain. His face was abandoned to bearded squalor. His eyes were the whitest thing about him. The rest was hair and filth. You think you know pain? he said. You think you know pain, Hoss? I'll show you pain. A bet on me is a bet on Satan himself, believe I'm that dangerous.