Chapter 29: The Deceptive Arts of the Underworld

Awang Restaurant looks like any other ordinary eatery on the surface. There are two security guards; one of them, Wu Dahai, is in his thirties with a simple, honest face. He has a massive craving for alcohol, always carrying a bottle with him and taking a sip whenever he has a moment.

The kitchen staff consists of seven cooks, led by the head chef, Cheng Bao, whom everyone calls Brother Bao. The front-of-house cashier is Gu Xiaofang, rumored to be the mistress of Brother Cai. There are fifteen waiters and waitresses in total, eight men and seven women.

Wherever there are people, there is a subculture, and this small restaurant is divided into two factions. The waitstaff follows Brother Cai, the floor manager, while the kitchen staff follows Brother Bao, the head chef. The two men despise each other; beyond their clashing personalities, a major reason for their rivalry is that they serve different masters. They are both "external relatives." Brother Bao is a distant relative of the owner's wife, while Brother Cai is the younger brother of the owner's mistress. It would be a miracle if they ever got along.

They squabble and scheme all day long, but their most spectacular battles take place at the card table. The restaurant takes a break from 3:30 PM until it gets busy again at 5:00 PM, closing at 10:30 PM. During that hour and a half in the middle, everyone gathers to play cards—they play almost all day, in fact.

I hadn't been interested in this before, but now that I know the third floor is a gambling den, I silently walked over to join the circle of spectators to blend in, though I didn't join the game itself.

They play "Zha Jinhua" (Fried Golden Flower), which is widely popular. The stakes aren't high—a one-yuan ante with a fifty-yuan cap. After all, everyone here is broke; it’s just for fun. However, in Zha Jinhua, the size of the ante or the cap doesn't really matter; what matters is the provocation. Once the tension rises, the pot can quickly escalate to hundreds of yuan in wins and losses.

There were nine people playing today. My cousin, who fell for the "Three Immortals Return to the Cave" trick just trying to eat a meal, was naturally among them. Both Brother Cai and Brother Bao were in the game. They clearly targeted each other; if Brother Cai called a bet, Brother Bao would almost always follow. If Brother Bao stayed silent and bet blind, Brother Cai would do the same. They seemed determined to settle their rivalry at the table.

After a few rounds, Brother Cai was losing badly. Although I hadn't learned the art of the con, the books I’d read contained plenty of lore about the "Thousand Gates." Con artistry is only one part of it—there’s even a saying that in the Thousand Gates, the setup is more important than the trick itself.

I began to grasp the essence of this game: it is all about the bluff. Everything is fluid—truth and falsehood, reality and illusion. Even if your hand is weak, the aura you project can force an opponent with a strong hand to fold. Where does that aura come from? Half of it is acting, and the other half is determined by the cash in your pocket. In my eyes, my cousin would never win money. When he got a bad hand, he looked more annoyed than anyone else, as if he wanted to tear the cards up. When he got a good hand, he was so nervous his hands trembled. Anyone could see it, so they all folded, leaving him to win only the small ten-yuan ante.

Brother Cai had money in his pocket, so his confidence was solid, and his style was seasoned. Regardless of whether his hand was good or bad, his expression remained the same: steady. He also bet aggressively. Several times, he used his "club" cards to scare my cousin into folding a pair.

However, despite this, he still lost more than he won. And every time he lost, it was bizarre. Whenever he tried to bluff with a weak hand, the opposition wouldn't buy it and would follow him to the end. The strangest hand was when he held a J-9-7 of mixed suits. He acted with such overwhelming momentum, as if he held three Aces, pressing forward without hesitation. Brother Bao followed him all the way. Everyone thought they were both holding monster hands and fighting to the death. When they finally revealed their cards, Brother Bao only had a pair of twos! My cousin, who had held a pair of tens, had been so intimidated by their bravado that he’d folded early. When he saw the cards, he was so furious he slapped his own thigh until it bruised.

Another time, Brother Cai held a small straight flush. Brother Bao didn't push it, but a cook sitting next to him followed to the end. The pot had about three hundred yuan in it, and the cook ended up winning by a hair. Finally, there was a time Brother Cai got a straight flush and wanted to clean up, but everyone around him folded. A hand that big only yielded the ten-yuan ante, which made Brother Cai so angry smoke was practically coming out of his nostrils.

It was clear that during that hour, no matter how Brother Cai played, he was destined to lose. I instinctively felt there was something wrong with the game. But what? I didn't know. I watched the game silently, pondering the flaw.

Although the pages about "Thousand Gates" techniques in my book had been torn out, some rough descriptions remained. There is a saying that "out of ten gambles, nine are rigged." In the world of professional cheats, there are many ways to cheat, broadly divided into "literary arts" and "martial arts." Literary arts rely on pure sleight of hand—skills like the Cloud Hand, Iron Plum Hand, or the Buddha Hand. Martial arts rely on props: rigged cards, weighted dice, cameras, and remote controls. Real pros look down on "martial arts." A true master in a casino knows where the problem lies the moment they touch the cards, so "martial arts" are usually just for fleecing novices. "Literary arts," however, require immense talent, grueling practice, and a calm mindset.

I couldn't help but think of my senior brother who had wept so bitterly. If he were here, he would surely have seen through this game in an instant; to him, this would be child's play.

After thinking it over, I concluded that the game was definitely rigged. Brother Bao was absolutely cheating, but his methods weren't particularly sophisticated; a high-level pro wouldn't bother fleecing people for such small change in a casual game.

"Is it magic cards? Can he see through the backs?" I wondered. I watched Brother Bao’s eyes to see if he was trying to read the suits on the back of Brother Cai's cards. After a few rounds, I realized he wasn't. Brother Bao didn't seem to care what cards Brother Cai held. He never looked at Brother Cai's hands, but his eyes would subconsciously drift toward the person behind Brother Cai!

That guy was from the kitchen—I remembered his name was Zhou Sen, a man with phoenix eyes and a scholarly look. He was also a spectator. He didn't bet, but he was very concerned with the wins and losses at the table, and even more concerned with what cards others were holding.

The problem was with Zhou Sen.

When Brother Cai looked at his cards, he didn't shy away from onlookers. He had a habit of rubbing the cards, pinching them together and slowly peeking, as if that would make the cards grow stronger. Zhou Sen, standing behind him, would watch too. He was skilled at manipulating the atmosphere; when Brother Cai was nervous, he was nervous too, acting as if he were on Brother Cai's side, sometimes even shouting, "Three sides! Three sides!"

After seeing Brother Cai's cards, he would perform small actions: touching his nose, adjusting his ear, lighting a cigarette, patting his elbow, or licking his lips. I watched silently, matching Brother Cai's final cards to Zhou Sen's gestures, and slowly discovered the pattern.

When Zhou Sen touched his nose and tapped his fingertip twice, it meant Brother Cai’s highest card was a Queen; three taps meant a King. Pulling his ear once meant an Ace. Patting his elbow meant a pair. Licking his lips meant a flush.

Under this setup, after an hour, Brother Cai had lost everything—I estimated over a thousand yuan, which was three months of my wages. Brother Cai cursed his bad luck and wanted to stop, but Brother Bao laughed and said, "Someone's cleaned out, huh? Oh well, let it go."

Brother Cai was stung by the comment and snapped, "I'm cleaned out? Just you wait!" He ran to the bar to get money from Gu Xiaofang. She refused, saying the boss had ordered that no one could take money from the bar anymore. Panicked and desperate, Brother Cai shoved her aside, shouting, "You think I'm an outsider? Give me two thousand! When I win, I'll take you out to buy clothes!"

He forcibly took the money and the game continued. Driven by desperation, Brother Cai even wanted to raise the stakes, with no limit. At this point, the game had turned into a battle of pure spite.

I didn't say a word and silently stepped away from the crowd. I had already foreseen Brother Cai's future: he was going to lose it all. Because others knew exactly what was in his hand. I also reached a conclusion: he had no idea what was happening on the third floor. As the "lucky" brother-in-law of the owner, Awang, he was nothing more than a pawn.