Free The Red Pole of Macau by Ian Hamilton Page A

the peas, his focus on her. When she finished, he put down his chopsticks. “You should have called me earlier,” he said.
    “Uncle, it was family business. I didn’t think it was fair to involve you.” And the moment she said it she wished she could cut off her tongue.
    He went silent, the chopsticks working again on the snow peas, picking scallops from their noodle bed. “You know I never married.”
    “Yes, Uncle.”
    “I left Wuhan when I was eighteen. The family I knew died during the Cultural Revolution.”
    “I know, Uncle.”
    “I have no children that I am aware of.”
    “Yes, Uncle.”
    “During the past few years I have asked you several times to take on jobs that involved friends.”
    “Yes, Uncle.”
    “Did you hesitate?”
    “No.”
    “So why could you not come to me?”
    There were tears in her eyes but she fought them back. “I should have.”
    “Now I am afraid it is too late.”
    Ava turned her attention to the snow pea tips, concentrating on their tiny heads. They ate quietly, the cook working like a madman behind them, Andy poking his head through the door occasionally to make sure they were still there.
    When the last of the noodles were gone, Uncle said, “Lok has pulled this stunt a few times. He owns several pieces of land in Macau, on the peninsula in Coloane and on Cotai. He switches ownership among his companies, often starting new ones. He hires an architect to design an apartment building, maybe an office and retail complex — and now, I guess, a shopping centre — then he goes looking for investors, and he always seems to find them. Everyone knows how scarce land is in Macau, and Lok does not normally have a problem finding willing and eager partners. Needless to say, nothing ever gets built. They will put off the investors with excuses for a while, and when they cannot be stalled any longer, the intimidation starts. No one gets their money back. Most are smart enough to know they need to walk away, but more than one has gone to Macau for a final showdown and never come back.”
    “How long have you known him?”
    “Twenty years, maybe longer. He used to run a string of moneylenders at Ho’s casinos, and then he managed the massage parlours that double as whorehouses for one of the larger societies. He is a Red Pole.”
    “What is that?”
    “We have been together so long that I forget what I have told you.”
    “About the triad?”
    “Of course.”
    “Not much. All I know is that you were chairman.”
    “An honorary position,” Uncle said, waving his hand. “It had no real power.”
    Ava turned her head away, not wanting him see the incredulity on her face. “What is a Red Pole?” she muttered.
    “The sharp end of a gang’s stick.”
    “I still don’t understand.”
    Uncle closed his eyes as if he were conjuring memories. “In the days when I was active, every gang was headed by a Mountain Master or a Dragon Head, as we were sometimes called. Each had three people reporting directly to him: a Vanguard, who organized operations; an Incense Master, who was responsible for ceremonies; and a deputy Mountain Master, who actually executed the plans. The deputy Mountain Master in turn had three people under him: the White Paper Fan, who provided financial and business advice; the Straw Sandal, who liaised among the different groups; and the Red Pole. The Red Pole was the enforcer. He was the muscle who ran the troops on the ground — the 49ers, who were the pledged members of the society, and the blue lanterns, who were like apprentices.”
    “49ers?”
    “Every position had a number derived from the I Ching . The Mountain Master was 489. The Red Pole was 426. The number none of us wanted to hear was 25. It was the designation for a mole that the police or some rival triad gang had planted, or for a traitor to his own gang.”
    “So Lok is an enforcer?”
    “Yes.”
    “How many men report to him?”
    “Somewhere between fifteen and twenty.”
    “Uncle, can