The Last Ride of Amarillo Slim
A version of this story was originally published in Voices de la Luna, Nov. 2021.
I was drinking in this shitty quán nhậu near Mỹ Khê Beach with my friend, Ethan, when I told him about Mr. Phuc. I was trying to be a travel writer then—doing stories about elephant rides, rickety trains, things like that. My plan—my original plan—was to move on to Saigon and then head over to Cambodia for a while. But I met a girl, and the next thing I knew four months had passed and here I was. Still in Danang.
Anyway, Ethan and I were crouched on those little plastic chairs that the quán nhậus have, trying to maintain as much self-respect as we could with our knees bent up to our chests. It was the beginning of summer in central Vietnam, and the heat had spiked into the triple digits. The U.S. had just invaded Iraq. I told Ethan he was lucky New Zealand didn't have the draft. He didn't really care what happened in the States, he said: couldn't be arsed. Five beers into it, I finally steered the conversation to Mr. Phuc.
I had met Mr. Phuc that morning on my way to the market. He had zipped up beside me on his beat-up Honda Dream; when he offered me a ride for a few thousand dong, I hopped on. Along the way he told me about how he was trying to learn English. When I got off the bike, he asked me if I would meet him at the park the next day for conversation and a coffee. I agreed. What the hell.
"Yeah," Ethan said, "the locals are really friendly like that." He drained the beer from his can and dropped it on the concrete floor. "When I first got 'ere, this local took me to his place for dinner. Told me his sister was a nurse, about to move to New Zealand. Took me on a tiki tour way out in the friggin' country, mate. Met the whole family. Filled me full of rice wine. High-test shite. You 'ad it?"
I admitted that I hadn't.
"Oh mate, you gotta. Anyway, I started getting suspicious when they told me about their grandmother. Real sick, they said. Had to go to the hospital but didn't have any money, OK? So I gave 'em ten dollars." In the street a motorbike whisked by, driven by a woman in a rice hat. Two large cages, pregnant with cackling black roosters, hung from the rear of the bike. "I know it was scam, if that's what yer thinkin'," Ethan continued. "Figured I got a good meal out of it. Rice wine. Hoo." He raised his hand and motioned to the old woman at the back of the bar. "Ơi!" he yelled. "Hai bia nữa!" The woman brought two warm beers and glasses of ice.
"I wonder if Mr. Phuc's grandmother is sick, too?" I said. I cracked my can and filled my glass. A thick head spilled over the lip.
"Ha!" Ethan barked. "What's the worst that can 'appen?"
I woke up the next day with a mild hangover and met Mr. Phuc in the park near my homestay. I figured we'd just go around the corner to a coffee shop, but Mr. Phuc had other plans. He wanted to treat me to a meal, he said, and introduce me to his family. I didn't really want to go to this guy's house, but I also didn't want to be rude, so I went along. Maybe I'd even get a story out of it.
It took about 40 minutes to reach Mr. Phuc's house on the other side of the Han River. It was a simple two-story concrete structure, typical of the houses in the countryside. In the front room, a man sat on a threadbare couch watching a rerun of "Friends." When he saw us enter, he stood and turned the TV off. He was dressed in a white button-up shirt and black pants—the classic salaryman uniform. Mr. Phuc introduced him as his brother, Tinh.
Tinh turned out to have excellent English. We chatted for a while about why I was in Danang, whether I was an English teacher, things like that. He revealed that he worked as a card dealer in a casino in Ha Long. I knew that gambling was illegal for Vietnamese residents, but that some casinos had been built to attract the Chinese and Korean tourists that went to Ha Long Bay, a popular vacation spot up north. He worked half the year there, he said; the rest of the time, he was a dealer in the VIP room of some club here in Danang.
"Sometimes the groups, they hire their own dealer. They are very rich." He winked and jabbed his thumbs into his chest. "With cards, I am very lucky. They like to hire me." He went on to tell me about how his rich clients gave him tips when they won. I half-listened; I wasn't really into cards. Mostly, I wondered when the grandmother would come up.
From behind Tinh, Mr. Phuc's wife emerged from the kitchen. She filled the table with plates laden with rice, vegetables, stewed pork, and spring rolls. We sat down to eat, and although Mr. Phuc's wife spoke little English, the conversation was good. I forgot all about Tinh's cards until the end of the meal, when he brought it up again. Two nights ago, he told me, a businessman from Hanoi had won the equivalent of twenty-thousand U.S. dollars. I knew that was a ton of money in Vietnam. I thought about the twenty bucks I had in my own pocket and how that would probably last me the whole week.
Tinh asked me if I knew how to play Hanoi Blackjack. I told him that I didn't.
“After dinner, I’ll teach it to you,” he said. I replied that I’d like to learn someday, but that I wasn’t interested in gambling. “No, no," he said. "No worry. I’ll just show you how to play."
Once the plates had been cleared from the table, Tinh broke out the cards. Like a careful teacher, Tinh explained the rules and walked me though a couple of hands. As he did, Mr. Phuc broke out the rice wine and poured shots for each of us. I could stand to stick around a little while, I thought.
Tinh reached into a small box and pulled out a handful of cheap plastic chips. He dumped them in a pile and pushed them toward me.
"Hey there, Tinh," I said. I sat back in my chair. "I thought we said no gambling."
"No, no. No gambling," he said. "Just for fun." A wide grin spread across his face. He shuffled and dealt the cards. "Actually," he added, "you never want to play against me. Not for real. I always win." Noted, I thought. I lifted the shot glass and tipped the rice wine into my throat. Immediately, my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in: it was the strongest stuff I had ever tasted. My face must have reflected my struggle, because Tinh and Mr. Phuc both laughed.
Once the cards were dealt, Tinh looked at me and raised an eyebrow. "OK," he said in a hoarse whisper, "now I show you how to win. Look at your cards." I lifted my cards: twenty. Tinh lifted his and showed me his hand. He had nineteen. He collected the cards, shuffled, and redealt.
"Look at your cards again," he said. I lifted them: twenty-one. Tinh lifted his: twenty. So he was counting cards, I thought. Simple enough. I asked him about it.
"No, no," he said. He clutched his chest. "Never say I am counting cards. I am good dealer. Many people say I am very lucky. But I can show you how to be lucky with me." He showed me the method: if he curled the fingers of his left hand, the other player had an ace. When he placed his right hand over his left, that was the signal to raise. It continued. Each time I got it right, Mr. Phuc laughed and poured another shot of the rice wine.
"You are a good card player," said Tinh as he shuffled the cards. By this time, I had a small fortune in chips in front of me. "Maybe you come with me to the club. I get you in the VIP room. We can make a lot of money together."
I took the newest shot of rice wine and laughed through the pain. "I don't know about that," I said. "I'm not much of a card player. I don't even have the money I'd need to play."
Tinh made a face of disgust. "No, you are a good player," he protested. "You just need more practice." His cell phone rang, and he answered it in rapid-fire Vietnamese. I looked at Mr. Phuc. He returned my gaze with a lop-sided smile. Tinh flipped his phone closed with a snap.
"Good news. That was the businessman from Hanoi. He wants me to deal for him again tonight. He says I am his lucky dealer." He winked at me. "He come pick me up in one hour. You come with me. Maybe we get lucky, too." He picked his teeth with the long nail of his pinky finger. It wasn't hard to read between the lines: Tinh wanted me to go to the club and help him fleece this rich asshole.
"I don't know about that, Tinh," I said. I began to stand up. "I should get going."
"No, no, you stay!" said Mr. Phuc. He bolted from his chair and grabbed my wrist. He must have seen the panic on my face because he relaxed his grip on me. "More happy juice! You sit. You sit." He sat back down and poured another round of shots. What the hell, I thought. One more. I eased back into my seat. With a little flair, Mr. Phuc lifted his shot glass toward me. "Chủ sức khỏe," he said—to good health. We shot our rice wine. It went down a lot easier than before.
It didn't seem like any time had passed, but suddenly there was a clatter behind us. Tinh stood up. "Oh, you are early!" he said. I turned to see a man in a nylon jacket and a tie enter the room. In his left hand he carried a small satchel. "This is Mr. Quoc, from Hanoi!" Tinh said to me. He turned to Mr. Quoc: "Bạn tôi tên là Amarillo Slim. Bạn ấy là người Mỹ!" He punctuated his statement with a quick laugh. I knew enough Vietnamese to know he was telling Mr. Quoc that I was from America, and that I was the famous card player Amarillo Slim. He was making a joke. Funny.
The businessman grabbed my hand and shook it. He held the grip as though I was a balloon that might float away. "Hello, Em-rillo," he said. He leaned in and hissed like a conspirator: "America is number one!"
"OK, OK," said Tinh. "We have a little time before we go to the club. I was just showing Amarillo how to play Hanoi Blackjack. Maybe we can have practice game before we go to the club?" Mr. Quoc shook his head in agreement, and before I could say anything, he had taken a seat beside me at the table. Tinh slid a pile of practice chips to him and dealt the cards.
"Just one hand, Tinh," I said. "I really have to go."
"It is no problem!" said Tinh. I looked at my hand. From the corner of my eye, Tinh gave me the signal to bet. I threw out $20 worth of chips from the pile in front of me. Almost immediately, Mr. Quoc raised me $200. I looked at Tinh and raised an eyebrow.
"It is OK," Tinh said. "This is practice. You use these." He tapped the table near my pile of training chips. I figured I had about $250 worth of plastic tokens. I slid the chips into the middle of the table. Predictably, I won the hand.
"Oh, you are good!" said Mr. Quoc. He produced a stack of U.S. bills and handed them to Tinh. Without hesitation, Tinh doled out new chips and dealt. The whole thing happened so quickly I barely had time to register it. I knew that the game had changed now: money had been exchanged and a new hand had been dealt. It had become real. If I got out now while I was up, everyone would laugh and call it a "practice game"—there was no way Mr. Quoc would actually pay me the money I'd won. But if I lost or folded, they'd insist that I pay up one way or another. Visions of being huddled into an ATM at knifepoint lurked in my head.
My best strategy, I decided, was to play this hand and get out before Tinh could deal again. I picked up my cards and looked at them. When I lifted my eyes, Tinh winked at me. He wanted me to keep going, to just trust him that, together, we would fleece this gullible jerk. I glanced at Mr. Quoc beside me. His hair was slicked back with what looked like engine oil and a heavy gold watch circled his thin wrist. He sure looked like a rich creep, I thought, but something about him seemed off: he was too engrossed in his cards, too oblivious to Tinh's theatrics. For the first time, I noticed his tie; it was cheap and poorly knotted, not at all like a rich businessman's; it hung from his neck like a noose.
As expected, I won the hand. Before I could say anything, Tinh began dealing another. It was then that I took my out.
"This is my last hand, guys," I said. "I have someplace to be. It's been fun."
Tinh's eyes widened; he shook his head. But Mr. Quoc, calm and smiling, simply said, "This is no problem, Em-rill."
Tinh signaled me and I drew a card. Nineteen. Mr. Quoc had a ten showing. I decided on a token bet and pushed $20 in chips to the center of the table. Mr. Quoc groaned and bent over. When he straightened up, he held a brick of $100 bills. He dropped it onto the table. “I raise five thousand USD,″ he said. He showed his teeth to me. “I like to win."
The shoe had dropped. I looked at Tinh. He winked at me like he had something in his eye. Somehow, Mr. Quoc remained oblivious. I had two choices: agree to match a $5,000 bet, or fold and possibly be on the hook for the $250 Tinh had "lent" me. I decided to take my chances.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have that kind of money on me,” I said. I stood up. The door to the street was open behind me. If things went bad, I figured I could at least find a chicken coop to hide in.
Suddenly, Tinh raised from his chair.
"I can guarantee his bet!" he yelled. "I am sure Amarillo has plenty of money in his hotel room. He can pay me back later." It was a bold assumption for Tinh to make, and it was wrong. I began to protest when Mr. Quoc interrupted me:
"No, no. I need to see money now."
If these two were in on a ruse to fleece me, which they almost certainly were, then this new wrinkle made my head spin. Had Mr. Quoc turned the tables? Had he decided the night hadn’t gone as planned and modified the rules to demand money from whoever could produce it first?
Tinh remained silent. The room felt like a vacuum. Then Tinh rose and walked into a back room. When he returned, he held a small bag in his hand. He reached into it, pulled out a wad of crumpled bills, and placed it on the table. Mr. Quoc stood to count the money. As he did, his jacket shifted to reveal a large knife sheathed to his ribcage. He finished counting and glared at Tinh.
"This is two thousand USD," he said.
"It is what I have," said Tinh.
"No. I need to see all. I no trust." Mr. Quoc was insistent. He puffed out his chest. "I am businessman! I take anything. Gold is okay too."
They say that second chances don't happen often, but it was here that I saw mine. “If you fellas have the time," I interjected, "I can go back to my hotel and get my money.”
The mood changed in an instant. Tinh hatched a plan: Mr. Quoc would stay behind to guard the cards while he and I went to my hotel. As Tinh sealed our cards in envelopes and placed them in a safe, Mrs. Phuc emerged from the kitchen. It was only the second time I had seen her that night. There was a sad look on her face as our eyes connected. Then I went into the night.
The taxi arrived, and I climbed into the back seat. Tinh slid in beside me. I hadn't expected Mr. Phuc to join us, but he got into the front seat beside the driver. When Tinh asked me the address of my hotel, I told him I couldn't remember. Mr. Phuc, however, hadn't forgotten the location of the park where we had met; we agreed that the taxi would stop there, and I would walk to my room to get my money. Then we'd all return together to finish the card game.
The road coiled like a spring through the countryside. Dim quán nhậus pierced the dark at odd intervals. They were reflections of streetlamps in a greasy pond, and as we drove past, I caught glimpses of the men sitting within, their faces tired and drawn as they slouched over rice and cheap beer. Beyond them, the darkness of the fields was impenetrable. I was glad I hadn't had to run from Mr. Phuc's house into the night.
The entire time, Tinh and Mr. Phuc kept me busy with questions:
"What is food like in America?"
"Do you live in California?"
"How many rooms are in your house?"
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
Finally, Tinh dropped the big question:
"Five thousand USD is very much money. This is very exciting! What will you do with your winnings?"
I knew, of course, that I was not going to win that game. I was never intended to. The whole thing was clear now: I'd return with as much money as I could get and resume the game, only to have Tinh signal me right into Mr. Quoc's winning hand. At worst, they'd skip the pretenses and just rob me outright. I kicked myself for not seeing it from the beginning and for allowing the scam to get to this point. I imagined the real Amarillo Slim would have seen through it from the start.
When we arrived at the park, Mr. Phuc told the taxi driver to pull over. I opened the door and stepped out. Incredibly, Tinh and Mr. Phuc remained in the car.
"I'll be right back," I said to Tinh.
"No problem, Amarillo," said Tinh. "We be right here!" In the front seat, Mr. Phuc leered. As our eyes met, his mouth stretched wider. He brought his left hand to his chest, thumb raised.
I sauntered across the park in half-time to the pounding in my chest. As I reached one of the narrow alleys that meander maze-like through the residential blocks, I darted left. I ran through the alleyways until my lungs felt like they could take no more, and I pushed through it. When I finally reached the darkened beach, I collapsed beneath a palm tree. As I gasped for breath, I thought about all the travel stories I had read, all the people that had inspired me to travel in the first place: Paul Theroux, Graham Greene, even that cranky bastard Bill Bryson. I'd assumed they all traveled in solitary, scripted purity, their itineraries serendipitously arranged to allow for maximum, beatific experience. But as I coughed and sputtered on a beach halfway across the world, it hit me: the ugly parts of the world, the stuff you travel to escape from—the assholes, the tedium, the traffic jams, the trash on the sidewalks and in the gutters—it was everywhere. It was pervasive. It was just the part that no one wrote about.
I waited beneath the palm tree until I was confident that Tinh and Mr. Phuc hadn't followed me. As I made my way back to my homestay, every shadow became a drunken grandfather or a knife-wielding businessman. By the time I finally arrived, I was shaking with adrenaline. I wasn't surprised to find Ethan sitting at the quán nhậu next door with a beer in his hand. I took a stool beside him.
"Jesus, mate, what the hell 'appened to you?" he said. I looked at myself. My shirt was heavy with sweat. Sand covered my arms and legs. I ordered a beer and launched into my tale. When I mentioned the card game, Ethan burst into laughter.
"Does this look familiar?" He curled the fingers of his left hand. "Nine." He placed his right hand over his left. "Raise."
I looked at him with amazement. "It happened to you, too?"
"Yeah. Didn't I tell you last night?"
"No, Ethan," I said. "I don't recall you saying anything about that."
"Yeah, it was right before they told me about the grandmother."
"How far did you get with the game?"
"Oh, ho, mate—I stopped that shite as soon as they pulled out the chips."
"Jesus, Ethan," I said. "Now I have to stop going to the market."