Liz was doing the dishes when the doorbell buzzed. Before she could turn off the tap and dry off her hands, there were two more buzzes.
‘Tony? Can you get that?’ she shouted.
Almost losing his balance as he stood up, Tony grabbed the top of his chair and steadied himself. It must be Mateo and that DJ friend of his, he thought. He walked across the lounge and opened the door.
‘Hi boss,’ Mateo said, wearing the same outfit as Monday’s and standing behind Ricky. And sure enough, Julian’s predictions proved right - beside Mateo was a young Vietnamese man who looked like he’d been plucked straight out of that musty basement in Hackney. Tony’s eyes drifted downward and discovered an unmistakable union of hands, clenched tightly together with fingers interlocked at every joint.
‘Hello,’ the Vietnamese lover acknowledged Tony’s scrutinous gaze.
‘Come in, come in!’ Liz greeted them from behind Tony. ‘Would you like something to eat? I suppose you’ll need to have lunch soon anyway.’
‘Yes please,’ Ricky answered. ‘I know these two could use a nice home cooked meal. And they need a place to stay since I actually need to head back to the flat - as I told Mr. Barlow, er, Tony, over the phone - I’ve got a few meetings scheduled there. But I’ll be across the street if you need anything. Will that be ok?’
‘Of course, Tony told me all about it. It’s wonderful that you’re back Mateo,’ Liz smiled at the footballer. ‘We’ll take good care of you both, so feel free to stay here for as long as you need.’ Tony nodded along and saw Ricky out the door. Liz returned to the kitchen to prepare some quick dishes while Tony sat down with the two men and listened to their account. Just as they had been with Ricky, the two men were careful in recounting the details of their ordeals.
When they had finished, Tony asked the inevitable.
‘So what’s next? What do you two fancy doing?’
Mateo spoke up. ‘London is too dangerous. England is dangerous. I try to take him out of here. Back to Vietnam.’
‘Vietnam?’
Mateo nodded. It was one of those short, minimalist nods that were conducted with the eyes firmly placed on the other person. The eyes didn’t blink, and they said this is not up for discussion.
‘You want to leave English football?’
‘Yes.’
Tony was flabbergasted. Tony’s imminent retirement notwithstanding, he felt a sense of responsibility toward the club’s mission to retain its best players for the future.
‘But you’re the heart and soul of the Lions. The club will build a team around you and they will invest. We could be challenging for the Champions League consistently - a new force to be reckoned with. You could make a real name for yourself in England. People will chant your name and write you a song. Little children will enroll at the academy dreaming of becoming the next Poncela. The number seven will always be associated with you and people will remember you for ages!’ Tony’s face was flushed with emotion. Mateo said nothing.
‘Well I’ll be honest with you,’ Tony picked up the conversation again after Ricky failed to give a response. ‘You don’t have to stay, but at least stay in Europe. I don’t want you to throw everything away. You have talent, boy. And you shouldn’t walk away from it. Do something with your life--’
‘He is my life,’ Mateo declared as his hand, hanging on Luong’s left shoulder, tightened its grip. ‘Boss I’m grateful. But I leave. I played enough. I have money, and I can take care of us. Football is not religion.’
Mateo leaned away from Tony and toward Luong. As he moved, Tony saw from his elevated point of view the glimmer of the lotus pendant dangling from Mateo’s neck, just slightly tucked under his V-neck shirt. This time, he felt no need to restrain himself. He wanted to confirm his fears, which he feared would be right. That was an even more terrifying thought. But the temptation was too great.
‘Mateo, where did you get that necklace?’
Mateo peered down inside his shirt and looked back up, then looked at Luong and smiled. ‘He gave it to me.’
‘And where did you get it from?’ Tony redirected his question toward the Vietnamese lover.
‘From a friend. In nail salon.’
‘A fellow worker?’
‘Yes.’ Luong wondered where this was going.
‘A male colleague? In...your line of work? I mean, in the basement?’
‘Yes. He left England. Many months ago.’
‘And do you know who he got it from?’
‘He said it was woman. Don’t remember. He said English woman.’
Tony felt the ground collapse beneath him. He sank back into the sofa and exhaled miserably. It was right around then that Liz called them into the kitchen for lunch. It was also right then that Tony’s mobile rang, more ominously than usual. Tony picked up as he motioned for Mateo and Luong to go ahead into the kitchen.
‘Yes, hullo?’
‘Tony Barlow?’ The voice was composed, authoritative, and dark.
‘Speaking. Who is this?’
‘I’d be disappointed if you didn’t know who we were. It’s only been a few hours since we parted ways. You left in a hurry.’
‘Excuse me who is this?’
‘Call back to this number if you like what you see.’ With that the mysterious voice hung up.
‘How preposterous,’ Tony grumbled. ‘Prank texts and prank calls. What has the world turned into?’
He was about to join everyone in the kitchen when the beep of his phone stopped him. Annoyance became panic when he checked his inbox. The new message had a photo attached, and it exposed a topless Tony in the arms of a young Vietnamese boy.
Tony was breathing heavily when he arrived in Hackney, the same place where he had hurried to the night before. He had left Liz, Mateo, and Luong back home, telling them he needed to drop by the office to take care of some work. He stopped Liz’s car at a corner. Just around it was the rendezvous location, a dingy, dodgy Vietnamese restaurant by the name of Pho Feast that could easily have been hiding corpses in the kitchen. Tony pulled the door open.
To the right he saw a handful of customers finishing up their pho. There were no other customers. Across the room, he recognised the stocky Vietnamese man from the nail salon. He was guarded on both sides by his minions, who were both sporting ponytails albeit of varying lengths. The Short Ponytail approached Tony and escorted him to the table where the boss sat. The boss had slicked back hair like yesterday but his mis-dyed paisley shirt was of a different colour combination. Nevertheless it seemed to be an exact carbon copy of yesterday’s shirt in style and fit. His trousers were not visible since he did not get up to greet Tony.
‘Mr. Barlow. Please.’ He motioned for Tony to sit down. Tony pulled back the chair in front of him and installed himself. Detecting his reluctance, the man leaned forward and extended his hand. Tony shook it as he had no other alternative.
‘Call me Huynh, Mr. Barlow,’ he said. Tony nodded. ‘I’ll get to the point right away,’ he continued. ‘I don’t care if you like little boys, Mr. Barlow, but maybe other people do. I follow football sometimes and I like you sir. I respect a hardworking man like you. But I think it would be a shame if the world lost a good manager because the public was incapable of accepting your private life. These things should be kept separate. I am prepared to help that for a price.’
He stopped there and searched Tony’s face for signs of approval.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Good. I think it must be a truly emotional moment when a match ends, after all that preparation and hard work. In fact, I’m dying to know what that feeling is like, and I would like to experience what it’s like to be a manager. I would like to be in charge of a football game and experience the adrenaline of a victory or a loss. Unfortunately there’s no other way for me to experience that moment unless…I am indeed managing the game.’
He paused again, this time for dramatic tension. He took out a pack of B&H and lit one. After a puff he resumed his speech.
‘So I would like that experience. I’m an impatient man, and I would like to have it ready for me to experience this weekend.’
‘I don’t follow.’
Huynh shifted his posture and leaned in very closely so that his paisley shirt blended in with the chintzy table cloth. At a closer distance, and under natural lighting, Tony could see that there were streaks of grey hair running through his oiled up black hair.
‘You will lose this weekend’s game. By a margin of two goals. It’s more exciting that way no?’
‘You’re out of your bloody mind.’
‘Am I? Then why are you here, Mr. Barlow? Why are my hands completely and tightly squeezing your balls? I’m sure you enjoy the metaphor.’
Tony nervously covered his mouth with his hands. So this was what it all came down to. His great moment of managerial success was to be crushed by some Asian mobsters and their gambling syndicate. He’d heard of match fixing before when he was down in the lower tiers. There was no money, and men were hungry. He had even witnessed a teammate mention it during his days as a player. The beautiful game they called it. Beautifully lucrative is what they probably meant.
Tony had steered clear of these scandals on the basis of a quick cost benefit analysis. He wasn’t a lavish spender and his finances were relatively comfortable. There were no excursions to the racetracks or the card tables - those were pitfalls he’d seen many a footballer walk into. So without the need for quick cash, match fixing was a highly unfavourable prospect that invited a stint in the can while endangering his reputation and livelihood.
From a philosophical standpoint he found it disagreeable as well. The morality of deception wasn’t the biggest issue for Tony; it was rather that predetermined outcomes invalidated all the time and effort Tony would have invested to gain results. It made him a fool.
But ever since he graduated from the lowly bottom tiers and ascended to the higher echelons of the Premiership he had completely forgotten about the whole issue. He was aware it existed - he never feigned innocence or went out of his way to praise the beautiful game’s purity and declare how he could not believe anyone could so contaminate the sport - but he never had to come across it personally nor did he ever hear of such a thing transpiring in England’s most exalted theatres of football.
Yet now, days before the final game of the season, he was sitting in an austere canteen in Hackney, listening to a Vietnamese pimp ordering him to fix the most important match of London Football Club’s season.
‘How do I know you’ll keep your word?’ Tony demanded angrily.
Huynh let out a guffaw. ‘I suppose you won’t know. But what you do know is that I know where you live, and I know all about you. Maybe your girlfriend would also like to know.’
Tony said nothing but looked down and breathed harder.
‘You don’t have other options,’ Huynh continued. ‘Make sure the Lions lose.’