Swiftly, Richard called the new number, hoping against reason that they, too, would answer at nine o’clock at night.
His luck was in the house.
“I’m calling to sell a property—I got this number from Jack Schmidt,” Richard said.
“I need you to call another number,” said a woman’s voice. “Are you ready?”
He scratched down the second number, dialed it—the same lady picked up.
“And your name?”
“Richard Ch—” He stopped himself mid-speech. “Richard Wong.”
“Please hold.”
It must have been five minutes before he heard another voice. An old man’s voice—sagacious, almost aristocratic.
“Thank you, Mr. Wong, and what kind of properties do you speak of?”
“Two buildings in Brooklyn. Fourteen apartments total.” He gave the addresses and his home phone number. It was the first time any agency had taken down his information, and he was giddy with relief.
“We shall deliberate and then return your call, Mr. Wong.”
“That’s swell—and what’s the company name?”
The old man laughed softly, as if this was funny. Richard heard a trickling in the background, perhaps the sound of a fish tank.
“Just call us the Leviathans.”
“The Leviathans?”
“That’s right, the Leviathans.”
Foon Wah knew Richard had lost his job. She went to the lounge to meet Mr. Connelly and have her hunches confirmed. Yet even after this, she decided to say nothing. She’d already learned it was a useless exercise to confront her husband.
Whenever she’d asked him about the buildings on Livonia Avenue—why the loan man called, why the tenants left long messages—he would launch into a series of rebukes. She didn’t know anything about the real estate business, he’d bark.
“You’re wasteful,” he’d often shout at her in Toisanese. “Always spending my money. Like a spoiled child.”
Now that he’d lost his job, she hoped that if she kept quiet, he might resolve the issue on his own, maybe come home with his eyes wide, exclaiming about a fantastic new opportunity.
For three weeks, she kept her mouth shut.
Then one night, he berated her the moment he entered the house.
“Too many shoes,” he said in Toisanese. “How come there’s so many shoes?”
He hung up his hat and coat, then proceeded to the fridge. He’d long ago stopped offering her a kiss, and it was better this way, without them pretending to be the husband and wife in an American movie.
He slammed his fist on the freezer door. “You didn’t buy beer.”
She was, at that moment, spooning beef rice into bowls. Jason was seasoning the eggplant, Jackie setting out the chopsticks and napkins. With the two older girls married off, the house felt empty. Koon Lai crept over to his chair and put a napkin in the neck of his shirt.
“Jason, go to the market and buy your baba a beer,” said Foon Wah. Richard took a seat at the head of the table and helped himself to the potatoes.
Instead of running the errand, Jason opened the fridge, removed two glass bottles of Coke, popped the caps, and put one bottle on his father’s place mat.
“I didn’t ask for a damn Coke!” Richard shouted.
