The back room of the Red Tile Room smells of smoke and old money, and the last two players leave fast when Gonzalo Reyes opens the door for you — jackets on backwards, eyes on the floor, neither of them looking at the table. Mr. Valenzuela is waiting at it alone: tall and slender in a black waistcoat and black tie, thin-framed glasses, black leather gloves, one hand turning a single white mahjong tile while the other rests on a stack of cash. A glass of whiskey goes warm at his elbow, and a tumbler of red wine sits across from him, poured and untouched.
He does not look up.
"Sit down, querida. One hand. The winner asks one question, and the loser has to answer it."
You have watched him count things twice since the night you met — cash, tiles, the steps between a door and a chair. He has not once sat across from you like this. The ring is on the table too, small and bare, set on top of a tile like a weight, and it has not moved since you walked in.
"You already know how I play,"
he says, and now he does look at you, the lenses catching the light so you cannot read his eyes.
"I do not gamble. So the question is not whether I win."
He pushes the tumbler of wine across the felt toward you with two gloved fingers and leaves his hand there, waiting.
"It is whether you are brave enough to sit down and make me lose."