by Greg Arritt
His thoughts turned to Lin Ming and the night they shared themselves. He could still feel her closeness, her breath on his face, and the softness of her skin. He definitely missed her. There was no denying it, but their short-lived romance was over. He thought of something Sam had said. “Knowing the culture wasn’t going to help, it was all gut instinct.” His gut told him that his chances with Lin Ming had long since passed and that he should wrap up his business in Suzhou and return home.
* * *
As he passed through the doors of Taste A Coffee, the strong aroma reminded him of mornings in Paris, sipping coffee at a sidewalk café. Although the small Chinese coffee shop was nowhere near Paris, it had well emulated the European style. He bypassed the espressos favored by the aficionados and ordered a medium cup of coffee. It was served in a paper cup: hot, black, and strong. He had hoped to find a place to sit and maybe read a newspaper, but the café was filled to capacity. Its patronage was predominately Chinese with a few expatriates mixed in the crowd. Every time a table became available it was instantly filled, as if it existed in a vacuum. Aside from the lack of seating, there also weren’t any English-language newspapers. All thoughts of a Parisian morning had faded and it seemed pointless to remain.
Without any set destination, he headed along the street sipping his coffee, sometimes stopping to peer through the window of a store, but only out of curiosity.
The next block consisted of a department store complex that had been fused into a shopping arcade. In front of the arcade, a cell-phone company actively promoted its services. It had erected several awnings, and music blared from loudspeakers in an effort to attract a younger clientele. The whole area had become densely congested. As Redding waded through the masses he had to take care not to spill his coffee. He was midway through the crush of bargain shoppers when something in the crowd caught his attention. His eyes darted back and forth until they settled on a recognizable face. It was Joran Hausen’s.
Joran made no attempt to conceal his presence, almost as if he wanted to be seen. He exhaled, and the smoke from his cigarette slowly swirled around his head before dissipating. He held his stare solidly on Redding and then flicked away the remains of his cigarette without regard for where it landed.
The muscles in Redding’s neck tensed. The last thing he needed was to be pulled into a public confrontation with Joran. He wound his way through the crowd and then veered away from the arcade. Near the end of the next block he stopped and glanced back. About half a block away he spotted Joran moving in his direction.
Whatever Joran’s intentions, they weren’t exactly clear. Exchanging blows on the street seemed improbable. This had to be some lame attempt at intimidation. Either way, he wasn’t about to let Joran gain an advantage, nor would he ever willingly hand over the painting, at least not until the money had been wired.
There was nothing physically threatening about Joran. He was neither imposing nor did he project the image of someone who could handle himself in a fight. Nothing about him scared Redding even a little. Redding was quite certain that he had the upper hand, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was the unknown consequences of a fight in public, especially between two foreigners.
Redding turned on one street, crossed another and then rounded the corner at the end of the block. In the process of eluding Joran, he had become slightly disoriented. He wasn’t exactly lost, but he wasn’t sure where he was, either. He had allowed himself to become boxed in a maze of streets, but finding a way out of the neighborhood wasn’t his most pressing issue.
He turned onto an old commercial street that was thick with traffic. Although the streets were paved, every vehicle that passed by kicked a cloud of dust into the air. Nothing short of a heavy downpour would have suppressed the roiling filth that obscured the visibility for a block in each direction. It had been maybe three blocks without any sign of Joran, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
* * *
Redding kept moving, but he still wasn’t sure where he was headed, then suddenly he stopped. Standing directly in front of him, face to face, was Joran.
“Gimme my goddamn painting!” Joran said, slurring his words into Redding’s face.
Suddenly Redding felt a constriction rise in the back of his throat, which triggered an intense gagging reflex. He tried to suppress the involuntary impulse by turning away for a breath of air. He had unwillingly sucked Joran’s alcohol-laden breath into his nostrils. When he recovered, he took a step backwards, away from Joran. Reeking of smoke was bad enough, but Joran’s breath redefined the meaning of offensive. He was so intoxicated that the thought of brushing his teeth or even showering had probably never crossed his mind. Either way, he was in no condition to be facing off with anyone.
“You want the painting? No problem! As soon as you wire the four hundred thousand,” Redding said as he forcibly brushed past Joran and then crossed the street.
Redding knew Joran was behind him, but he couldn’t turn around and look. He wasn’t about to give Joran the satisfaction of knowing that he was getting on his nerves. He sipped at the remains of his coffee and tried to gain his bearings. He was on a long commercial street with lots of stores and plenty of traffic. It seemed unlikely that, even in Joran’s inebriated state, he would be stupid enough to try anything on a busy boulevard.
Joran came up from behind Redding and grabbed his arm, spinning him around. Then he poked his finger into Redding’s chest.
“I’m not messing around! I want that fucking painting!”
“Did you forget something?” Redding posed nonchalantly before toughening his demeanor. “First the money, then the painting!”
He slammed the palm of his hand into Joran’s chest, forcing him backwards and off balance. As Joran caught himself he took a stance as if he were ready to fight.
“You better rethink that move,” Redding warned. “Because you’re only five seconds short of getting your ass kicked.”
“Fuck you! And fuck the four hundred thousand!”
“You got forty-eight hours left, then I’m calling Le Musee Angladon.”
Redding crossed the street and kept moving. He hoped that that would be the end of it, but somehow he just knew that Joran wasn’t finished. In the middle of the block there was a narrow access road between the buildings. The road had once been paved a very long time ago, but only remnants of the asphalt still remained. After years of weather and use the road had become just well-traveled dirt, but the alley did offer a moment of privacy that the main road lacked.
It seemed unlikely that the row between them would dissipate on its own accord, so Redding turned into the alley. He held to the center of the access road and was maybe halfway back the length of the buildings when he sensed motion behind him. He whipped around and there was Joran, coming at him. His arm was cocked back and in a fraction of a second, the distance between them had closed. Joran had uttered something unintelligible just as he released a right hook that was misdirected. The hook was easily dodged, which put Redding in position to return with a jab. The jab hit Joran square in the face, causing his nose to bleed.
They hadn’t been on the access road a whole fifteen seconds, but already the scuffle had caught the attention of some kids. They hovered near the road’s entrance, intent on watching the exchange. Their presence made Redding uneasy, so he started to back away, but Joran seized the opportunity to take another swing. Redding deflected the punch with one arm and then followed through with the other, driving solidly into Joran’s midsection. Joran doubled over, wheezing and straining against the pain in an effort to catch his breath.
“How much are you going to make off that damn painting, four, maybe five million? You really want to throw it all away?” Redding taunted. “Hell, you’re lucky I don’t decide I’m your new partner.”
“Well, we’ll see what Lin Ming thinks about this.” Joran said, knowing full well the effect his words would have on Redding. “Yeah, I know Lin Ming.”
“Y
ou’re full of shit,” Redding said.
“She was with me before you ever came to China. Maybe you should ask her.”
Redding took hold of Joran by the throat and slammed him backward, pinning him against the wall. Joran struggled against Redding’s hold just to catch a single breath. He made a feeble attempt to free himself by throwing a punch. The punch glanced off Redding’s ear, but it didn’t have any weight behind it. Its effect was little more than an irritation.
“Yeah, she’s a little shy until you get her in bed,” Joran had no more spewed the incendiary words than he felt the intense pain and constriction from another blow to his midsection.
In his intoxicated, belligerent, and combative state, Joran had become a liability. With more and more people gathering at the access-road entrance, Redding knew that it was only a question of time before the police arrived. He wanted out of that alley, but he had to be sure the fight was over, so he waited for Joran to make the next move.
Joran was on his feet, bent forward with one hand across his stomach and the other hand extended to a knee. He was spitting blood and mumbling something about the painting. In his doubled-over posture, he stumbled forward and then made a run at Redding. Redding sidestepped the charge, grabbed Joran by the upper arm and flung him against the building. Joran fell backward into the alley and a few cigarettes spilled from the pack in his shirt pocket.
Redding desperately wanted to leave, but for all intents and purposes he was stuck. If Joran made another move, then he planned to put him in the dirt–hard. He had to make sure it was over. He couldn’t take the chance that the fight would spill over onto the main street, but Joran just sat there. With a pathetic scowl on his bloodied face, he picked up each cigarette individually and dusted them off before returning them to the pack.
“I suggest you pick your sorry ass up and get the hell out of here before the Chinese government decides to deport you.”
“Well, I won’t be the only one getting deported,” Joran said with certain smugness.
“True, but I’ll still have the painting,” Redding said. “So, if you don’t want to leave China empty-handed, you had better get moving.”
Something Redding said must have set off an alarm in Joran’s head, because he stood up, wavered side to side, and then hastened out of the alley.
“And don’t forget my four hundred thousand.”
Redding wondered how much of Joran’s wavering balance could be attributed to the beating and how much was the fault of the alcohol. He waited until Joran was out of sight and then he quickly headed in the other direction. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between the access road and himself, just in case the police had been alerted.
He had expected Joran to be pissed about losing the painting, maybe even act out some rage, but the whole access-road incident bordered on bizarre. His actions were clearly motivated by alcohol and possibly even a lack of sleep, but that alone didn’t explain his strange behavior. A certain uneasiness seeded itself deep inside Redding’s head. Prior to the access road sparring match, the notion of Joran not coming through with the money hadn’t even been a passing thought.
There wasn’t a hint of humidity in the air, but beads of sweat coursed down Redding’s face. He was pissed at himself for allowing Joran to manipulate him, and he was pissed about the things Joran had said. Deep in the back of his mind an image emerged. It was an image of Joran with Lin Ming.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Joran had somehow managed to injure his knee, most likely when he was slammed into the wall. His patella had been bruised, and with every step pain radiated through his knee. If he had had the forethought to bring some money, he could have taken a taxi back to the hotel, but he wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind when he left. After hobbling for a distance, he stopped and rubbed his knee until the pain subsided before continuing on. Everywhere he looked, people were staring at him, although they acted as if they hadn’t noticed. He tried to keep his eyes focused on the sidewalk in front of him. He much preferred the solace of anonymity, but that wasn’t possible, not with a pronounced limp, a swollen face, and torn shirt splattered with blood.
He hadn’t noticed the bikers, but they had noticed him. With only a look, they knew he had been on the losing side of a fight. Three of them stood around in a cluster while the other two sat on their motorcycles. As Joran limped closer, he was mumbling under his breath while trying to limit the use of his knee. Had it not been for one of the bikers talking loudly about his beaten-down condition, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed them.
“What a mess! Maybe you should hire someone to do your fighting, because you don’t know how,” Qiang laughed.
Joran stopped long enough to consider Qiang’s comment. He was still plenty pissed off, but all the fight in him had been exhausted. The ridicule didn’t set well, but he knew that he was clearly outside his element. He turned towards the bikers and spit some blood into the street, more as an act of contempt than as a necessity. The bikers responded to the insult by laughing, and Joran stumbled away without provoking another incident.
* * *
Of all the bikers, Qiang saw himself as the quasi leader of the group. He had made several attempts to exert his influence and thus cement his role, but all had been rejected. The fact that he spoke English fluently and had a university education carried little weight with the others. He worked the reception desk at the Metro Grand Hotel, not as management but in a clerical position. Leadership within the group had become a contentious issue. Although no one individual had been recognized as the leader, whenever Qiang made a decision the others usually followed.
“There is a new girl at work, and she has large breasts,” Qiang said to Long. “The boss is always trying to talk to her. And of course, she’s pretty. They wouldn’t have hired her if she wasn’t.”
“Maybe I could stop by the hotel and you could introduce her to me?” Long suggested.
“No chance! You trying to get me fired?” Qiang said, totally appalled at the idea.
Long only wore shirts that fit tightly, thus revealing his muscular physique. He was always concerned about his appearance. His hair had to be combed just so and his clothes freshly pressed. He thought that was the look that girls couldn’t resist, and he couldn’t resist them. He always wanted to look his best just in case he met that one special girl.
The group had been waiting for a phone call that for some reason hadn’t come. They hung close to their motorcycles, talked only amongst themselves, and paid little attention to passing shoppers. In the wasting of time, they had little else to do other than critique the various refinements of each other’s bikes and boast of their own riding abilities. They didn’t necessarily like each other, but they did have to depend on one another. If it hadn’t been for the easy money they most likely would have gone their separate ways.
* * *
The group started with Qiang and Long. Once a week, during the late-night hours, they would take to the highways outside the city, intent on high-speed thrills. Their passion for racing motorcycles had not only brought them together, but it had also culminated in a friendship. On one particular outing they had accelerated to full speed down a deserted street before slowing and leaning heavily into a turn. As they came out of the turn and accelerated, they straightened up, but it was no longer just the two of them. A black sport bike had caught up with them and merged alongside. The rider of the black motorcycle easily outpaced them on the straight-aways and could handle the corners with an agility that both Qiang and Long envied. By the end of the night Fangxu had become a member of their group. A month later, Jie started riding with them, followed soon after by Weichao.
Their high-speed activities fell well outside of lawful behavior. Their intentions were never meant to spite the law. They just yearned for the thrill. In an effort to minimize the risk of apprehension, the actual course of the ride was never repeated. As an additional measure, they changed the weeknight of the ride from
one week to the next. One day everything changed and it was no longer about racing motorcycles. The late night jaunts that brought them together had been supplanted with another lawless activity.
* * *
Weichao was the one who had introduced the others to the easy money. Through his uncle, he had proposed an unorthodox, yet illegal means by which they were well paid. They became the strong arm of Weichao’s uncle so that he could enforce his hold on a local distribution market.
A mere half-hour of their time netted each of them more than they could earn in an entire week. They used tactics of intimidation, coercion, disruption, and if necessary, violence. Their job was to deliver an implied message to wayward clients. Most storeowners understood immediately. Just the bikers’ appearance in front of a business, revving engines and spinning their rear wheels, was enough to send storeowners running for cover.
A few obstinate storeowners were subjected to an increased level of disruption. Motorcycles were ridden inside the store, sending goods flying from the shelves. When the mayhem was complete, the group vanished into traffic. The store’s owner was left to suffer the loss of damaged merchandise.
The money was always divided equally, even if the level of participation wasn’t equal, such as the times that they had actually beaten clients into submission. Jie and Weichao both had an anomalous need for acting out their physical aggressions. Even though they delivered the vast majority of a beating they, like the others, only received an equal share of the payment.
Qiang and Long exerted their influence over all decisions related to physical abuse thus balancing violence with moderation. They weren’t necessarily averse to using violence. They just didn’t see it as an end all requirement. It was Fangxu who stood in direct opposition to the escalating use of violence.