Beijing Payback

by Daniel Nieh

  “The doorman is a Chinese dwarf? Really?” I whisper to Sun.

  He shakes his head. “Mongolian dwarf.”

  “Ah.”

  The interior of Velvet is no less bizarre: a cavern of round red booths rising in a scalloped pattern from a parquet stage in the middle. A ring of massive murals depicting a litter of bears engaged in various activities—drinking, wrestling, playing chess—covers the walls above the top row of booths. The crowd is a UN Security Council of debauchery: suited Chinese businessmen downing pony glasses of baijiu; wasted American expats and exchange students making out by the bathrooms; unshaven Russian patriarchs hunkered around bottles of Stoli. A Central Asian girl with an excellent midriff and a python draped over her shoulders is gyrating around the stage to Arabic music playing over a scratchy speaker system. Her pants and skimpy top are gold, sequined, tasseled.

  “Woof,” I say.

  “There he is. Follow me,” Sun says.

  The booth Sun indicates with his chin is a big and conspicuous one close to the stage. The closer we get to it, the more it looks like everyone from the first ten pages of Vogue sitting in a pouty circle.

  “You didn’t say he runs a modeling agency.”

  Sun nods curtly. “It’s one of his various enterprises.”

  Now we’re close enough to see the man, who I assume is Feder, sitting at the center of this ring of teenage Slavic beauty. He’s one of those aging guys who’s managed to remain handsome, despite a balding pate and a softening middle, by paying the mysterious price of becoming extremely shiny—is it some sort of expensive, youth-preserving skin oil? His white oxford shirt is tucked into his tan slacks, rolled up at the cuffs, and insufficiently buttoned, revealing a gold chain in a rumpus of chest hair, as well as a pair of thick wrists and an expensive watch.

  Somewhere in my head, Jules wrinkles her nose and says, “Vomfest.”

  Feder is engaged in a close conversation with one of the girls, a leggy brunette in a blue dress with an angular, androgynous bone structure, and now he brings his finger up into her face and says something that makes the tendons in both of their necks stand out. The girl whirls up and stalks past us with a stormy look on her chiseled face.

  “Do it now,” Sun says.

  I press a button on the Nokia candy-bar.

  “Hey!” Feder calls after the girl. Then he pats his pockets and pulls out a phone. “Allo?”

  “Feder Fekhlachev?” I say.

  “Vincent? Is that you?” Feder says.

  “Vincent’s dead.”

  Feder looks up at the sound of my nonphone voice. We’re standing in front of his table. I end the call and put the phone back in my pocket.

  “And you are?” he asks me in a neutral tone.

  “May we sit down?”

  Feder looks us over thoughtfully, then mutters something in Russian to the two languid toothpicks sitting to his right before returning his nonchalant gaze to my face. The toothpicks obediently stand and we slide in, Sun first, then me.

  “So. Vincent Li is dead. What happened? And you are who, who tells me this?” Feder’s English is thick and accented. He reeks of cologne, and his eyes are cloudy. I wonder how far into the Stoli he’s gotten so far tonight.

  “My name is Vaughn. And this is my colleague, Teddy,” I say, using the American-sounding pseudonyms I chose for us, both of which also happen to belong to SDSU basketball coaches. “We represent a major American interest.”

  I glance around the table, but nobody seems interested in our conversation. The girls are busy pouring drinks, chatting idly, and taking selfies, which seems to be the only time they smile.

  “Perhaps I can ask what is the major American interest of which we are speaking?”

  I frown, dig, compose. Bullshit time.

  “I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you that it doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that we had a good relationship with Vincent, and now he’s dead. We know his former associates are responsible. I’m talking about Mr. Ouyang and Mr. Zhao. These men have caused problems for powerful people in the United States. We also know that you know them. What we’d like to know is this: Do you have any information about Ice?”

  Feder brings his palms together in front of him on the table. “And if I do?” he asks me.

  “We’d like to know what you know. Everything. If you can give us what we want, there is a stipend in U.S. dollars”—close to the table between us, I do a four with my hand, followed by four zeroes, raising my eyebrows at him, making sure he understands. I glance at Sun, who nods. “We can also assist you with certain consular privileges—say, for example, a visa for the United States.”

  Feder rubs the bridge of his nose. He sips Stoli from a tall shot glass. He gazes at the dancer with the snake. I can almost hear the booze-lubricated gears turning in his head.

  “And if I don’t?” he says at length, lingering a little on the final consonant.

  Sun leans in close to my ear. “Ouyang is here. We have to leave soon,” he whispers.

  I look across the club and see a hostess leading a small party in our direction. There’s a lot of slinky black leather and tattoos; they look less like a crew of gangsters and more like a shitty band or the cast of a Chinese punk porno. It’s obvious which one is Ouyang, since he’s by far the oldest. He’s also bald, hugely fat, and dressed like Chinese John Daly: pleated khakis, loafers, and a polo shirt that fits him like a poncho. He’s walking at the back of the group and talking to a tall, well-built guy who’s apparently wearing nothing but black leather overalls. The tall guy leans over him to listen.

  “He looks like a complete fucking moron,” I whisper back to Sun.

  Sun nods slowly. “Despite his appearance, he’s quite capable.”

  Capable of what? I grimace. The idea that this Jabba-the-Hutt-looking motherfucker had Dad killed—that this gross clown was ever even his friend and associate—brings my blood to a simmer. Feder seems unimpressed with our act, but I remember what Sun said in the cab and decide to double down. I lean in a little bit, hunt inside for the can of festering fury, and pop it open.

  “Ouyang and Zhao made a dangerous miscalculation when they took out Vincent Li,” I hiss in a voice I don’t recognize. “They are going down hard, no matter what. That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. But if you’re not on the right side of this, you could end up on the wrong side. Do you understand me?”

  Feder looks at me again, furrows his brow, and then looks down into his shot glass for a moment. Then he purses his lips and nods his head.

  “I understand you. Yes, I understand you.” He glances around warily. Ouyang and his entourage have reached their table a few tiers up. The girl with the python has left the stage, replaced by a shirtless strongman who’s a dead ringer for Zangief from Street Fighter. He’s juggling kettle bells and wearing a Viking helmet that appears to be on fire.

  “There is a place we can talk,” Feder says. “Come, follow me.”

  I stifle a sigh of relief by clearing my throat as Feder leads us toward the back of the club, away from where Ouyang is sitting. As we walk, I catch a glimpse of the girl, now snakeless, performing what looks like a lap dance for a table of Russian gentlemen. Someone has changed the music to bad Top 40 techno remixes, and near the stage, a smoke machine has been cranked to eleven. For some reason, Holly Michaels pops into my head—what’s she up to right now? Sunning herself on the Quad, probably, or assembling a stir-fry bowl in the dining hall.

  We come up to a filthy staff door manned by two stocky men wearing too-tight V-necks and slouchily drawing on unfiltered cigarettes. Feder confers with them in hushed tones, then pushes the door open and looks back at us expectantly. I look at my blond-banged companion, and inevitably, barely, he shrugs. Fine. We walk in after Feder and the door swings shut—then it swings open again and the goons fall in behind us.

  We walk down a dingy hallway with a tile floor that looks like it has never met a mop. Some of the closed doors we pass on eithe
r side have stickers with Cyrillic writing on them; on others, blocky letters are written directly on the door in marker. Others aren’t marked at all. Eventually we reach an emergency exit. Feder pushes through. No alarm sounds. We push through and find ourselves outside in the chilly Beijing night, surrounded by overflowing dumpsters. The other two push through after us, and then the bigger one, the one with stripes on his muscle shirt, looms in front of me, and a switchblade materializes in his hand.

  “Oh, shit,” I say, and back up into a dumpster. Then a rush hits my system like the real Vaughn just told me to check in to the game. I put some flex in my knees and try to evaluate the situation. In my peripheral vision I see the other goon is similarly armed and standing in front of Sun, who appears to be stretching his hamstrings.

  Feder storms toward me and aims a heavy hook at my head. I throw up both arms against it, but the force of his swing sends me crashing down to the asphalt.

  “So who the fuck you are, huh? You think I am so easy to push around?” He leans over me and grabs a fistful of my collar, his neck all bulgy.

  “So who are you?” Feder repeats, giving me a shake. My eyes track his wide fist, cocked back and aimed at my face. My mind flips through answers so quickly I can’t make sense of them.

  “I, I”—I start to stammer something, but an unruly shriek of pain interrupts me. Feder stiffens up and turns around, unceremoniously dropping me onto the pavement. I look past his legs and see Sun’s goon rolling on the ground, clutching his knee. Sun is standing loose with the guy’s knife in his lowered hands, a frown on his face.

  The other goon turns away from us and dutifully inches toward Sun, his hands wide like a fencer’s. Feder watches Sun with a knit brow, scratching his chin. I sneak my right hand behind my back, grip the handle of the pistol. Swallowing hard, I close my eyes for a moment and imagine a shot clock counting down from five, four, three—I psych myself up to draw.

  Then Feder barks something in Russian, and the goon backs off with a relieved look on his face.

  “Wait, wait, wait wait wait,” says Feder. A bemused smile dances across his face, then vanishes. “So you are the deadly fighter, huh?” he says to Sun, who stares back at him blankly.

  “And you”—turning to me—“you speak the fancy English and like to make threats. What a skill set between you two! What a perfect combination.”

  He claps his hands a few times, slowly, and then throws his head back and laughs like Russian Santa. Slowly, slowly, I loosen my grip on the gun.

  “Yes! Oh, hoho, yes, I will help you funny boys. I can give you what you want. But first, before I help you, you must help me.”

  Rather than going back through the club after we’ve made our deal with Feder, we walk through the alley into a wide parking lot in front of two newer, sleeker nightclubs with glowing yellow and purple signs that light up the dense gray sky. The adrenaline is still humming in my veins.

  “That was so impressive. You really handled that guy. I mean I looked away, and then I looked back, and you were just, hey—”

  Sun plants his hand in my chest, steering me to one side.

  “Be careful,” he whispers, and looking around I see that I was about to walk into a crowd of people behind a club called Coco Flaire. No, not a crowd—a row of guys around my age, on their knees on the asphalt. They are uniformly dressed in black pants, button-ups, and vests, some well fitted, others not so much. There’s a man in a suit pacing up and down in front of them, yelling in their faces, and another man and a woman standing by with clipboards.

  “Don’t watch,” Sun hisses as he pulls me past, giving them a wide berth. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Pretend it’s not happening.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. I guess they work at the club. Maybe something went missing, or maybe they are just having a bad night.”

  We’re closing in on the taxi stand out front, where slender girls in party dresses are standing barefoot in an orderly line, holding designer heels and clutches in their hands, leaning on pimply young dudes with Korean boy band haircuts.

  I sneak one more glance over my shoulder just in time to catch the man in the suit kick one of his employees in the head.

  22

  Victor, you MONSTROUS ASSHOLE, YOU NEED TO GET BACK HERE IMMEDIATELY. Buy a ticket, get back here. You PROMISED to call me, you broke a promise to your last surviving family member and chose instead to wing off to a foreign autocracy to FIGHT THUGS, you unspeakable ass-candle! You are being so fucking reckless with your life right now, and it’s not just your life, Victor, it’s mine, too. Because I’m here sick worrying about you, handling all this other shit and staying in this terrible house on my own, and meanwhile bullshitting on your behalf every ten minutes.

  Lang called the house to say that he paid a visit to the crime lab at Cal State L.A. to ask for more resources on Dad’s case. And he’s coming over here tomorrow to take Dad’s computer. This nice professional crime solver is trying to help us, and you’re only making it harder for him. I was this close to telling him everything. I would have if you hadn’t roped me into driving you to break into the restaurant and made me an accessory to your asinine escapades. So thanks a lot for making me lie to the cops, shitlicker!

  Victor, Dad is not coming back. What this “family” needs is you here, now, to deal with his death the grown-up, responsible way, by signing a bunch of papers and figuring out how to work the lawnmower and not dropping out of college.

  If I don’t hear from you within twenty-four hours, I’m going to call up Lang and the Beijing embassy and tell them everything I know.

  I’m sitting in the kitchen of Ai’s hutong lair, scrolling through emails on my laptop and polishing off two dozen of the most delicious pork-and-scallion steamed dumplings to ever bless my taste buds. I reply to Jules, letting her know that I’m with Sun, and I’m okay, and I’ll get back to her again soon. As I skim through a legion of messages from various SDSU Athletic Department personnel, a chat message from Andre pops up on my screen.

  AndreAllDay: sup rice??

  AndreAllDay: you in beijing?? everything ok??

  Victory121592: Yo Dre! Yeah I’m here. Everything is ok.

  AndreAllDay: u straight up ghosted on us. people are stressin.

  Victory121592: I know. Im sorry man. had to do this. Hopefully it will all make sense later. but Sun is Master Chef. He cooks up the dishes and I just have to eat.

  AndreAllDay: yeah? sick. srsly sick.

  AndreAllDay: but, r u sure this is the right call? youre under a lot of stress right now. maybe u feel obliged to be there, maybe part of it is, its exciting. but you left your whole life behind here

  Victory121592: yeah, look . . .

  AndreAllDay: student athletics is freaking out but you can still enroll and play if u want. team needs u bad. howies out for the season. u and me, going to the tourney together. march madness baby!

  AndreAllDay: maybe u recall that was our dream for a long time

  I stare at these words for a minute, swallowing a little dryness. I know that Andre thinks of me as obsessed with basketball and that maybe the allure of playing on the big stage with him is the best way to entice me onto a plane back to SoCal. But the idea that Howie’s knee injury has any influence over my decision to fulfill Dad’s dying wishes strikes me as ridiculous, betrays the bleed between his genuine concern for me and his desire to have it his way.

  So maybe I should feel guilty and stupid instead of irritated. Or maybe I feel irritated because Andre wants me to feel guilty and stupid.

  Victory121592: I know I’m letting some people down and causing some chaos, but I have to do this.

  Victory121592: I’m really sorry.

  Long seconds pass in which I feel Andre’s face move a few millimeters away from the screen, see the powerful muscles around his jaw tighten and flex. I sense his enormous uniqueness, his enormous cool, his enormous need—for a point guard, for a confidante, for an audience—all gr
ow a bit more enormous.

  AndreAllDay: hey im chill! hakuna matata.

  AndreAllDay: just want to make sure ur ok.

  I blink a bit and put my fingers back on the keys, but somehow I know that nothing I can write will bridge the distance between us.

  And now I hear footsteps on the stairs.

  Victory121592: Hey man, I gtg.

  Victory121592: I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.

  AndreAllDay: aiight man, big love. fyi jules is straight trippin, u gotta talk to her. and be safe.

  Victory121592: I will.

  I’m sighing to myself and shutting the lid of the computer when Wei walks in.

  “Your friends are worried about you?”

  “How did you know that?”

  She doesn’t answer, just smiles her secret smile as she fills the kettle. She’s got a thin, tan, drapey wool sweater on, along with a dark gray pencil skirt, red lipstick, and dark nylons. The effect is electric.

  “Sun told me that you have nice friends in America. They are kind to you, and you have lots of fun together.”

  “That was nice of him to say.”

  “We don’t really have any friends. Would you like to drink tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I toss my empty Styrofoam dumpling container into the trash and wipe some renegade soy-vinegar dipping sauce up from the surface of the table.

  “Did you get what you wanted last night?” she asks as she pours wulong into two small porcelain cups. Her motions are collected and reserved, like there’s something she’s holding in.

  “I don’t know. You know this guy Feder Fekhlachev?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  I copy the way she drinks the tea, lifting the cup to my mouth with both hands and sipping loudly, sucking in air to cool the piping hot liquid as it enters my mouth. It has a clean, bracing flavor, arugula bitter with a floral aftertaste. We stand opposite each other, leaning our butts on facing kitchen counters.