The Cook, the Crook, and the Real Estate Tycoon

by Liu Zhenyun

  “Quit griping. You’re not the only one who got beaten up.”

  What could Han say but,

  “That’s where you’re wrong. We were beaten for very different reasons. But let’s not talk about that. What about my money?”

  “I’m as good as dead if I don’t find my pack, and you can’t stop talking about your money.”

  There was nothing Han could do with someone like Liu. He had no time to deal with the man, not when the Xinjiang gang was after him for their money; besides, Liu was penniless now and nothing Han did would get anything out of him. Five days had gone by, and Han hadn’t once managed to hand over all two thousand, so they began to show up at Lao Gao’s diner and put pressure on him. Frightened of the gang, Gao pressured Han, who offered his advice:

  “Why hold on to that little diner? You flee and I flee and we’ll both be free.”

  Gao was incensed. “I wouldn’t have helped you out if I’d known this. It may be a tiny diner, but it requires a high rent, and I’ve already paid three years lease, a total of seventy-two thousand. Why would I want to lose seventy-two thousand over your twenty?” He glared at Han and continued, “I had to borrow to pay the lease.”

  At the end of seven days, Han had paid the Xinjiang gang something over three thousand, with three days to go. For him to have stolen nearly four thousand counted as an uncommon feat. But the gang thought he was trying to wriggle out of the debt, and that changed the nature of their dealing with him; it was about more than money now. On the seventh night, with Lao Gao as their guide, they came to his place and gave him another beating, bloodying his head again. They said that was just a warning. If he handed over the sixteen thousand he still owed by the tenth day, they’d leave him alone. If not … one of them unsheathed a knife and pointed it at Han.

  “We know you’ll run, so nothing will happen to you.” He then pointed the knife at Gao. “Instead, we will cut out the tendons on his son’s legs to make barbecue.”

  Gao was so alarmed he yelled at Han, despite the man’s bleeding head. “You heard that, Han Shengli. You have to keep me and my family out of this.”

  After the gang left with Gao, Han went to the hospital again, and then went out to work the following morning with new bandages on his head under a baseball cap. The beating was much more severe this time, causing wounds that required fifteen stitches. One of the cuts was on his forehead, and the bandage peeked out from under the cap no matter how low he pulled the bill. It goes without saying that an injured man is ill-suited to be a thief, not because the injury is too severe to work, but because it will draw too much attention. Sure enough, everyone turned to look at Han when they passed him on the street. Of course there was no reason for them to assume that he was a thief, but it made it hard for him to steal from anyone. Everything—the target, location, and timing—could be in perfect harmony for a kill, but the opportunity would vanish with a single glance from a passing person. In the past, it was his misjudgment that had led to missing the right moment, but now his attire was to blame.

  After a day of hard work, he carried out three attempts. He was discovered twice and had to run for it, leaving the loot behind. The only success was a middle-aged man leaning against an advertising sign, fast asleep, cradling a satchel. Han took a look around and, seeing no one, grabbed the satchel and took off. Technically speaking, it was a robbery, not a theft. When he stopped in an alley to check the contents, he was disappointed by what he saw—not a cent, only a jumble of receipts. The man was engaged in the illegal resale of used receipts. Han had inadvertently ruined the man’s business. He fared better the next day, taking in over five hundred yuan, but that was still far less than the gang demanded.

  On the morning of the third day, the deadline, he got up early and sat on his bed, worried sick. How in the world was he going to steal sixteen thousand in one day? No way, not unless he robbed a bank, but he did not have the nerve to do that; even if he had, he wouldn’t know how to go about it. In the end, he decided not to go out, since he could never manage to get that much. He thought of skipping town and leaving Lao Gao to deal with the aftermath, but being from neighboring villages in Henan, Gao knew where he lived. Han might be able to run, but he couldn’t hide from Gao forever unless he changed his name and never went home again. It wasn’t worth it, not for sixteen thousand yuan. His anger turned to Liu Yuejin again for not paying him back, but that was also useless, since Liu himself was still looking for his pack. Besides, Liu owed him less than four thousand, which was a fourth of what the gang wanted. The more he reflected upon the situation, the more wretched he felt, when he suddenly remembered someone who just might save him.

  That was none other than Brother Cao, who controlled the Chaoyang District, an equal of Lao Lai, the head of the Weigong Village gang. Han hoped that Cao could mediate on his behalf with Lai to get a one-month extension. When he arrived at the shed, everyone, including Baldy Cui and Little Fatso, were busy slaughtering ducks, while Cao was reclining in a rattan chair listening to the radio, as a recent cold made it hard for him to read the papers. Cao listened attentively to a news report on the conflict between Israel and Palestine, suicide bombs on one side, air attacks on the other, so Han cowered at the entrance, afraid to interrupt, until Cao snapped off the radio when the news was replaced by celebrity gossip.

  “Brother Cao,” Han called out by the door.

  “Who’s that?” Unable to recognize the voice, Cao twisted his head to look.

  “It’s Shengli, from Henan. I’m here to ask a favor.”

  “Him again.” Cao thought Han was there about Liu’s missing pack and said with a frown, “That friend of yours has no sense.”

  “It’s not about that. It’s something else.” Han walked up and gave Cao a quick rundown of what had happened. At one point he began to tear up, but he held back, knowing that Brother Cao hated weepy people.

  “It’s your own fault,” Cao said. “You can’t blame the Xinjiang gang.”

  “I know. I shouldn’t have done it.” Han nodded, knowing that Cao was referring to working outside his own area. He continued, “It’s not only me who will be in trouble if I don’t pay up today. It’s Lao Gao I worry about; his son is only six.” He relayed the threat to Cao.

  “Weigong Village is on the other side of the city. I don’t know this Lao Lai you’re talking about.”

  Han’s heart sank. “You enjoy great prestige, Brother Cao. He surely has heard of you even if you don’t know him. A word from you would be a great help.” He added, “I’ll pay them back. I just need an extension.”

  Without responding, Cao lay back down and closed his eyes. After ten minutes, Han thought he must be asleep, which could only mean he didn’t want to get involved. Han could not force the issue. Looking around, he saw that all the others were busy dispatching ducks and no one paid him any heed; he knew he had to stay clear of them. It was hopeless. He decided to leave when Brother Cao opened his eyes and called out:

  “Lao Cui.”

  Cui threw down the duck he was working on and wiped his bloody hands on his apron before rushing to Cao’s side.

  “How much do you owe them?” Cao asked Han.

  “I have over five hundred with me, so that makes it sixteen thousand.”

  “Go see these people,” Cao said to Cui, “and take sixteen thousand with you.”

  Cui was shocked. So was Han, who never imagined that Brother Cao would solve his problem this way. He didn’t know the man that well. Baldy Cui stared blankly at Han while Han teared up again.

  “Brother Cao.”

  “It’s all right now, Shengli. Go on home.”

  Han got down on his knees, drawing a frown from Cao, so he quickly got to his feet. He didn’t dare say too much, so after expressing his deep appreciation, he left. Still filled with gratitude toward Cao on his way home, Han was now also aware of his empty stomach; and that reminded him of his head injury, which had begun to bother him. Over the past two days he’d been too focused on
thievery to pay it much attention. He went to the hospital to have the wound cleaned and rewrapped after a new application of medicine.

  On his way home he was seized by the realization that he was done with the Xinjiang gang once Brother Cao paid them back for him, but would then be in Cao’s debt, even if Cao was willing to forgive the sixteen thousand. From now on, when he went out to steal, he would be stealing for Cao. It all became clear; Cao was not helping him out of the goodness of his heart. He was much more calculating than Han, that was for sure. But on the other hand, if Cao hadn’t intervened, this would be Han’s day of reckoning. The help did not come without strings, but it did help him out, at least for now. He’d have to wait and see what happened next between him and Cao.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Cao sent Little Fatso to summon Han the very next day. When he got there, he saw a man with a face swollen black and blue lying on a bed against the wall. Han was stunned by the bandages all over the man’s body and his labored breathing. He walked up to get a closer look. It turned out to be someone he knew, a man from Shanxi known as Yang Zhi, who had run afoul of Cao’s people. Han wondered whether Yang had been beaten by Cao’s people or by someone else before concluding that it had to be someone else, since Yang was lying in Cao’s shed. The severity of the injuries showed how vicious the attackers had been.

  “Who did this?” Han blurted out.

  Cao ignored his question and took him to the side. “Shengli, I have a favor to ask.”

  Thinking that Cao wanted him to take part in a fight between the gangs, Han was scared by the prospect of bloodshed, but he couldn’t say no, not after the help from Cao just the day before.

  “As long as it’s something I can do.”

  “I’m not asking for your help simply because I helped you out yesterday,” Cao said with a nod. “I’m not that short-sighted. It’s a coincidence and I have no one else to turn to.”

  An expansive sentiment rose up inside Han, who quickly said:

  “I’ll do anything, Brother Cao.”

  “The man, Liu Yuejin, who came with you last time. Is he a good friend of yours?”

  Han was mystified by the sudden turn of events and how even Liu was involved.

  “He owes me money.”

  Cao waved. “Let’s not talk about that now.” He pointed to Yang. “That friend of yours took his purse. I’d like you to go see your friend and get it back.”

  With enormous relief Han agreed readily. “I thought it was something serious. It’s just a purse. No problem at all.”

  Cao interrupted him with a gesture. “It’s not that simple. It’s no ordinary purse, and in fact the purse itself is not important. There’s a USB drive in it and that’s what we want. Bring that drive to me and that will even out what took place yesterday.”

  A sixteen-thousand-yuan debt erased—what a terrific deal. He could hardly believe it. Thumping his chest, he assured Cao:

  “Liu Yuejin owes me money, so he’ll have to do what I say. Even if he doesn’t want to, he will when I mention your name.”

  “That’s the point.” Cao frowned. “If I could get it back myself, why would I ask you? So make sure my name doesn’t come up, or you’ll alert him.”

  “I see. We’re not going to force him. We’ll trick him.”

  Cao nodded and frowned again, implying that Han was right about the plan, but that it should not be openly talked about like that.

  “Go on. It has to be done quickly. Make sure no one else gets there first.”

  “I’ll go see him immediately.” Han got up and left.

  He discovered it wasn’t that simple when he got to the site. Liu had vanished the night before and Ren Baoliang was looking for him.

  27

  Lao Lin

  “Out of control. This is totally out of control.”

  That was the first thing Lao Lin said when he saw Yan Ge at Lao Qi’s Teahouse. Qi, a moon-faced native of Beijing, was on the heavy side. Like Yan, he had adopted a vegetarian diet after turning forty. Yan was pretty casual about the diet, simply preferring to avoid meat, while Lao Qi went all in, and that, strangely, only made him fat. Before the age of forty, he’d been a well-known hooligan in the Houhai area of the city, engaging in every possible vice—booze, women, and gambling. With the change of diet, he also became a devout Buddhist, which, according to him, was the reason he put on weight.

  “Amitabha,” he would put his palms together and say. “When your mind is at ease, you relax and your body widens.”

  Yan saw things a bit differently, but had to agree to a certain extent.

  Lao Qi’s Teahouse, located on a busy corner of Beixinqiao, always smelled of Tibetan incense, with mind-clearing effects on whoever walked in, particularly with the additional chanting of Buddhist sutras piped in. Instead of such ordinary teas as Dragonwell, Oolong, Iron Buddha, or Pu’er, Qi offered only high-mountain holy teas from Tibet, like Zhufeng, Red Hawk, and White Eagle. When asked why, Qi simply replied:

  “For the pure land, not for the tea.”

  At other places, a pot of Dragonwell could be had for under three hundred, while Qi’s tea was far more expensive, with a pot of Red Hawk costing seven eighty; White Eagle was eight eighty, and Zhufeng twelve eighty. White Eagle and Zhufeng, when steeped in a pot, did not look much like tea; the leaves were huge with lots of twigs, accompanied by a muddy odor. Which was perhaps why ordinary folks did not frequent his shop. Put more aptly, he had no poor people as customers. The place was usually quiet during the day, but the private rooms on both floors were filled at night. Latecomers had to take a number. Lin had known Qi for eight years, while Yan had gotten to know Qi through Lin.

  Lin often joked about Qi’s tea. “You call this tea? You say it’s tea from Mount Everest, but I think it’s more like tree leaves from Mount Fang.”

  Qi laughed and held his palms together.

  “Amitabha, you’re right. I’m not here to sell tea, but to rob the rich to help the poor.”

  Everyone had a good laugh over his response.

  In addition to selling tea, Qi told fortunes on the side, though people said that was not connected to his conversion to Buddhism, since he had done that before the age of forty. When you sat down across from him, he surveyed your face and, without recourse to a close scrutiny, told you what had happened thirty years in your past and what would happen thirty years into your future, all together sixty years, an exceptionally arcane gift. Many people came to his teahouse for fortune telling, not for the tea. But he would not tell the fortune of someone who came only a time or two; you had to be there often enough for Qi to know you well before he would impart his knowledge. He explained that this was not a ruse to get people to drink more of his tea. Without knowing someone well, it was hard to determine how much he should say about a person’s fortunes.

  Lin had come with a friend eight years earlier and, as a favor to that friend, Qi had told Lin’s fortune at their first meeting, on the condition that he would focus only on Lin’s previous thirty years. Even at this first meeting Qi was able to see all the important events during that period and gave Lin such a thorough analysis that he was more frightened than impressed. Six months later, he returned for a prediction for the next thirty years, which was equally spine tingling.

  Once, on an inspection trip to Inner Mongolia, he and Director Jia were chatting in the hotel when Lin mentioned his experience with Lao Qi. Jia found it very interesting. Following a banquet after their return, Jia asked Lin to take him to Qi’s teahouse, where, owing to Lin’s connection, Qi agreed to read Jia’s fortune. After taking a long look, Qi remained silent, but when urged by Jia, he put his palms together and said:

  “Amitabha. Such a terrific fortune, there’s no need to even talk about it.”

  “What game are you playing, Lao Qi? The director is too busy to return ten times for your tea.”

  Qi just smiled and said, “Heavenly secrets must not be revealed.”

  They spent the night drinking t
ea, with no fortunes told. Later Lin brought Yan Ge over, and after ten visits, Yan asked Qi to read his fortune. He received two cryptic lines:

  “Spring comes on the sixth nine-day cycle / A drizzle moistens the ground.”

  The lines were simple enough but impossible to decipher, and Qi refused to explain. To alleviate Yan’s concern, Qi said simply:

  “It is good.”

  That stopped Yan from further inquiry. Lin and Yan’s early visits had involved the telling of fortunes, but after that they returned mostly because it was quiet in the day and lively at night. As time went by, it seemed natural to come this way whenever they had no dinner plan or after they’d eaten. “Where to?” “Lao Qi’s Teahouse.”

  So that became their favorite meeting place, especially now that they were anxious to locate a USB drive that had reunited them after a near terminal fall-out. It had taken a week to find the thief, but no USB drive. Then another thief was caught, and still no drive. In turn they were contacted by a blackmailer. When Liu Yuejin ran away from the Sijiqing Bridge, they discovered that he was the one with the drive, but it was too late, because he vanished. Everyone, including Yan and Lin, even Lao Xing the private investigator and Yang Zhi, who had been severely beaten, was kicking himself for not sensing early enough that the real thief was right under their nose.

  “You found him but let him get away,” Yan grumbled to Xing. “How fitting is that for an agency that calls itself ‘Worried Wise Men’?”

  “I know what you mean.” Xing sighed. “I never imagined that a cook could be so good at keeping his cool.” Then he tried to console Yan. “But worrying about it now is a waste of time. I’ll keep looking for him.”