Jia Pingwa - Ruined City

“I think it’s a good outcome,” Meng said. “I was unhappy when I first heard that Jingwu and Liu Yue were getting engaged, but I couldn’t say so. Now that she’s married to that cripple, just you wait and see — he’s going to suffer.”

“What do you mean, Meng Laoshi?” Zhou asked Min.

“My wife told me she once went to a bathhouse with Liu Yue and discovered that the girl was born under the star of a white tiger, someone who could kill a man without a knife. I read that in a book.”

“You don’t have to say any more,” Jingwu said. “I’m not the type to kill myself over a woman. To each his own. If she didn’t want to marry me, it wouldn’t have worked. Like they say, a melon that’s torn from the vine won’t taste as sweet. I hate myself for being worthless. Too bad she only cared about the advantages in front of her. You’ve come today, and I appreciate your concern. So don’t go yet; I’ll go get something to drink with you.”

“We feel better now that we know what’s on your mind,” Zhuang said. “If you feel like drinking, come to my house some other day, and we can drink ourselves silly. But we’re on an urgent mission today, and we need you to join us. Did you know that Tang Wan’er has disappeared?” Zhuang followed up with details, leaving out the part about her disappearance at the movie theater.

“Elder Brother Zhao,” Zhou Min said tearfully, “what’s happening to us? Your woman married someone else, while mine has disappeared. We’ve combed every corner of the city, but there’s no sign of her. I’m afraid she’s run into some terrible people and was either killed or kidnapped by human traffickers.”

“Stop that nonsense,” Zhuang said. “She had no enemies in this city, so who would do her harm? And she’s too smart to be tricked. Jingwu, you have many connections and you know people in all walks of life, so we will need your help to find her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? The underworld has gotten into this sort of thing lately. I do know someone, and we’ll likely find out if she’s fallen into their hands.”

They took a taxi to Beixin Street, crossed a lane, and stopped at a shop with a wreath on the door. Telling the others to wait, Zhao walked in to speak to an old woman making papier-mâché flowers. He came right back out. “Muzi is out.”

“Who is Muzi?”

“Someone who has access to the criminal world,” Zhao said. “He studied martial arts as a youngster and has become very good at it. Let’s get something to eat and then come back later.”

They went to a restaurant, and the moment they got there, Ruan Zhifei pulled up with a woman in a car. The car stopped, and Ruan got out. “I was on my way to see you,” he said to Zhuang. “Imagine running into you here. What luck.”

Meng glanced at the woman in the car. “Another of your women?” he whispered.

“No, she’s my assistant. I’m too lazy to get a divorce right now. So you’re free to be out window-shopping, I see. Hop in. We’re recruiting fashion models; it’s a recent fad at dance halls. I have four already. Come tell me what you think.”

“We have something important to do, so you’ll have to go on without us.”

Meng wanted to get Ruan to help with their search, but he kept his mouth shut when Zhuang gave him a look.

“What are you into now that’s such a big secret? Well, I’ll leave you to it. Give me a ring when you want to come check out the models.” He ducked back inside the car and said something to the woman before driving off amid salacious laughter. The four men walked into the restaurant.

The place was packed, so Zhao Jingwu got in line to place their orders. The other three found an empty table and sat down next to a table where two young men were whispering furtively. Then a stocky fellow outside looked in through the window. Annoyed by the flattened face against the windowpane, Zhuang said to Meng, “Another sluggard,” then turned to block the man’s view. A moment later the man walked in; he was not tall, but he had a square, solid build. Without getting in line, he bought four oily flatbreads and carried them two in each hand to the young men’s table. Without a word, they got up to leave, but he reached out, still holding the flatbreads, and said, “Give me a hand, pals, and roll up my sleeves for me.” They silently did as he asked, and spotted the yellow insignias sewn onto them. “A cop!” They spun around to leave, but were stopped by oily flatbreads slapped against their cheeks.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, and they froze.

“Did you just steal a wallet on the number 12 bus? Don’t lie.”

“How did you know?” one of them asked. “But we didn’t steal it, we found it.”

“We’ll see. Put it here in my right pocket. The person who lost it is in tears at the police station.”

“We did find it, sir.” One of the men put the wallet in the policeman’s pocket. “We found it by the bus door.”

“That sounds fishy to me. You can go now, but you won’t get off if I ever catch you ‘finding’ another wallet. Now get out. Button up your shirts and get out of here.”

They buttoned their shirts and gave him a respectful hand gesture before running off. The man laughed, picked up the flatbreads, and started eating. Zhuang and the others were amazed by what they had just witnessed.

“Do you think he’ll return the wallet to its owner?” Meng whispered.

“I know the type,” Zhou Min said. “He’s not someone you want to mess with, so don’t let him hear you.”

“You know what he does?” Zhuang asked.

“He’s a deadbeat who sometimes works for the police. I did that back in Tongguan.”

“Muzi!” Zhao yelled out when he returned with the receipts for their orders. “I’ve been looking for you. Imagine running into you here.”

Unable to talk because his mouth was stuffed, Muzi offered one of the flatbreads to Zhao, who declined and turned to Zhuang. “We’ve been looking for Muzi,” he said, “and he’s sitting right beside you. Muzi, let me introduce you. This is Zhuang Zhidie, the celebrated writer; this is Meng Yunfang, a researcher; and he’s Zhou Min, a magazine editor.”

Finally managing to swallow his food, Muzi asked, “Who? Who did you say this is?”

“Zhuang Zhidie. Haven’t you heard of him?”

“I may not know the name of our governor, but I’d be laughed at as a cultural idiot if I said I hadn’t heard of Zhuang Zhidie.” The man rubbed his oily hand on the table before offering it to shake with everyone. “I heard your books are terrific, so I bought some, but I haven’t had a chance to read them. My wife has, though, and she’s a fan. What do you need to see me for? Were you really looking for me?”

“Yes,” Zhao said. “Go home and ask your wife if you don’t believe me.”

“I’m honored that Mr. Zhuang is looking for me.” Muzi reached his oily hand into his pocket and took out some money for Zhao. “Go buy a bottle and let’s have a drink.”

“There’s no need for that,” Zhuang said. “You’re open and direct. I like your style. Come have a drink at my house some other time.” Zhao had Muzi sit down and told him what they needed.

“I’ll make a phone call.” Muzi walked out and headed for a phone booth. He returned in a few moments. “I checked with some people in the east and south, but they didn’t have the woman, nor had they seen her. The ones in the north said she lived outside their territory. I don’t know Black Three in charge of the west side, so I told Wang Wei, who heads the north faction, to check with him and get back to me. He’ll call.”

That all sounded like an urban myth to Zhuang, who said, “So there are territorial boundaries.”