Chapter Forty-Three: A Hair's Breadth from Disaster

"The Cultural Revolution is over," I said.

The Fat Man held his bowl in his hand, gave it a little shake, then suddenly took a long swig of wine. "It's over. All of it is over." For him, as he said, everything truly was finished.

His "home" was on a patch of wasteland outside Xi'an. Pointing to a shack cobbled together from planks and cement bags, he said to me, "Brother, since you’re here, I have to bring you home for a visit. Don’t mind it—it’s warm in winter, cool in summer, and I don't have to pay rent."

To be honest, I never expected the Fat Man to have fallen on such hard times. Seeing the waist-high weeds on both sides of the shed filled me with a nameless sorrow; I could smell a stench before we even got close.

He must have noticed my discomfort, because he gave a wry laugh. "I just collect some junk out here. The city won't let me pile it up, so I haul it out here. Sell a few things to buy some cheap liquor, free from heaven and earth—it's not a bad life. Come on."

I followed him in. Junk of every imaginable kind filled the entire yard: building materials, scrap metal, bottles, jars, plastic refuse—inside, outside, everywhere your eyes could reach was packed with it. I saw several rats chasing each other in the yard. His "bed" was made of two doors laid side by side. Inside, an old cassette player missing a speaker was blaring revolutionary songs. By the window, a coal stove stood with a battered pot and two unwashed bowls on top.

The Fat Man ducked into the next room and rummaged around, soon swaggering back with two bottles of orange soda. "Cold drinks, help yourself. I have everything here—nothing lacking. I've already achieved the modern dream: upstairs, downstairs, electric lights, and a telephone." I looked where he pointed, and sure enough, there was a telephone sitting at the head of the bed—though whether it still rang, I couldn't say, for I saw no telephone wires.

Drinking my soda, I sat by the bed and asked, "Do you make any money in this business?"

He grinned, "Do I look any thinner to you?" I looked him up and down—still the same bulk. "Seems you’re doing fine, better than me."

"You're no better. Flipping tapes—where’s the future in that? Xiao Yi, aren't you in Guangzhou these days? I heard it's close to Hong Kong."

"Why? You been there?"

"I can't buy a train ticket. To tell you the truth, if you really are down there, I have a tip for you—go to Shenzhen and collect old electronics. Japanese, American, West German stuff all comes in by boat to Hong Kong, gets refurbished by people over there, then shipped into the mainland. You can flip them for at least this much." He held up a palm—five times the profit.

"How do you know?"

He gestured at his piles of junk. "I'm in this line, aren't I? If I had household registration, I'd have made it rich already. But now you’re here, and you’re down south—we could partner up. You handle procurement, I handle sales. The profit, we split as brothers, however you want."

"Isn't that smuggling?"

"What are you afraid of? As long as it clears customs, it's all legal. I have connections over there."

"Who?"

With a mysterious air, he said, "A Hong Konger. Comes here every month. He'll handle that part—you just move the goods. To tell the truth, all this junk is just a front. I deal in antiquities here. In Xi'an, dig three feet and you'll hit a noble’s tomb—one atop another. We call it 'eating the ancestors’ rice.' Don’t underestimate it—the jug under your feet is worth a thousand Hong Kong dollars."

"What? A thousand?" I glanced at the dingy, grayish urn in disbelief. It was hard to imagine.

He lit a cigarette, handed me one too. "Nothing to be surprised about. I use that at night as a chamber pot. When my guy comes, I’ll just rinse it out and it’s ready to go."

As we were talking, suddenly a cough sounded outside. The Fat Man immediately signaled for silence, lifted his pillow, and I saw him tuck something into his waistband—it looked like a pistol.

He gave me a look and went out to open the door. After some muttering outside, he brought in a middle-aged man in a blue tunic. A diagonal scar ran across the man's face, from the corner of his eye to his lip, like a centipede. He looked startled to see someone else here, then fixed me with a glare—his gaze was icy, murderous.

The Fat Man offered him a cigarette, but he ignored it, eyes still fixed on me. The Fat Man explained, "It's alright, Master Ding. This is my brother—we've been through life and death together. He's one of us."

Only then did the man look away, addressing the Fat Man, "Tonight, north of the city, Jiao Family Village orchard. The old caretaker has been arranged to go out for drinks. I’ve marked the spot—make it quick and don’t slip up. Things are tense lately."

The Fat Man took the slip of paper the man handed over, nodding repeatedly. "Master Ding, I’ll handle it, don’t worry."

After sending the man away, the Fat Man turned to me. "I have some business tonight. You stay here, I’ll be back by dawn."

"Going to rob graves, huh?" I said. In truth, I was worried for him and warned, "That man didn’t look like a good person—there was something dangerous in his eyes."

He took a drag on his cigarette and looked at me. "Anyone in this business has blood on their hands. That was Ding Fang—he works for the top crime boss in Shaanxi, Old Master Ding Shengwu. Every item I sell, he takes a thirty percent cut. Without the Ding family, nothing worthwhile leaves Shaanxi. It’s been the rule for centuries—break it, and you won’t live long."

"A grave robber can be so brazen? This is the new China under the Party. How can those old underworld rules still exist? Fat Man, you’re just being paranoid. Forget it—quit this game and come south with me. Anything's better than this business where you could lose your head at any moment."

"Xiao Yi, you don’t understand. The Ding family is part of the Luo Sect. You know what that is? They’re licensed. It’s deep waters here—I only learned after I got in. Besides, they promised me that after tonight’s job, I’ll get a clean identity. Even if I wanted to leave with you, I have to wait until tomorrow."

"Why do they need you? You’ve only been in Xi'an a year or two. With all the local toughs around, why send an outsider for something this big?"

He turned away and said quietly, "That’s none of my business. For me, this is a chance. Identity means everything—without it, I’ll be hiding my whole life."

"Alright, if you’re going, we’re brothers—I’ll go with you!"

"You’d better not get involved."

"No way. Otherwise, you’re not going either. Unless you pull that thing from your belt and shoot me in the head."

"You—"

The Fat Man gave in with a sigh. "Fine. Once we get there, I can’t guarantee they’ll let you in. The leader tonight is Liu Qing—Third Master Liu. Word is, he’s ruthless—he’s buried at least ten people alive."

Around nine that night, the Fat Man and I were still drinking when we heard hurried wheels outside. A van pulled up and two men got out. We hurried outside.

The Fat Man recognized one—he was from Henan, barely in his twenties. Seeing us reeking of wine, he frowned. "You dare drink before going underground? Third Master’s coming in person tonight—watch yourself."

The Fat Man handed him a cigarette. "It’s fine. Third Master looks after me. This is my brother—wants to join in. When we get there, put in a word for us, will you?" As he spoke, I saw the Fat Man slipping a wad of yellow bills into the man’s pocket—Hong Kong dollars.

The man put his hand in his pocket, apparently satisfied with the thickness. "Okay—can’t guarantee you’ll be accepted, though. You know Third Master’s temper. It’s up to your brother’s luck."

The van sped off with us inside. The driver was Liu’s man, Yang Dali. It was because of him that the Fat Man got into the business—he started out working alone, but was caught on a job by Yang Dali. In Shaanxi, digging without the Ding family’s blessing is a death sentence. They were going to cut his Achilles tendons—four men held him down, but he fought back until Yang Dali put a gun to his head. In the end, Third Master Liu was impressed by the Fat Man’s courage and let him go—throughout the ordeal, he never uttered a sound, not even with a gun to his head.

After about an hour, the road grew rough. Through the window, not a star was visible—it was pitch black. Judging by the bumps, the way was getting tougher. Another half hour and the van drove into a grove. The driver flashed his headlights three times at someone signaling with a flashlight, then said, "We’re here. Everyone out. And remember—don’t speak unless you know the rules before going under."

The Fat Man called for me to follow. I asked about the rules—he just said, keep your mouth shut.

It was an apple orchard, the fruit already tinged with red. On the east side, three men were waiting. There were five of us in all. As soon as we reached them, an old man in a long tunic and cloth shoes frowned. "Who’s the outsider? Who brought him?"

At his words, two men in black immediately drew their pistols. Seeing this, the Fat Man hurriedly said, "Third Master, that’s my brother—we’ve been through life and death together. He couldn’t get by back home, came to Xi’an for me. I thought I’d bring him to meet you—if he’s fit, take him on."

The old man gave the Fat Man a cold look. "Life and death? Nonsense! Well, let’s see just how deep it goes. Shi Gandang, aren’t you so bold? Fine—drag the newcomer over and chop off a finger."

My heart sank. I turned to run, but the two men were already on me, pressing the cold barrels of their guns to my forehead...

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