four cents, I’ve descended to the level of a beggar. A hero brought low by a few coins. He turned his pockets inside-out – no money, not a cent. His shorts and T-shirt were both hanging from the chandelier in the lady trucker’s place, which he’d fled like a rat running from danger. The cold night air chilled him to the bone. With nowhere to turn, he took out his pistol and laid it gently in a white ceramic bowl with blue flowers. Light glinted off the blue steel barrel. He said:
‘Gramps, I’m an investigator sent down by the province. I ran into some bad people who stole everything I had, all except for this pistol. This ought to prove I’m not someone who goes around eating food without paying for it.’
The old fellow, slightly flustered, picked up the bowl with both hands.
‘A man of action,’ he said eagerly, ‘a real man of action. It’s my good fortune that you’ve chosen
After retrieving his pistol, Ding Gou’er said:
‘Old fellow, since you only wanted four cents, you must have known I was penniless. Supplying me with all the wonton I could eat, even though you knew I was penniless, can only mean that you took me for a bad person who could put you out of business if he felt like it. You didn’t serve me that wonton because you wanted to, and I can’t let this misunderstanding go unchecked. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll leave my name and address, and if you ever find yourself in a pickle, look me up. Do you have a pen?’
I’m an illiterate old wonton peddler. Why would I have a pen?’ the fellow said. ‘Besides, Boss, I know you’re an important person, here on an undercover assignment. You don’t need to leave your name and address. All I ask is that you spare my life.’
“Undercover assignment? Bullshit! I'm the unluckiest man alive. And I'm going to find a way to pay for that wonton, come hell or high water. Tell you what…’
Pushing a release button on his pistol, he removed the ammunition clip, took out a single bullet, and handed it to the old fellow.
‘You can keep this as a souvenir,’ he said.
Frantically waving off the gesture, the old fellow said:
‘No, I really can’t. A few bowls of inedible wonton, Boss, what can it be worth? Just the opportunity to meet a good and decent man like you is my great fortune, enough to last me three lifetimes, no, I really can’t…’
Unwilling to let the old fellow prattle on and on, the investigator grabbed his hand and forced him to take the bullet. The old man’s hand was hotter than blazes.
Just then he heard a snicker behind him, like the sound of an owl on a tombstone, which scared him into hunching his head down into his shoulders. Another spurt of urine ran down his leg.
‘Some investigator!’ It was an old man’s voice. ‘I see an escaped convict!’
Trembling with fear, he turned to see who it was. There beside the trunk of a French kolanut tree stood a skinny old man in a tattered army uniform, pointing a double-barreled shotgun at him; a long-haired tiger-striped dog sat motionless and menacingly on its haunches beside him, eyes like laser beams. The dog frightened the investigator more than the man did.
‘Gramps Qiu, I’ve disturbed you again,’ the peddler said softly to the old man.
‘Liu Four, how many times have I told you not to set up shop here? And still you refuse to listen to me!’
‘Gramps Qiu, I didn’t mean to anger you, but what can a poor man do? I have to come up with my daughter’s tuition. I’ll do anything for my kids, but I don’t dare go into the city, because they’ll fine me if they catch me, and there goes half a month’s income.’
Gramps Qiu waved his shotgun in the air. ‘You there,’ he said sternly, ‘toss that pistol over here!’
Like an obedient child, Ding Gou’er tossed the pistol over to to where Gramps Qiu was standing.
‘Put your hands up!’ Gramps Qiu demanded.
Slowly Ding Gou’er raised his hands, then watched as the skinny old man whom the aging wonton peddler had called Gramps Qiu held his shotgun in one hand to free up the other. Then, bending his legs while keeping his upper body straight – so he could shoot if necessary – he picked up the six-nine service pistol Gramps Qiu studied the gun from every angle, before announcing disdainfully, ‘A beat-up Luger!’ Ding Gou’er, seeing his opportunity, said, ‘I can tell you’re a weapons expert.’ The old man’s face lit up. In a high and scratchy yet infectiously powerful voice, he said, ‘You’re right there. I’ve handled at least thirty, maybe even fifty different weapons in my time, from the Czech rifle to the Hanyang, the Russian submachine gun, the tommy gun, the nine-shot repeater… and that’s only the rifles. As for handguns, I’ve used the German Mauser, the Spanish Waist-Drum repeater, the Japanese Tortoise Shell Mauser, the Chinese Drumstick revolver, and three kinds of Saturday-night specials, not counting this one here.’ He tossed Ding Gou’er’s pistol into the air and caught it on its way down, in a nimble practiced fashion that belied his years. He had an elongated head, narrow eyes, a hooked nose, no eyebrows and no sideburns; his deeply wrinkled face was dark as a tree trunk that’s been charred in a kiln. ‘This pistol,’ he said scornfully, ‘is better suited for women than for men.’ The investigator replied evenly, ‘It’s very accurate.’ The old man examined it again, then said authoritatively, ‘It’s fine within ten meters. More than that, it isn’t worth shit.’ To which Ding Gou’er replied, ‘You know your business, Gramps.’ The old man stuck Ding Gou’er’s pistol into his waistband and snorted contemptuously.
The wonton peddler said, ‘Gramps Qiu is a veteran revolutionary. He’s in charge of Liquorland’s Martyrs’ Cemetery.’
‘No wonder,’ Ding Gou’er said.
‘What about you?’ the old revolutionary asked.
‘I’m an investigator for the provincial Higher Procuratorate.’
‘Let’s see your papers.’
‘They were stolen.’
‘You look like a fugitive to me.’
‘I know I look like one, but I’m not.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Call your Municipal Party Secretary, or your Mayor, or your Police Chief, or your Chief Prosecutor, and ask if they know a special investigator by the name of Ding Gou’er.’
‘Special investigator?’ The old revolutionary couldn’t suppress a giggle. ‘Where’d they find a dogshit special investigator like you?’
‘I was brought down by a woman,’ Ding Gou’er said. Intending to laugh at himself, he was surprised by the heart stabs this simple admission produced. Falling to his knees in front of the wonton stand, he began pummeling his already bloody head with his already bloody fists and screeching, ‘I was brought down by a woman, by a woman who slept with a dwarf…’
The old revolutionary walked up, poked Ding Gou’er in the back with his shotgun, and demanded:
‘Get your ass up!’
Ding Gou’er looked up through his tears at the dark, elongated head of the old revolutionary, as if seeing a friend from home or like an underling looking at his superior or, most fitting of all, like a son laying eyes on his father for the first time in years. In the grip of strong emotions, he wrapped his arms around the old revolutionary’s legs and said tearfully, ‘Gramps, I’m a useless sack of shit to have been brought down by a woman…’
The old revolutionary jerked Ding Gou’er to his feet by his collar. His shiny, tiny eyes bored mercilessly into the wretched man for about half as long as it takes to smoke a pipeful, before he spat on the ground, drew the pistol from his waistband, and threw it down at his feet. Then he turned and swaggered off without so much as a grunt. The big yellow dog followed on his heels, also without a grunt, its damp fur glistening like a coat of tiny pearls.
The wonton peddler laid the shiny bullet down next to the pistol, picked up his stand, turned down the gas lantern, hoisted the whole rig onto his shoulder, and walked off without a sound.
Standing petrified in the dark, Ding Gou’er watched the man’s retreating back until all he could see was pale yellow lamplight, flickering like a will-o’-the-wisp; the canopy of the French kolanut overhead kept the raindrops off him and made a rustling sound that seemed louder now that the other people had left, taking the lamplight with them. In a state of utter stupefaction, he managed to stay upright; he had the presence of mind to pick up his pistol and the bullet. The night air was cold and damp, he ached all over, and he was a stranger in a strange land; he felt as if his day of reckoning had arrived.
The menacing look in the old revolutionary’s eyes had implied that Ding Gou’er was not up to snuff, and felt a need to pour out his heart to the man. What power could, in such a short time, transform a man so tough he could
