Poseidon's Arrow

“I come from Baotou,” Zhou said, “and am in need of work. Are there any jobs available at the mine?”

Wen reached over and squeezed Zhou’s arm. “A man like you? You are too scrawny to work in the mines.” He laughed, spraying a shower of saliva across the table. Then noting a sad look on Zhou’s face, he felt a touch of pity. “Men get injured, so they occasionally bring on replacements. But there will probably be a long line ahead of you.”

“I understand,” Zhou said. “More baijiu?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and refilled their glasses. The silent miner, Yao, peered at him through listless eyes and nodded. Wen raised his glass and downed a shot.

“Tell me,” Zhou said as he sipped at his drink. “I hear there is a black market mining operation at Bayan Obo.”

Yao tensed and looked at Zhou suspiciously.

“No, it all comes from the same place.” Wen wiped his mouth with a sleeve.

“It is not safe to speak of,” Yao said, breaking his silence with an earthy bellow.

Wen shrugged. “It all takes place beyond us.”

“What do you mean?” Zhou asked.

“The blasting, the digging, the crushing, that is all performed by the state operation that pays Yao and me,” he said. “It’s only after the crushing that other hands start dipping into the pot.”

“What hands are those?”

Yao slammed his glass down on the table. “You ask a lot of questions, Tsen.”

Zhou bowed slightly to Yao. “I’m just trying to find myself a job.”

“Yao’s just touchy because his cousin drives a truck for the operation.”

“How do they operate?”

“I guess they’re paying off some of the mine’s truck drivers,” Wen said. “At night, some of the trucks that haul the raw diggings to the crusher pick up a load of crushed ore and deposit it at a remote part of the mine. Then Jiang and his private fleet of trucks come in and haul it away. Hey, there he is now.” Wen waved over a squat, grit-faced man who had just stepped into the bar. The man moved with a determined swagger.

“Jiang, I was just telling my friend how you haul hot rocks from the mine.”

Jiang flung an open hand against the side of Wen’s head, nearly knocking him out of his chair. “You need to quit your babbling, Wen, or you’ll lose your tongue. You’re worse than an old woman.” He sized Zhou up, then regarded his cousin Yao. The big man faintly shook his head.

Jiang eased around the table and stood close to Zhou. He suddenly reached down, grabbed Zhou’s collar, and jerked the agent to his feet.

Zhou kept his arms at his sides and smiled harmlessly.

“Who are you?” Jiang said, his face millimeters from Zhou’s.

“My name is Tsen. I am a farmer from Baotou. Now, you tell me your name?”

Jiang’s eyes flared at his boldness. “Listen to me, farmer.” He held Zhou’s collar tightly. “If you ever want to tread the soil of Bayan Obo again, then I suggest that you pretend you never came here. You saw no one and talked to no one. Do you understand?”

Jiang’s breath reeked of smoke and garlic, but Zhou never flinched. With a pleasant grin, he nodded at Jiang. “Of course. But if I was never here, then I didn’t spend eighty yuan on drinks with your friends.” He held out an open palm as if waiting for reimbursement.

Jiang’s face turned red. “Don’t ever enter this bar again. Now, get out.”

He freed his grip on Zhou’s collar so he could punctuate the threat with his fist, but he was too close to throw a punch and he took a step back.

Zhou anticipated the move and scissored his foot behind Jiang’s, catching the back of the truck driver’s ankle. Jiang stumbled, but still unleashed a hard right as he fell back. Zhou moved left, absorbing the punch to his shoulder, then countered by shoving Jiang’s torso. Jiang lost his footing and fell backward, out of control.

Zhou kept a grip on him, driving him toward the table, where Jiang’s head smashed against the lip. He collapsed to the floor like a felled redwood, knocked out cold.

At the sight of his cousin’s takedown, Yao leaped up and tried to grab Zhou in a bear hug.

The smaller and more sober Zhou easily spun away, then launched a sharp kick to Yao’s knee. The big man buckled, allowing Zhou to deliver several lightning strikes to the head. A final blow struck his throat. Yao turned and fell to his knees, clutching his throat while overcome by a false sense of suffocation.

The bar fell silent, and all eyes turned to Zhou. Drawing attention to himself was foolish, but there were times he couldn’t help himself.

“No fighting!” the bartender shouted. But he was too busy pouring drinks to bother throwing out any of the culprits.

Zhou nodded at him, then casually picked up his glass of baijiu from the table and took a swig. The other patrons returned to their drinks and jokes, ignoring the two men on the floor.

Wen had watched the brief fight in a stupor, not moving from his chair. “You have quick hands for a farmer,” he stuttered.

“Lots of hoeing.” Zhou swung his hands up and down. “What do you say our friend Jiang buys us a drink?” he asked.

“Sure,” Wen slurred.

Zhou reached into the unconscious man’s pocket and took out his wallet. Finding his resident identity card, he memorized Jiang’s full name and address. He replaced the wallet, but not before retrieving a twenty-yuan banknote, which he handed to Wen. “You drink for me,” Zhou said. “It is late, and I must go.”

“Yes, my friend Tsen, if you say so.” Wen raised himself in his chair with some difficulty.

“See you at the mine,” Zhou said.

“The mine?” Wen asked. He looked up in puzzlement, but the little farmer from Baotou was already gone.

33

JIANG XIANTO, THE TRUCK DRIVER, CREPT OUT OF his apartment complex at half past seven the next morning. A bandage was plastered across his forehead, and he walked with rigid strides to try to minimize the spasms that shot through his skull with each step. Had he been less preoccupied, he might have seen his assailant from the Red Boar, seated in a Chinese-built Toyota parked across the street, reading a People’s Daily.

Zhou smiled to himself as he watched Jiang hobble down the street. He had felt no joy in flooring Yao the night before, but he felt no empathy toward Jiang. He had recognized Jiang’s type instantly, a hotheaded loser who tormented weaker men to make himself feel better.

The black market truck driver walked down the street to a crowded bus stop. True to form, Jiang bullied his way to the front of the line, then took one of the few remaining seats when the bus arrived. Zhou started his car and pulled into traffic, keeping the bus a few car lengths ahead.

By the time the bus stopped in front of a dilapidated apartment building at the southern edge of town, most of the passengers had departed. Zhou wheeled his car around a corner, parked behind a street vendor, and watched Jiang step off the bus. Pulling a brimmed hat low over his eyes, Zhou locked his car and followed on foot.

Jiang walked a little way down a side street, then turned into a trash-strewn alley. A morning breeze chilled the air, and Jiang zipped up his jacket as he reached a large fenced lot topped with rusty barbed wire. He stepped through a slit in the fence and walked past stacks of empty pallets that towered over the dusty lot. At the rear of the property, beneath a corrugated tin awning, stood five large canvas-covered trucks and a battered pickup. Several rough-looking men stood around the trucks, drinking hot tea from paper cups.

“Jiang,” one of the men said, “did your wife brush your hair with a wok this morning?”

“I’ll brush yours with a tire iron,” Jiang said. “Where’s Xao?”

A tall man wearing a black peacoat stepped from between two of the trucks. “Jiang, there you are. Late again, I see. Keep this up and you’ll be back digging ditches.” He turned to the other men. “Okay, everyone, we’re ready to move.”