Today Is Another Day of Working Two Jobs
Fu Zhen looked down, a little embarrassed, and let out a slow breath. He edged carefully to the other side.
The man noticed Fu Zhen's movement. His gaze paused for a moment, then he reached out and tapped the shoulder of the yellow-haired young man dozing in the seat beside him. "Up," he said, low and flat.
The yellow-haired boy jerked awake in a state of bleary confusion, squinting and frowning as he suppressed a yawn. "Seriously, boss," he complained. "What the hell? I finally managed to fall asleep."
The man tilted his head slightly toward Fu Zhen. A single, brisk command: "Give him your seat."
Fu Zhen was caught off guard. He understood now—the man had noticed his limp. "You really don't have to," he said, smiling. "I'm fine standing."
The man ignored him and turned back to the yellow-haired boy: "Come on."
"You know what, you're basically my actual father," the yellow-haired boy sighed dramatically, then looked Fu Zhen over and broke into a grin. He sprang to his feet. "Here you go, pretty boy."
Fu Zhen hesitated, then said: "Thank you."
The yellow-haired boy snickered, then leaned over and whispered something into the man's ear. The man's expression stayed cool.
Fu Zhen sat down in the vacated seat. He hugged his backpack to his chest and turned to look out the window. The roadside trees with their red-rope decorations
streamed past one by one. The ornamental shrubs in the central divider hadn't been watered in a long time—a thick coat of dust had settled over every leaf.
The bus grew quieter and quieter. The air carried the faint, sweet smell of a bakery somewhere. In the seats behind him, two older women were debating which market sold pork at the better price. Fu Zhen leaned his head against the window and let his eyes drift shut.
In a half-doze, he thought he heard the yellow-haired boy murmur to the man: "He's got a limp."
The man said nothing. Perhaps he nodded. Perhaps he gave no reaction at all.
The yellow-haired boy sounded slightly disappointed. "I thought you'd gone and taken a liking to him, boss."
"Shut up," the man said.
The yellow-haired boy laughed and mimed sealing his own mouth.
Fu Zhen's lips curved—the smallest, quietest smile. About ten minutes later, the bus's PA announced in a gentle woman's voice: "Jin Zhan Qiao station. Passengers alighting here, please take your belongings and exit from the rear doors."
Fu Zhen opened his eyes and stood up. He made his way carefully toward the back.
The man, apparently getting off here as well, fell in behind Fu Zhen—hovering in the manner of someone standing guard. Fu Zhen glanced back and looked at the man's expression. He decided he was probably reading too much into it.
The bus pulled to a stop. The rear doors folded open. Fu Zhen stepped down to the pavement.
He shifted his backpack onto his shoulders properly, then turned around—and found the man and the yellow-haired boy had also gotten off. The man happened to turn at the same moment. Their eyes met.
Now that the light was no longer behind him, Fu Zhen finally got a proper look.
The man's hair was dishevelled, carrying a kind of deliberate carelessness. His features were clean and sharp. He was of mixed heritage, clearly—he had a pair of blue eyes, and when they looked at Fu Zhen, they were clear and still, like a stream catching sunlight.
Fu Zhen smiled at him. Both eyes curved into crescents. The man's expression shifted slightly. He looked away.
Fu Zhen raised a hand in a small wave. This stranger and he were nothing more than two ships that had briefly passed—it was unlikely they'd ever cross paths again. But the small kindness the man had shown him was something Fu Zhen thought he'd remember for a long time to come.
He turned and walked in the direction of the bar.
The yellow-haired boy watched Fu Zhen's figure disappear into a narrow alley on the right, then clapped the man on the shoulder: "Boss, he seems to be heading the same place we are?"
The man paid the observation no mind. "Did you bring everything I asked? Are the others ready?"
The yellow-haired boy thumped his own chest with confidence. "When have I ever let you down?"
The man gave him a sideways look. "And you're sure it won't be detectable?" The boy gave an OK sign.
The man's footsteps slowed. He looked down. His gaze had settled on something on the grey paving stone: a small white teddy bear charm.
"Isn't that the pretty boy's?" The yellow-haired boy bent down and picked it up, turning it over in his hand with mild disgust. "Looks like it's been around for years."
"Let's go," the man said.
Traffic had been heavy on the way, and Fu Zhen arrived at the bar slightly later than usual. The moment he stepped inside, the bar manager called him over.
At this hour, the evening crowd hadn't quite filled the place yet, but the atmosphere had already been set in motion. The music was loud enough to make his eardrums ache. Coloured neon strobed across the ceiling in relentless waves. Onstage, the lead singer of the house band was testing the microphone.
The manager spotted Fu Zhen coming in, frowned, checked the time on his phone, and—though Fu Zhen wasn't technically late—snapped at him anyway: "Hurry up, hurry up, the customers are waiting."
Fu Zhen nodded without comment and went straight to the staff room to change.
The man in the blue suit standing beside the manager watched Fu Zhen's retreating figure and asked: "Why'd you hire someone with a limp?"
The manager allowed himself a smile. "Doesn't he have a nice face?"
The suited man gave a short, dismissive laugh and shook his head. "A nice face doesn't help if he's clumsy."
The manager glanced toward the bartender at the counter nearby, said nothing for a moment, then replied: "He's alright, actually. Not the fastest on his feet, but quick and efficient with his hands, and he doesn't ask for much. Think of it as charity. Besides"—his voice dropped a little—"tonight he has one very important use."
The suited man seemed to understand. He lowered his voice: "And this Jiang Hengzhu—you're sure there are no complications?"
The manager nodded. "Relax. I checked. He's clean."
Jiang Hengzhu was the man Fu Zhen had encountered on the bus. By the time he arrived at the bar, night had fully settled over the city. The place was raucous; the scent of fruit and alcohol twisted together into something strange and heady.
He came in alone.
The yellow-haired boy who'd been trailing him was named Wang Tong. A fortune teller had told his parents when he was small that he had a troubled fate—the only way to cheat Death was to raise him as a girl—so his family had given him a girl's name.
The manager intercepted Jiang Hengzhu the moment he spotted him and ushered him upstairs to a private room, talking all the way: "Mr. Jiang, you've finally arrived—I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind about the deal."
Jiang Hengzhu gave a faint smile. His manner was reserved, entirely at odds with the energy of the bar around him. He adjusted the watch at his wrist and said: "A profitable deal is never one you walk away from."
"I knew you were a man of sense," the manager said, chuckling as they entered the private room. "Mr. Jiang, this is Mr. Zheng—he's the one providing the merchandise. Do get acquainted."
Mr. Zheng was the man in the blue suit from earlier. Jiang Hengzhu said: "Mr. Zheng." He extended a hand.
Mr. Zheng clasped it. "Impressively young to have achieved so much."
Jiang Hengzhu looked to be in his mid-twenties. His voice was cool. "I'm nowhere near Mr. Zheng's level."
The three exchanged pleasantries for a while. Then the manager produced a bottle of exquisitely packaged red wine from under the table and poured a glass for Jiang Hengzhu.
Jiang Hengzhu pushed it away. "I don't drink when there's business to be done." The manager's face darkened. "You're saying you won't give me the face?"
Jiang Hengzhu smiled faintly—a coolness at the edges of it, though in the bar's amber light it was harder to see. "Drinking clouds the mind," he said lightly. "I came tonight to inspect the goods."
The manager pushed the glass closer. "I know your tolerance—one glass won't do a thing to you. And the alcohol content isn't even high. I brought this back from Italy a few days ago. Just taste it."
Jiang Hengzhu lowered his gaze to the red liquid swirling in the tall-stemmed glass.
He picked it up, and a faint smile crossed his face. "Then I'll have a taste."
The manager's face split into a grin. He poured glasses for himself and Mr. Zheng as well. He raised his own and took a small sip.
The wine had barely gone down before Jiang Hengzhu felt his entire body flush hot, and a faint dizziness came over him. Something in the glass, definitely. He pressed his finger discreetly against a spot on his pocket and said: "Manager Cui, this wine of yours really does go to the head."
"Your tolerance must be off today," the manager said, all smiles. "Want me to have a room made up for you?"
Jiang Hengzhu's voice turned cool. "No need. I'll be fine once I've looked over the goods."
Downstairs on the floor, Fu Zhen was moving through the crowd with his limp when the floor supervisor called him over: "Manager wants you upstairs."
Fu Zhen set down his tray, went up to the private room the supervisor indicated, and knocked before entering. "Manager, you wanted me?"
The manager pointed at Jiang Hengzhu. "Help Mr. Jiang up to room 306 to rest."
Fu Zhen followed the direction of the finger. The man was sitting with his head slightly bowed, both hands flat on the table, fingers tapping the surface slowly.
"Of course." Fu Zhen walked over to him. He had bent down and was about to hook the man's arm over his shoulder when Jiang Hengzhu seemed to register someone approaching. He looked up toward Fu Zhen—expression still composed, though his eyes held a foggy bewilderment.
Fu Zhen hesitated. He hadn't expected to run into the man from the bus here. He drew a breath, then braced himself, took a firm grip, and hauled Jiang Hengzhu to his feet. Together, they began the slow climb toward the third floor.
After the two of them left the private room, Mr. Zheng swirled his wine glass and asked: "You still don't fully trust him?"
The manager smiled. "Shared interest alone isn't enough to build a real partnership.
The surest way to keep both sides in check is to have something over each other." "And you're not worried the Fu Zhen kid will come back and bite you?"
The manager turned his glass in a slow circle and took a leisurely sip. "I looked into him," he said, breezy and unbothered. "He's just a broken-down piece of rubbish that someone threw away. If he dropped dead tomorrow, nobody would even notice."