“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. I felt a little calmer. “Just don’t tell—”
“Believe me, Dragan will never know.”
A message appeared in the 3i tray, and I brought it up to scan it. Dao-Ming had sent me a list. She’d already had a list ready of the pistol and ammunition she wanted.
“Set it up. Then call me.”
She cut the line. I hung up and squeezed my hands together, trying to stop them from quivering.
I turned and looked back toward the stall where I’d been sitting, a little afraid to see if Qian was watching me.
The stall’s chairs both sat empty.
Chapter Eight
I hadn’t planned on ever returning to the Row after what happened there before the festival two years back, but then, I hadn’t planned on returning then, either. As ugly and as dangerous a place as it could be, though, it had offered the closest thing to safety I’d known as a kid in the form of a little shithole named Wei’s Hotel. The owner, Wei, let me work for a room and spare change. At the time, a roof over my head and even a little cash on the side had seemed like a godsend. It marked the end of begging, stealing, or, should all else fail and starvation creep too close, catering to men in return for the promise of scraps. I’d seen things in the Row I wouldn’t want Alexei to see, and I’d been taken from the Row, too, almost dying on a butcher’s block, but when things got dicey, it seemed like something always brought me back there.
Things had gotten dicey enough. Citizens weren’t supposed to own guns, but if there’s one thing my time in the Row taught me it was that underneath Hangfei’s ordered exterior flowed a current of illegal food, water, and weapons. I’d seen more than my fair share of guns flow through Wei’s Hotel.
When I reached the corner, I saw that Vamp had finally responded to my messages.
Sorry, he’d sent. I’m back.
I grabbed his contact icon from the 3i tray and messaged him.
Yo.
Hey, Sam.
What’s up? Where have you been?
Sorry. We’ve been working on that thing.
You and Shuang?
And Chong. We’re making some real progress. We hope to have something before too long. I think we can do the test run in Zun-Zhe as early as tomorrow.
That soon?
That soon. I mean, this is just one section of Hangfei, but if it works, then we’ll be ready to go ahead maybe even the night after.
That’s good.
Good?
It’s great.
Awesome is the word you’re looking for.
Fine, awesome, dipshit. A smile crept onto my face. Hey, were you able to get that info on Qian I asked about?
The nurse? Yeah. I’ve got it here. He paused for a minute. Qian Cho. She’s on the grid, thirty-five years old, divorced, and works as a registered nurse at—
The daughter?
It’s true, she had a daughter named Pei Cho.
Had? Is she dead?
Probably. According to the records she got abducted.
She’s one of the people who went missing?
No, this happened a while back. They never found her. Probably meat farmers grabbed her. He veered quickly off the topic. Anyway, her story checks out. You really think she’s a haan?
Now you believe me?
I believed you before. I’m the one who noticed the original footage of that little girl, remember? I know something changed.
You just think they look like us. You don’t believe what I saw when—
Hey, I checked Qian out for you, didn’t I? He’d begun to get annoyed. I’m ready to go pretty far out on a limb for you, Sam. I’m always ready to—
I know. I’m sorry, Vamp. I know.
He went quiet for a minute.
I don’t want to fight, he said.
I don’t either.
So, what are you up to?
I passed a streetlamp where a man in shabby clothes stood, rifling through a woman’s purse. He tossed away a tube of lipstick, a compact and a pack of tissues looking for something valuable.
Not much. You want to get together later?
Actually this is going to go late. Tomorrow? No, wait. Shit, the test run. The night after?
You mean it this time?
Yeah, I mean it. Of course I mean it. We’ll set something up. You okay?
Yeah, I’m okay. Talk to you later.
Stay safe.
You, too.
The streets of the Row were steamy and rain-slicked as I made my way down the sidewalk, past shuttered up shops and ramshackle homes. A jiangshi puppet still hung from a power line overhead, left over from the last Fangwenzhe festival, its trailing whiskers waving in the humid breeze where swarms of scaleflies buzzed like drifting parade confetti.
As I passed an alley, I sensed several pairs of eyes peering out at me but I didn’t look to see who they belonged to. I just kept walking, which is what you do when you find yourself in the Row. I’d learned that a long time ago, as a child, the hard way, but from the corner of my eye I saw what the group of men had. An empty pair of pants lay plastered to the ground between them, and one held up a wet, wrinkled shirt.
I swallowed, my throat dry, and hustled past. Up ahead I spotted the sign of Wei’s Hotel, and felt a pang in my chest for the old man. Between the time I’d lost my real dad and found Dragan, Wei had been the closest thing to a father I’d had. Whoever ran the place now had kept the name, at least for now, but Wei had met a violent and bloody end some time ago trying to save me.
I gritted my teeth, refusing to let any tears appear. They’d only cause me trouble here, and nothing would change what had happened. When I remembered his face, though, and the look in his eyes when I’d first come back, it hurt. He, like Dragan after him, gave more of himself to me than my real father ever had. He’d sheltered me, let me feed myself, and when the time came, he’d protected me, or tried to.
I headed down the concrete steps and pulled open the metal door. Flyers and posters covered the hallway on the other side, some looking for lost loved ones, but most advertising girly shows, street meat, and other even less savory offerings. A guy in rags sat in the corner at the end, looking dead except for the constant twitching of his chapped lips. I followed the hallway left, and when I passed by him I smelled shine fumes and urine.
“It’s the end,” he slurred.
A force field emitted a dim glow ahead, covering the opening into what Wei used to call “the foyer,” the tiny room where he checked people in and out. Sillith had punched her way through the bulletproof glass that used to be there and the new owner had ripped the broken pane out without bothering to replace it. I stepped up to it and looked inside. It didn’t look much different from the way it had when Wei ran the place. Stacks of junk still covered every surface, leaving almost no room to move around. The only notable difference was the lack of Wei’s signature ashtray, and its payload of spit-soaked cigar butts. Three fly strips hung inside now, as well, each of them covered top to bottom.