So here’s the current draft of the first chapter of the novel. Like all China expats, I have a China novel brewing… and this is mostly based on a true story.
GUANXI, OR THE GREAT SHENZHEN FIASCO OF 2006
Chapter One
Three Wise Guys go to China
It was a particularly dirty rain, with the gutters overflowing along Fuxing Lu. The water sheeted down at an angle, fat oily drops pounding into mucky grey puddles constantly spraying out from the wheels of passing cars. The Walrus peered out briefly from under the sheltering awning of the baozi shack into the street, then pulled back, muttering.
He was an unusual sight, even for the streets of the Concession. He was wearing a worn red velvet tailcoat buttoned tight over his paunch, and sagging black tuxedo trousers that had seen far better days. His stringy, shoulder length hair was pulled back from his receding hairline into a little queue at the back of his neck. His fat, jowly face was almost the same shade of grey as his hair, save for bright blue eyes under bushy white eyebrows and am incongruously black waxed Dali moustache and tiny, braided goatee.
To an average observer, he looked like a circus ringmaster, down on his luck. To a more seasoned Shanghai aficionado, he was The Amazing Walrus, impresario, close-up magician, and freelance talent scout. However, for the moment, he was just a badly-dressed waig’ stuck in the plum rains with no cabs in sight.
With an unhappy grunt, he pulled his collar up and wandered off into the downpour, aiming to find a cab at the Radisson on the corner of Huashan Lu. As he ran from awning to awning, dodging the spray from passing cars, he once again asked himself how he ended up in Shanghai, then cursed he stepped into a pothole concealed under the surface and the felt the grey, greasy water filling his shoes.
#
Joe Goldblatt, Jr. sat back in his chair and looked squarely at his guest, ignoring the rain that thrashed at the window. Sonny “Long” Wang looked stolidly back, and lit another cigarette. Joe was nervous, though it would never show from his appearance. From his suspendered trousers to his monogrammed, tailored shirts, he looked every inch the lawyer he used to be before the California Bar kicked him out for fraud. With iron grey hair and Nixonian jowls, his face inspired initial confidence, followed by a slight sense of distrustful unease. Leaning back in his chair, he settled his paunch more comfortably over his belt and began to speak in the slow, measured tones of a man speaking to an idiot.
“Sonny, you’re overreacting. I gave your girlfriend the role you wanted for her, and I got the picture released on the festival circuit. The fact that the reviewers hated her performance is her fault, not mine. You can’t demand your money back. It’s gone. You bought your share of the film, and it didn’t make money. Enjoy having been an executive producer, and get over it. You can afford it, anyway.”
Sonny leaned back, and blew a cloud of smoke at Goldblatt’s face. He was a thin man, impeccably dressed in Armani, with slicked back black hair and hard, watching eyes. His face was neutral, but his eyes were angry.
“You told me I would make money on this. You told me you’d make Mei Mei a star. You lied to me, you took my money, and you gave me nothing!”
Leaning in, he points a finger at Joe’s bulging belly.
“You got fat on MY money! Mei Mei is angry, I’ve got no money, and you tell me I’m overreacting! I will break you! You think you can do this here, in my city?”
He stood up abruptly, grinding his cigarette out in the carpet and striding toward the door.
“You’ll give me my money back, or I will take it from you. Your choice, fat man.”
Slamming it open, he walked out without another word, leaving Joe trembling at his desk. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced angry investors, but he suspected that maybe he’d gone too far this time. His system was time-proven and effective, but it relied on investors with a lot of money, little sense, and an unwillingness to challenge their contracts in court. He’d been sued, he’d been threatened, and he’d left LA after he ran out of new marks, but he’d never truly felt afraid for his life, until now.
In the beginning, it had been routine. He’d met Sonny through acquaintances, delivered his speech about how he had come to China to make the first Hollywood-quality Sino-American movie, and had promised to make his aspiring actor girlfriend a star if he invested in the production. Now, 18 months later, the money was gone, the film was a flop, and the ‘star’ was the laughing stock of the acting community in Shanghai and LA. In itself, this wasn’t unusual, until he found out that Sonny Wang wasn’t just another nouveau riche Chinese. His money ostensibly came from KTVs and bars around the city, and he was rumored to own not only the venues but the girls who worked there.
In a country where guanxi and relationships were everything, and being a foreigner meant being a mark, he was in trouble. He needed to find another project, fast, to pay of Sonny before he lost more than his reputation.
Still brooding on this, he picked up his coat and walked out in search of some decent niurou lamian and a bottle of beer. Something would turn up.
#
Roger St.John Smyth was profoundly unhappy. Tall, sophisticated and urbane, his clothing was immaculately casual, his hair elegantly mussed, and his tanned face unnaturally pale and crumpled looking. He sat across from a similarly dressed man in the tearoom of the hotel, clutching his watery martini and wondering how exactly he ended up here. A veteran of the club scenes in London, New York and LA, his promising career was cut short by a touch of legal awkwardness, the lingering effects of overindulgence in MDA, and a slightly too-well publicized bout of a curable but embarrassing social disease. Thus, his relegation to China to have one last go at the nightclub game – and his current distress.
“I can’t do it”
His companion looked awkward, but continued.
“You’re just not bankable anymore, even here. Your last club was shut down in ’99, your backers took a bath because of it, and your reputation just isn’t what it was. I can’t raise the money you want for this new project, and frankly I’ve got reservations about your business plan. Do you really think that Communist China – even if you are in Shanghai – is the place to launch a burlesque club? I know you’re convinced this is the sin city of the East, but my investors don’t agree. They think you’ll be crippled by the regulations, or worse, get caught up in the same sort of thing you did with Underworld in New York. That sort of shit gets you shot, here.”
Roger sank back deeper in his chair, his expression becoming more hangdog. “Steve, you know that I was found innocent in all that! My backers took advantage of me, and my medical condition at the time…” His voice trailed off, and he looked up bleakly. “How much can you get?”
“About half. And they insist you raise the other half yourself. If you don’t have a major personal stake in it, they’re not coming to the table.”
“Christ. I can’t raise that kind of money myself, not here and now. I’m barely solvent as it is…”
He put down his glass and took his head in his hands, fingers further disordering his hair, and sighed. “So that’s it then? I have to raise half a million quid myself for this to fly? I’d better get on with it then.”
With a rueful laugh he stood up, straightening his blazer and tie.
“You’ll take care of the bill…?”
He stuck out his hand, not noticing that his companion couldn’t quite meet his eyes as he grasped it. Roger turned away, wandering toward the lobby and the cabs waiting to take him home.
As he crossed the marble and gilt lobby, he was oblivious to the chirpy greetings of the staff and chaos of a Chinese wedding party coming in. He pushed through the crowd and out toward the line at the porticoed taxi stand. He slouched into the line behind a sopping foreigner who looked even more depressed than himself. The line wound slowly forward, but there were few cabs and many people. Roger pulled a pack of Zhongnanhais out of his pocket and fumbled around for his lighter.
No lighter. No matches. Broke, rejected, and stuck waiting for a cab in the rain. He tapped the foreigner in front of him and made the universal, thumb-flicking gesture for ‘Do you have a light’. The man turned, revealing the damp grey face and bedraggled moustache of the Walrus.
“I’ve got one in here somewhere” he said, vigorously and ostentatiously fumbling in his pockets. As he rummaged around, Roger slowly noticed the tailcoat and tuxedo trousers, now steaming slightly in as they dried.
“Sorry man, no lighter” he said, shrugging his shoulders and swiftly spreading his fingers, “But you can use my thumb!” He quickly clenched his fist and imitated the flicking gesture, bringing a flame out from under his right thumbnail. Bemused, Roger lit his cigarette, and tried to make sense of what he saw.
“Thanks. That’s a good trick- I assume you’re a magician of some sort?”
The Walrus gave a little bow, and produced his card from midair. “Professor Walrus, at your service. Magician, compere, and ringmaster in the circus of the mind! I used to have a TV show in Singapore, before I came here to expand my horizons.”
Coming from a damp, scraggly man in a faded topcoat, it sounded a bit grandiose, but somehow intriguing.
“Roger St. John Smythe. I run nightclubs all over the world, and I’m looking to open one here” He handed over his card, which the Walrus made disappear. With a slightly weaselly look, he asked “will you be needing floor entertainment at your new club? My close-up routine is very popular with the Chinese crowd.”
“Sadly, I don’t have a club here yet. I’m trying to bring burlesque to China, but I’ve hit a bit of a rough patch. Still, I have your card… so maybe I’ll be in touch.”
The line crept forward, the men talked, and soon the Walrus stood on the kerb waiting for the next cab. As it pulled up, splashing his already damp trousers, he turned back and asked “where are you headed? I’m off toward Xizang Lu, but if you’re going anywhere nearby I can drop you off- besides, I’ve got a little idea you might be interested in.” At that, he slid himself lumpily into the back of the cab, and with a bemused sigh, Roger followed.
#
The cab, like all other cabs in the city, was a VW Santana. The driver puffed away behind his plastic shield, his cigarette smoke mingling with the horse-blanket smell of a wet Walrus. He leaned in to Roger, and lowered his voice. “I’ve got an idea, you see. The Chinese, they love shows… David Copperfield, Cirque de Soleil, that sort of thing. If I could get a show together, using the people I know here, they’d back it. They don’t know how much anything costs, and they’ve got money to burn. They just want to have a big event with lots of foreigners to give them face. I’ve got the people, but I don’t have the reputation to sell them on it.”
He leaned in closer. “But I think you do. I’ve heard about some of your clubs- they were the icons of the eighties and nineties! You’ve got a name, you’ve got reputation, and you’re here!” This proposition came as a shock to Roger, considering the source, the location, and the circumstances, but in his current condition he was willing to listen to anyone, even a Walrus.
“I’m listening- putting on that kind of a show can be done. But who will give us the money to do it, and how much can we make? I’m not going to get involved in some sort of crazy project if there’s not a good payoff at the end.”
The Walrus sat back and smiled. “That’s the beautiful part. We get paid out well, whether or not the show goes off. These people want to spend money! That’s all. To have money is nothing without being seen to spend it, so we give them a chance to do it. We set up a company to run the show, we pay ourselves well, and we draw out the process. They will just keep spending, because to admit they’ve lost money is to lose face! If you don’t mind taking their money, they’ll be happy to pay it- and after what I heard about Underground, you’ll be OK with it as long as you aren’t too involved.”
Roger had been listening, but the mention of his old club hit him like a slap. “You didn’t mention you knew about that. Why bring it up now? I was acquitted, and I’ve tried to put that behind me as best I can. You come to me with some form of The Producers for China, insult me, and expect me to buy in? And you still haven’t told me where we’d get the money!”
While he listened, Walrus’s hands were fluttering in the air in mute objection. “Nonononono, you misunderstand. The Producers wanted to make a flop- we want to make a show that never happens! We want to take the money, hire some people, and spin it out… and once we have enough money, or the game is getting hard, we let it die. Easy!”
“And the money?”
“I know a guy. He specializes in finding… impressionable investors. I’ve not spoken to him about this yet, But I’m pretty sure he’d be interested. He used to be a lawyer, but now he produces films. He’s got a big rolodex filled with people who have money to trade for face, and he takes everything he can get. We can stop off at his office, catch him before he leaves for dinner.”
Now fully resigned to this bizarre scenario, Roger just nodded and stared out into the rain as Walrus rapped on the screen and told the driver their new destination. As the rain washed across the dirty streets, Walrus talked and the cab drove on toward Huaihai Lu.
#
The cab turned off Huaihai and stopped at an office block on the corner of Maoming Lu. With a glance out at the rain, Walrus opened the door and dashed to the shelter of the doorway, waving at Roger to pay the cabbie. Looking slightly distressed, he handed over 20 kuai and splashed over to where the Walrus was stooped over having an vigorous argument in Chinglish with the door intercom. Straightening up, he turned to Roger and announced “He’s gone to dinner. I know where we can find him. Let’s go.”
Off they ran into the rain, heading down Maoming toward the old bar street and its dark alleyways. Apparently at random, the Walrus dove into a gated lane entrance, and again into a narrower alley, until they emerged into a small courtyard. There, enthroned in improbable majesty on a small plastic stool, sheltered under a ragged beer umbrella and haloed from the light of a naked bulb, sat the pinstriped bulk of Joe Goldblatt. On the table in front of him was a steaming bowl of lamian, three empty bottles of REEB and a fourth quickly losing the battle. He looked up from his food as the bedraggled pair approached, grunted, and continued to slurp his noodles.
Clearly, Joe Goldblatt was a man who took his eating seriously.
The pair slopped over to him and sat down across from him. Goldblatt caught the eye of the old man behind the stove, drained his beer and waved it, holding up three fingers to indicate that everyone wanted drinks. Then he returned to his noodles. Walrus leaned over, but before he could speak he was waved into silence. Apparently, mealtimes were not for conversation. The REEBs arrived, misted with condensation, and for lack of anything else to do the men drank their beer and stared awkwardly into the rainy courtyard.
Finally, he drained the last of the broth from his bowl and looked over his two damp guests. With a barely stifled belch, he stuck out his hand to Roger and said “Joe Goldblatt. I assume since you’re here with this joker that you two have some sort of idea?”
“Roger St. John Smyth. It’s not so much our idea as his idea, so maybe he’d best explain it to you.”
Walrus looked a little nervous, but sat up a bit straighter and began. “We want to put on a show. Roger here’s a big name in clubs- lots of reputation in England and the US. I’ve got the people, we just need the money. We’ve got a great angle for it- lots of cash for all of us, easy to pitch, and no liabilities.”
“There are always liabilities, Walrus. We’re in China.” Goldblatt leaned back, making his plastic stool creak alarmingly. “Still, I’m listening. What’s your angle?”
“You know The Producers, right? We’ve worked out a China variation.” At the mention of ‘we’, Roger squirmed uncomfortably, but Walrus continued. “We don’t put on a flop, we start a production that never ends. You know what the big money guys are like, the coal bosses and property barons. They just want to flash the cash and be able to brag about it. Once they start, they won’t cut the money because that’d look cheap.”
Goldblatt nodded, slowly. “It could work, if the show was right and the investors personally disinterested in the money. If you could hook a big one- government, property developer, SOE- then they’d do it.” He turned his attention back to his beer, which was almost empty. Absentmindedly waving for another round, he continued “If I were to get on board with this, it would have to bring in a lot of money, very quickly. We’d need to pitch for about 10 million RMB, and keep our costs down to less than a mil for all the hardware, performers and acts.”
Now both men were leaning towards him eagerly, as he gazed into the rain in thought. “That’s three mil each, buried as a year’s salaries, expenses and overhead. When this finally collapses, we need to be able to show that the money has been paid out for show expenses, no matter how ridiculous. However, I know just the man to do our books.”
His attention snapped back to the men, and he said very seriously “This isn’t quite illegal, but the intention isn’t quite honest, either. If you aren’t prepared to keep this absolutely quiet then just walk away and this chat never happened. Are we agreed?”
Both men nodded, thinking of the money. Goldblatt smiled, and said “I’ll be in touch in the morning to talk about prospects. Roger, give me your card. You’ve got to be prepared to front this pitch. This is your big idea, your vision. You’re here in China to bring your special touch to one lucky Chinese investor, to let him have something nobody else will have.”
He took the card, stuffed it in his breast pocket, fished out one of his own and passed it over before returning his attention to his beer. Feeling dismissed, the men turned back into the night to continue their journey home.