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Rebels?” Zhu asked.
    The one in shorts whispered something, and all he caught was the word “producer.”
    “Yeah,” said the one in leather. He, like the girls, was wearing eyeliner. “We’re Just Teenage Rebels.”
    Shen An-ling clapped his hands together, clearly over his shock. “And you, I’ll bet, are the great Dongfan Beisan.”
    A slow-witted, stoned smile. “That’s right, comrade.” He came out of the stall finally, shoving his fingers into his pockets, playing nonchalance. “You guys from Modern Sky?”
    Modern Sky was a large, independent record label. “How did you know?” asked Shen An-ling.
    “I knew it!” said the one in shorts.
    Quietly, the drummer said, “No, they’re not.”
    For a couple of seconds, no one filled the silence. Then Zhu said, “Dongfan Beisan, can we have a word in private?”
    “Any deal we make is for all of us.”
    From behind, Zhu heard a laughing girl approach, see their backs, grow quiet, then turn and leave. Shen An-ling said to Zhu, “They’re not serious enough. I told you this was a bad idea.”
    “You’re right,” Zhu answered, then raised a plump finger to point at Dongfan Beisan. “You looked serious, but I’m often wrong.”
    The one in shorts nudged Dongfan Beisan. “Go on, it’s cool.”
    The drummer said nothing. His face was bleak.
    Dongfan Beisan licked his dry lips, then glanced back at his friends. “Tonight, one for all. Trust me,” he said, then high-fived them and approached Zhu and Shen An-ling, fingers back in his pockets. “All right, then. Let’s deal.”
    As they retraced their steps through the club and up to the street, watched closely by a hundred young eyes, Dongfan Beisan throwing thumbs-up at friends, the whole thing struck Zhu as too easy. A man asking invasive questions about your wife simply walks out to the street with you, as if there were nothing to fear—a sign of innocence or stupidity? He leaned toward the latter.
    The street was rain-streaked, dirty, and busy, people looking in shops and visiting bars, students everywhere in cheap button-up shirts and ironed jeans. At the sight of the black four-door Audi A6 that they had squeezed into this alley, Dongfan Beisan hesitated. Zhu opened the passenger door and sat down, his feet outside the car. He’d walked too much that day.
    “So what are we talking about?” asked Dongfan Beisan. “One, two records? Because I think we should discuss the lineup. I’m thinking about going solo. Mister Clean—that’s my new name.”
    “Shut up,” said Shen An-ling, his voice not unthreatening.
    Zhu said, “Dongfan Beisan, do you know who I am?”
    The musician’s mouth worked the air; then he shook his head. “Not from Modern Sky, that’s for fucking sure.”
    “I am the husband of Sung Hui.”
    He watched Dongfan Beisan’s face as it shut down. The boy was removing all trace of emotion, first from the cheeks, then the eyes, and finally the twitching lips. Everything relaxed into that blank look that had been the salvation of so many Chinese. Finally, “I don’t know her.”
    “Why, then, were you interrogating a girl about her?”
    Zhu kept his voice light and measured, but Shen An-ling chose a different tact. From behind the boy, he whispered, “Because Dongfan Beisan wants to fuck your wife. That’s why.” He opened the rear door. “Get in.”
    “No,” said the boy, still blank-faced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    Zhu exhaled and rubbed his face as a pair of men on bicycles rode by, keeping their eyes directly ahead. Zhu said, “Let’s talk in the office,” and Shen An-ling, taking it the wrong way, grabbed the back of Dongfan Beisan’s shirt collar and pushed hard, so that the boy’s forehead bounced loudly against the roof of the car. Pain ran through Dongfan Beisan’s face; then he removed all expression again and submitted as Shen An-ling stuffed him into the backseat.
    That single act of violence proved sufficient, for as