The Republic of Wine

said. ‘Besides, Boss, I know you’re an important person, here on an undercover assignment. You don’t need to leave your name and address. All I ask is that you spare my life.’
    “Undercover assignment? Bullshit! I'm the unluckiest man alive. And I'm going to find a way to pay for that wonton, come hell or high water. Tell you what…’
    Pushing a release button on his pistol, he removed the ammunition clip, took out a single bullet, and handed it to the old fellow.
    ‘You can keep this as a souvenir,’ he said.
    Frantically waving off the gesture, the old fellow said:
    ‘No, I really can’t. A few bowls of inedible wonton, Boss, what can it be worth? Just the opportunity to meet a good and decent man like you is my great fortune, enough to last me three lifetimes, no, I really can’t…’
    Unwilling to let the old fellow prattle on and on, the investigator grabbed his hand and forced him to take the bullet. The old man’s hand was hotter than blazes.
    Just then he heard a snicker behind him, like the sound of an owl on a tombstone, which scared him into hunching his head down into his shoulders. Another spurt of urine ran down his leg.
    ‘Some investigator!’ It was an old man’s voice. ‘I see an escaped convict!’
    Trembling with fear, he turned to see who it was. There beside the trunk of a French kolanut tree stood a skinny old man in a tattered army uniform, pointing a double-barreled shotgun at him; a long-haired tiger-striped dog sat motionless and menacingly on its haunches beside him, eyes like laser beams. The dog frightened the investigator more than the man did.
    ‘Gramps Qiu, I’ve disturbed you again,’ the peddler said softly to the old man.
    ‘Liu Four, how many times have I told you not to set up shop here? And still you refuse to listen to me!’
    ‘Gramps Qiu, I didn’t mean to anger you, but what can a poor man do? I have to come up with my daughter’s tuition. I’ll do anything for my kids, but I don’t dare go into the city, because they’ll fine me if they catch me, and there goes half a month’s income.’
    Gramps Qiu waved his shotgun in the air. ‘You there,’ he said sternly, ‘toss that pistol over here!’
    Like an obedient child, Ding Gou’er tossed the pistol over to to where Gramps Qiu was standing.
    ‘Put your hands up!’ Gramps Qiu demanded.
    Slowly Ding Gou’er raised his hands, then watched as the skinny old man whom the aging wonton peddler had called Gramps Qiu held his shotgun in one hand to free up the other. Then, bending his legs while keeping his upper body straight - so he could shoot if necessary - he picked up the six-nine service pistol Gramps Qiu studied the gun from every angle, before announcing disdainfully, ‘A beat-up Luger!’ Ding Gou’er, seeing his opportunity, said, ‘I can tell you’re a weapons expert.’ The old man’s face lit up. In a high and scratchy yet infectiously powerful voice, he said, ‘You’re right there. I’ve handled at least thirty, maybe even fifty different weapons in my time, from the Czech rifle to the Hanyang, the Russian submachine gun, the tommy gun, the nine-shot repeater … and that’s only the rifles. As for handguns, I’ve used the German Mauser, the Spanish Waist-Drum repeater, the Japanese Tortoise Shell Mauser, the Chinese Drumstick revolver, and three kinds of Saturday-night specials, not counting this one here.’ He tossed Ding Gou’er’s pistol into the air and caught it on its way down, in a nimble practiced fashion that belied his years. He had an elongated head, narrow eyes, a hooked nose, no eyebrows and no sideburns; his deeply wrinkled face was dark as a tree trunk that’s been charred in a kiln. ‘This pistol,’ he said scornfully, ‘is better suited for women than for men.’ The investigator replied evenly, ‘It’s very accurate.’ The old man examined it again, then said authoritatively, ‘It’s fine within ten meters. More than that, it isn’t worth shit.’ To which Ding Gou’er replied, ‘You know your business, Gramps.’ The old man stuck Ding Gou’er’s pistol into his waistband and snorted contemptuously.
    The wonton peddler said, ‘Gramps Qiu is a veteran revolutionary. He’s in charge of Liquorland’s Martyrs’ Cemetery.’
    ‘No wonder,’ Ding Gou’er said.
    ‘What about you?’ the old revolutionary asked.
    ‘I’m an investigator for the provincial Higher Procuratorate.’
    ‘Let’s see your papers.’
    ‘They were