At 1:40 on Saturday afternoon, Lin Fan stood at the reception window of the first export shoe factory he'd visited in the western development zone.
"Hello, sir. Could you tell me if whoever handles sales is in? I'm looking to buy some canceled-order stock from your warehouse."
The old man inside didn't even look up.
"We don't have canceled orders. Who's been feeding you that nonsense? Go on, get out of here."
The little window snapped shut. Lin Fan stood there for two seconds, then turned away.
He'd blown it with his first sentence. Saying "canceled orders" at their front gate was like shouting in the street that their business was failing. What had Boss Wu warned him yesterday? Unsold stock was a family shame, and he'd plastered it right on their window.
He needed a new pitch.
At the second factory, he changed his wording. He said he was Boss Ma from a Hangzhou trading company, in Wenzhou to buy stock, cash on the spot.
This time he got into the office. A salesman in a button-down shirt met him. When he heard Lin Fan wanted short boots with fur trim, his eyes lit up. He said they had boots, then brought over two cardboard boxes.
Inside were tall suede boots with soles hard enough to crack walnuts. Each felt like it weighed half a pound. Set beside the sample from Wu Factory, they were worlds apart.
"I'm looking for fur trim like this. Short boots, and light."
"We don't have those. Our factory makes work boots for export to the Middle East." The salesman rubbed his hands together. "Why not look at these tall ones? They're cheap. Really cheap."
Cheap or not, they were heavy as bricks. Lin Fan thanked him and left.
The third and fourth factories had padlocked gates and empty reception rooms. On a Saturday afternoon, half the industrial district was asleep.
At the fifth, he had barely said he wanted to speak to the owner about stock in the warehouse when the gatekeeper's expression changed.
"Another lot of you?" The old man slammed an enamel mug onto the desk. "Didn't we settle this yesterday? The money'll be paid back by the end of the month. Are you taking shifts blocking the gate?"
"Sir, you've got the wrong idea. I'm here to buy stock."
"Buy stock?" The old man looked him up and down: a young kid with a backpack. "Buyers come in cars. I've seen plenty like you. Get going, before I call someone."
Lin Fan backed out. Standing on the curb, he actually laughed.
Boss Wu had been right about every word. Behind these gates, everyone was jumpy. Creditors got that look, competitors scouting for weakness got that look, and he got it too, even with cash ready to spend.
By dusk, he'd tried seven factories. Two had no one there, three hadn't let him through the gate, and two had stock, but none of it was right.
At a little hotel outside the industrial district, fifteen yuan a night, the sheets smelled of soap that hadn't been rinsed out. He unfastened the money wrapped around his waist, stuffed it under the pillow, and lay down on top of it.
His phone buzzed. A text from Ma Le: fifty-three scarf orders and twenty-one trouser orders today. All shipped. What about the boots? My cousin's asking again.
He replied: Soon. Tell her to wait a little longer.
He switched off the screen and stared at the ceiling, going back over the day.
It was hard, harder than he'd expected. But the day hadn't been wasted. He'd learned three things.
First, the stock was real. The second factory proved it: hundreds of cartons really were sitting in warehouses with nowhere to go. They just weren't the style he needed. The financial crisis had been hammering factories for a whole year. Canceled and cut orders hadn't hit just one or two of them; they'd hit the whole district. Somewhere in that district, a factory had to be stuck with short fur-trimmed boots. It was a numbers game. He just couldn't quit before he'd worked through it.
Second, he'd settled on a pitch. No mention of canceled orders or unsold stock. Just this: Boss Ma from Hangzhou, buying with cash on the spot, looking only for women's short fur-trimmed boots. If they had them, he'd look. If not, he'd leave. Not one wasted word.
Third, and most valuable: knocking on doors one by one was the slow way. Everyone inside claimed they had no stock, but one kind of person couldn't bluff him: the drivers who hauled goods around here every day. Their tires knew better than his legs which warehouses took in more than they sent out, and which factories hadn't loaded a truck in six months.
Tomorrow he'd start early and visit more factories. At noon, he'd wait at a restaurant and find the drivers.
The last bus back to Hangzhou left at five thirty. Even counting every minute, tomorrow gave him only one day. At nine the morning after, he had to be at his desk. Of all the people in Wenzhou looking to buy boots, he was the only one who had to get back to clock in.
Sleep.
At seven thirty on Sunday morning, he stood outside the eighth factory.
His luck seemed a little better that morning. He got through the doors of three factories. At the ninth, they even found women's short boots in the warehouse. He pushed a hand into the turned-down cuff and squeezed. When he let go, the lining stayed flattened. He brought the boot close and smelled glue so strong it hit him in the head. He put it down and walked out. The whole visit took less than three minutes, and the salesman couldn't stop him even by calling out a price.
Boots made with rubbish glue weren't worth taking for free. Come spring, the soles would start peeling off, and bad reviews could tear his five-diamond shop apart.
The eleventh factory was the cruelest.
The moment the salesman heard "short boots with fur trim," he slapped his thigh and said they had them. A big order had been left on their hands. He led Lin Fan into the warehouse and pried open a carton. Lin Fan's heart jumped.
Fur trim, short shaft, round toe. He squeezed the lining and let go; it sprang back. The boot felt light, too. Set beside the sample he'd brought, they looked like brothers.
"How many pairs?"
"Just over three thousand. An order for the Russians up north last year. They never finished paying, then said they didn't want them." The salesman rubbed his hands together. "Boss Ma, if you really want them, we can talk price."
Lin Fan took out a boot and checked the size on the box.
Forty-two.
He pulled out another. Forty-three. He pried open a different carton: forty-one. Four cartons in a row, and the smallest was forty-one.
Sizes for northern men. The whole batch ran large. A Chinese woman could fit both feet into one boot.
"No sizes thirty-five to thirty-nine?"
"But these are men's boots," the salesman said, stunned. "We never took an order for women's sizes."
The style was right, the lining was good, and the price was negotiable. The only problem was who could wear them. Thousands of pairs were piled right in front of him, and he couldn't take a single one.
He put the boot back in its carton and got the salesman's number, asking him to call if they ever had women's sizes. Then he left the warehouse, squinting in the glare of the sun.
At twelve twenty, he ordered a bowl of noodles at a small restaurant by a crossroads in the industrial district and did the math as he ate.
A day and a half, thirteen factories. He'd knocked on shoe-factory doors across half the city. The twenty thousand yuan in his pocket was untouched. All he'd collected was a stack of bus tickets, motorcycle taxi fares, and hotel receipts.
Not spending the money wasn't saving it. He couldn't find anywhere to spend it. Somewhere in this city, the stock he needed lay in a warehouse. He just couldn't find the right door.
Only half a day remained. His bus left at five thirty. He couldn't afford to keep trying his luck.
A man in oil-stained work clothes came into the restaurant. He was in his forties. As soon as he sat down, he called to the owner's wife for a large bowl, then tossed his keys onto the table. A small blue truck was parked outside.
A delivery driver.
Lin Fan carried his noodles over and set his pack of cigarettes on the table first.
"Mind if I ask you something? Do you haul goods around here often?"
"Have for six years." The man took out a cigarette and tucked it behind his ear. "Why, need something shipped?"
"I'm hoping you can tell me something." Lin Fan lit his cigarette for him. "Of the shoe factories around here, which ones have spent the last six months putting stock in their warehouses without sending many trucks out?"
The man studied him over his cigarette for two seconds, then grinned.
"Kid, that's the right question. Ask anyone at a factory and they'll tell you business is great. Ask us drivers whose warehouse is backed up, and we can tell you by the smell."
He took a drag, dipped the tip of a chopstick in his soup, and tapped it against the table.
"The worst one isn't around here. He's over in the old industrial district on the south side. Surname Ye—Factory Director Ye. He makes boots for export. Last year he finished a big order, but the foreign buyer went under without paying a cent of the balance. The whole warehouse was left on his hands, and the factory's been shut down nearly six months. Last time I passed by, even his guard dog had gone thin."
"Do you know what kind of boots?"
"How would I know? Boots, anyway. Winter stock." The man waved a hand. "All I know is Boss Ye's asking everyone he meets for a loan. He's behind on wages, New Year's almost here, and he's worried sick. If you're a real buyer and show up with cash, he'll treat you like his own father."
Winter boots. Export order. A whole warehouse. Desperate for cash.
Three and a half out of four.
"Are you headed toward the south side this afternoon?"
"As it happens, I've got a delivery out that way at two." The man drained the last of his noodle broth. "If you don't mind the smell of engine oil in the cab, I can give you a lift."
Lin Fan pushed the whole pack of cigarettes toward him, then went to the counter and paid for both their meals.
At twelve fifty, the blue truck turned onto the main road. Lin Fan sat in the passenger seat with his backpack in his arms, the corner of the shoebox pressing against his chest.
Four and a half hours until the last bus.
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