The Style Was Right, but the Sizes Were Wrong! After Scouring Half the City, Only the Last Half-Day Remained!

At 1:40 Saturday afternoon, at the guardhouse window of the first export shoe factory in the western development zone.

"Hello, sir. Could I ask if the person in charge of sales is here? I'd like to take some canceled-order stock from the warehouse."

The old man behind the window did not even raise his head.

"Our factory doesn't have canceled orders. Who told you that nonsense? Go, go, go."

The little window slammed shut. Lin Fan stood there for two seconds, then turned and left.

He had gotten the very first sentence wrong. Saying "canceled orders" at someone's doorstep was like shouting in the street that their business was failing. What had Boss Wu reminded him yesterday? Overstock was a family shame, yet he had gone right up and plastered their shame across the window.

He needed to change his pitch.

At the second factory, he changed his wording. He said he was from a trading company in Hangzhou, his surname was Ma, and he had come to Wenzhou to source goods. Cash payment.

This time, he was brought into an office. A salesman in a dress shirt received him. The moment he heard Lin Fan wanted short boots with fur cuffs, his eyes lit up. He said they had boots, then turned and carried over two cardboard boxes.

When the boxes were opened, they contained tall suede boots. Their soles were hard enough to crack walnuts, and each one weighed nearly half a kilogram. Placed beside the sample from Boss Wu's factory, they were worlds apart.

"I need this kind—fur cuffs, short shafts, lightweight."

"We don't have those. Our factory makes work boots, exported to the Middle East." The salesman rubbed his hands together. "Why not take a look at these tall ones? They're cheap, really cheap."

No matter how cheap they were, they were still iron lumps that would weigh down the shipping costs. He thanked the man and left.

At the third and fourth factories, heavy locks hung from the iron gates, and the guardhouses were empty. It was Saturday afternoon; half the industrial district was asleep.

At the fifth factory, the moment he explained why he was there and said he wanted to speak to the boss about the warehouse goods, the guard's expression changed on the spot.

"Another batch of you?" The old man grabbed his enamel mug and slammed it onto the table. "Didn't we agree yesterday? The money will definitely be paid back by the end of the month! You people are taking shifts to block the gate now?"

"Sir, it's a misunderstanding. I'm here to buy goods."

"Buy goods?" The old man looked him up and down. Just a young kid with a backpack. "People who buy goods come in cars. I've seen plenty like you. Go. Don't make me call someone."

Lin Fan backed away and stood on the curb, actually laughing a little.

Boss Wu had not been wrong by a single word. Behind the doors in this district sat nothing but frightened birds. Creditors came wearing that face. Competitors probing for information came wearing that face. Even when he came as a genuine buyer with real cash, they still saw that same face.

By dusk, he had visited seven factories. Two had no one there, he had not even gotten through the gates of three, and the other two had stock—but none of it was the right style.

At a small motel outside the industrial district, fifteen yuan a night, the sheets smelled like soap that had not been properly rinsed out. He untied the money belt around his waist, stuffed it beneath his pillow, and lay down on it.

His phone buzzed. It was a text from Ma Le: fifty-three scarf orders today, twenty-one pants orders, all shipped. What about the boots? My cousin is asking again.

He replied: Almost. Tell her to wait a little longer.

He turned off the phone and stared at the ceiling, going over the entire day from beginning to end.

It was hard—harder than he had expected—but the day had not been wasted. He had learned three things.

First, the goods really existed. The second factory was proof. There really were hundreds of boxes of unsold goods sitting in warehouses; they just were not the style he needed. The financial crisis had been pounding them for an entire year. Canceled and cut orders had not hit just one or two factories—they had hit an entire region. Somewhere in that region, there had to be short fur-cuffed boots among the affected stock. This was a math problem. The only thing the person solving it had to do was not give up before reaching the answer.

Second, his pitch was finalized. No mention of canceled orders, no mention of overstock. Just one sentence: Boss Ma from Hangzhou, sourcing goods with cash, only looking for women's short fur-cuffed boots. If they had them, he would inspect them. If not, he would turn around and leave. Not one extra word.

Third, and most valuable of all, knocking on doors one by one was a stupid method. Everyone behind those doors pretended they had no stock, but there was one kind of person who could not be fooled: the drivers hauling goods through this district every day. They knew whose warehouses had plenty coming in but little going out, whose factories had not sent out a truck in half a year. Their tires knew the place better than his legs did.

Tomorrow, he would start early at the factories. At noon, he would stake out restaurants and look for freight drivers.

The last bus back to Hangzhou left at 5:30. Tomorrow, he had only one full day at most. At nine the morning after, he had to be sitting at his workstation. Among all the people in Wenzhou buying boots, he was the only one who had to rush back to clock in.

Sleep.

At 7:30 Sunday morning, he stood at the gate of the eighth factory.

His luck looked much better that morning. He got through the gates of three factories. At the ninth, they actually dug out women's short boots from the warehouse. He slipped his hand into the cuff and squeezed, then let go. The fur stayed flattened. When he leaned in to smell them, the stench of glue hit him in the forehead. He put the shoe down and walked out, taking less than three minutes in all. Even the salesman shouting prices behind him could not stop him.

Goods made with trash glue were unacceptable even for free. Once spring came and the soles started coming apart, a five-diamond shop would be torn apart by bad reviews.

The eleventh factory was the most agonizing.

The salesman slapped his thigh the moment he heard "short fur-cuffed boots" and said they had them. A large order had fallen into their hands. He led Lin Fan into the warehouse, pried open a box, and Lin Fan's heart jumped.

Fur cuff, short shaft, round toe. He squeezed the fur in his hand, let go, and it sprang back up by itself. The boots were light, too. Set beside the sample he carried against his chest, they looked like brothers born of the same mother.

"How much stock?"

"A little over three thousand pairs. It was an order from some Russians up north last year. They didn't pay the full amount, so they abandoned the goods." The salesman rubbed his hands together. "Boss Ma, if you really want them, we can discuss the price."

He pulled out one boot and checked the size on the shoebox.

Forty-two.

He pulled out another. Forty-three. He switched boxes and pried one open: forty-one. He opened four boxes in a row, and the smallest was size forty-one.

Northern men's sizes. The entire batch was large sizes. One boot could fit both feet of a Chinese girl.

"Do you have sizes thirty-five to thirty-nine?"

"This order was for men's boots." The salesman froze. "We've never taken orders for women's sizes."

The style was right. The fur was good. The price was negotiable. But the people meant to wear them were wrong. Two thousand pairs of goods were piled right before him, yet he could not take away a single pair.

He stuffed the boot back into the box, asked the salesman for a phone number, and told him to let him know if they got an order in women's sizes. Then he turned and left the warehouse, squinting as the sun flashed in his eyes.

At 12:20, in a small restaurant at the industrial district intersection, he ordered a bowl of noodles and calculated as he ate.

A day and a half. Thirteen factories. He had knocked on the doors of shoe factories across half the city. Not a single yuan of the twenty thousand in his pocket had been spent, though he had accumulated a thick stack of receipts—bus tickets, motorcycle taxi fares, motel slips.

Money not spent was not money saved. He simply could not force it out of his pocket. The goods were sleeping in some warehouse somewhere in this city, but he was separated from them by a door and could not find the right one.

Only half a day remained. The bus left at 5:30. He could not keep gambling on luck.

A man in greasy work clothes entered the restaurant. He looked to be in his forties. The moment he sat down, he shouted for the owner's wife to bring him a large bowl. He tossed a ring of keys onto the table. A blue mini truck was parked outside.

A freight driver.

Lin Fan carried his noodles over and placed his cigarette pack on the table first.

"Sir, can I ask you something? Do you often haul goods around here?"

"I've been running this area for six years." The man pulled out a cigarette and tucked it behind his ear. "What, you need to ship something?"

"I want to ask about something." He lit the man's cigarette. "Among the shoe factories around here, which ones have spent the last half year receiving goods into their warehouses without sending many trucks out?"

The man held the cigarette between his lips and looked at him for two seconds, then grinned.

"Kid, that's an insider's question. Ask any factory and they'll say business is good. Ask us freight drivers, though, and we can tell exactly whose warehouse is holding in a fart."

He took a drag, dipped the tip of his chopsticks into the soup, and tapped the table.

"If you're asking who's holding it in the worst, it's not in this district. It's in the old factory area south of the city. There's a Factory Director Ye there, specializes in export boots. Last year, a big order went bad. The goods were finished, but the foreigners went under and never paid a cent of the remaining balance. A whole warehouse of goods got stuck in his hands. The factory has been shut down for nearly half a year. Last time I passed by, even the dog guarding his place had gotten skinny."

"Do you know what kind of boots?"

"How would I know? Boots, anyway. Winter goods." The man waved a hand. "All I know is Boss Ye borrows money from everyone he sees now. He's holding back workers' wages, and year-end is almost here. He's so anxious he's getting mouth sores. If you really are here to buy goods, show up with cash and he'll treat you like his own father."

Winter boots, an export order, an entire warehouse, desperate for cash.

Three and a half out of four details matched.

"Sir, are you heading south this afternoon?"

"Funny you should ask. I'm delivering a load over there at two." The man drained his bowl of noodle soup. "If you don't mind the smell of motor oil in the cab, I'll give you a ride."

Lin Fan pushed the entire pack of cigarettes over to him, then went to the counter and paid for both their meals.

At 12:50, the blue mini truck turned onto the main road. He sat in the passenger seat with his backpack in his arms, the sharp edge of the shoebox pressing against his chest.

There were four and a half hours left until the last bus.