Chapter Seventeen: The Son-in-Law Is Truly Reliable

“Old Liu’s quick-fried tripe is still as satisfying as ever. Uncle, let’s go easy on the drinks today. We’ve got things to do this afternoon—once we’re through, I’ll take you out for some skewers, I promise you’ll have your fill.”

Having agreed with Ma Pingdong, the two headed straight out, ducking into the winding alleys where tourists never ventured. There, hidden away, was a little shopfront known only to locals.

“Hey, your aunt won’t let me touch a drop at home. Every time she’s away on a business trip, it’s like a holiday for me. Don’t worry, the guy we’re meeting is a drinking buddy too. At his place, there’s always plenty of beer—he’s got a passion for it. You can find brews from all over the world there. Last year, I tasted a South American beer at his place—absolutely top-notch. I’m planning to down a couple bottles of that again today.”

Ma Pingdong was easygoing by nature, but he had one true weakness: drinking. Besides his nickname “Ma the Bodhisattva,” he was also known as the “Immortal of Wine.” Legend had it that, completely drunk, he once played sixteen different wind instruments in a row, mastering each as if he were a virtuoso.

Wang Lei had heard another story, this one from his own parents. Apparently, Ma Pingdong’s father, Ma Zhanshan, once tried to stop his son from pursuing music by whipping him, but Ma Pingdong retaliated by hauling out two crates of white liquor—at seventy percent alcohol, no less—and drank his father under the table. Only after Ma Zhanshan was thoroughly defeated did he sign off on his son’s choices. When he sobered up, he never tried to interfere again.

Ma Zhanshan was a man who’d survived rivers of blood—he could easily down a kilo of spirits at a time. But that day, he was thoroughly bested. From then on, he swore off white liquor, dabbling only in milder drinks. That episode left him truly wary of the stuff.

Two bowls of tripe each, a serving of donkey meat in flatbread, and a couple of shots of white liquor—the two men rested until the heat of noon had passed before setting out.

The roads were choked with traffic, and by the time they arrived, it was already past four.

There was no escaping the occasional check-in: Wang Lei with Ma Dongmei, and Ma Pingdong with Li Weihong. With mutual cover stories, the two exchanged knowing smiles—everything was understood in that glance.

Ma Pingdong’s old friend had a very stylish recording studio—a four-story building with a modern façade. Though it was already beyond the Fifth Ring, owning such a quiet little haven in the ever-expanding capital spoke volumes about his status and connections.

“Hey, Ma, is your wife out on another trip? You’re treating my place like a bar again, aren’t you?”

What struck Wang Lei most on meeting Ma Pingdong’s old friend was his appearance—unmistakably an artist. The hair, the untamed beard, the rings and chains gleaming in the light—clearly an old-school rocker.

“Come on, I’m not planning to pay, how could I call it a bar?”

Ma Pingdong was at his most relaxed around old friends.

“This is my son-in-law, Wang Lei. Come on, Wang Lei, call him Brother Zhang.”

Ma Pingdong introduced Wang Lei without ceremony, taking full advantage of the situation.

“Hey now, Ma, you’re really putting one over on me, but fine, I’ll let it slide. Young man, just call me Brother Zhang—if you call me ‘uncle,’ I’ll be offended.”

Rockers like him were never ordinary folk. The two elders exchanged banter, but Wang Lei wasn’t the least bit awkward—he smiled steadily and greeted him as Brother Zhang.

Once settled in the lavishly decorated office, two giant beer mugs were placed before Wang Lei and Ma Pingdong. Zhang the rocker pulled over two long, slender pipes from beside his desk, twisted the little valves at the ends, and clear streams of beer shot into their mugs, raising a frothy head.

To outfit his office like a bar—this Old Zhang was truly a connoisseur.

“It’s just Belgian, nothing special, but there’s plenty. Let’s talk business first; after that, we’ll have something better.”

“This is my son-in-law, Wang Lei, as I mentioned. He’s written two songs and wants to record them here.”

“That’s all? Small matter. Let’s have a drink first.”

Zhang the rocker was clearly unimpressed—recording wasn’t worth his while unless it was for a top star. Even some of the best singers had to catch him in the right mood.

“Listen, I’m telling you the truth—the songs are good. And I’ve only got one daughter, so just one son-in-law. I’m asking you to handle this yourself—my son-in-law is reliable.”

Hearing this, Zhang was a bit surprised. He and Ma Pingdong had been friends for forty years, playing together since they were kids in the old compound. Ma had never asked a favor before—this was a first.

Zhang looked again at Wang Lei’s calm expression and sensed there was something different about this young man with one leg.

Normally, when a young man’s elder asked a favor, he’d either look embarrassed or grumble unwillingly. Few young people could look as composed as Wang Lei.

If he’d been overly humble, Zhang would have found him spineless; if awkward, too uncultured; if sullen, well, it wasn’t Zhang asking for help.

But Wang Lei’s composure fit Zhang’s tastes perfectly—it was as if he were saying, Look, I’m confident. If you don’t help, it’s your loss.

“All right, for your sake, Ma, I’ll do it. Let’s finish this glass, and then we’ll get started. I want to hear what your son-in-law has written.”

“Thank you, Brother Zhang. If you ever need anything, just ask.”

Wang Lei finally spoke his thanks—generously, too.

With someone like Zhang, admiration and affection were absolute: if he liked you, you were in; if not, he wouldn’t bother.

Wang Lei had never met someone quite like Zhang, but from Ma Pingdong, he’d learned enough. These “old rascals” who’d grown up in the old compounds of the capital were all cut from the same cloth.

He’d never known these scions or rascals personally, but he’d watched “Bloody Romance” and “Days Related to Youth.” Though not the same time or place, the spirit was much the same. It had to be said, his experiences in another world had furnished Wang Lei with more than just practical knowledge.

Just like the building’s stylish design, Zhang’s recording studio was the height of luxury, equipped with top-tier microphones and acoustic insulation. And, true to form, the control room contained a well-stocked beer cabinet—not of fine wines, but an array of beers from all over.

“So, where’s the music? Let my son-in-law play it for you. Arrange a good accompaniment—one song suits his voice well, so you handle that one. For the other, find a reliable male singer.”

“All right, you two have me roped in today.”