Read Novel Full Chapter 70 : Collection Calls
Chapter 70 : Collection Calls
June 19th, 7:40 a.m. The noodle shop's pot had just come to a boil. The sizzle of scallion oil hitting the wok half-drowned the ring of Tang Guo's phone.
By the time Shen Zhixia arrived, Tang Guo was already sitting at the table near the back. She hadn't slept well. Private messages had kept rolling in until past one; she'd shoved her phone under her pillow, then fished it out again every few minutes to check. Her eyelids were swollen now. The screen lit up—an unfamiliar number, with two words beneath it: Bank.
She wiped her hands on her apron twice before answering.
"Ms. Tang?" The voice on the other end was flat, like someone reading off a script. "You took out a rent installment loan at our bank. The first payment is due June 20th, two thousand yuan. This is a reminder—late payments go on your credit record."
Tang Guo glanced up, tilting the phone toward Shen Zhixia.
"I didn't even live in that place for a full day."
"Whether you lived there has nothing to do with this money," the voice said. "You borrowed it."
"I never touched that money. On May 11th, it was transferred straight to their account in one lump sum."
"We collect according to the contract."
Shen Zhixia reached over and took the phone, switched it to speaker, and set her own phone on the corner of the table, recording.
"Hello," she said. "I'd like to verify something. On the disbursement date, which account was this money entrusted to?"
The line went quiet for half a beat. "It was paid to the payee designated in the loan contract."
"Read me the account name."
"I can't see the account name from here. If you have questions, go to a branch and get a repayment schedule."
"What position are you in right now?"
"Post-loan management."
"Employee ID."
The voice recited a string of digits. She wrote them down line by line in her notebook: date, time, number, ID.
[Thud. The house and the money really are separate things. That part's true.]
The call ended. Tang Guo sat motionless, chopsticks still in hand.
"Tomorrow," she said.
"Is the money there?"
"It's there." She flipped her phone over, voice thin. "Twelve hundred in the card, eight hundred from that video edit yesterday. Just makes two thousand—not one yuan extra."
"Then pay it. Don't let it go overdue."
"Sis, I'm paying until May 9th next year." She said the words slowly. "Two thousand a month, twelve months. I paid a full year's rent and lost the apartment."
"I know."
"The video got thirteen thousand shares."
"Thirteen thousand shares won't cover tomorrow's two thousand." Shen Zhixia pushed the phone back toward her. "I was the one who told you to post it. I know what I'm doing."
Tang Guo stood and turned the stove down a notch. The scallion-oil smell from downstairs drifted up the stairwell. In the courier group chat, someone sent a voice message, then another a moment later.
Shen Zhixia folded open a fresh page in her notebook. "Two places today."
"Where?"
"Police station, Market Regulation Bureau." She said, "You have photos, recordings, a string of disconnected-phone notices, and twenty-one names. What you're missing is one thing—a piece of paper with someone else's writing on it and a date."
"What if they won't do anything?"
"If they won't, I'll still make them write 'we won't do anything' on that paper." She said, "The first step in this case isn't getting anyone to refund money. The first step is getting someone to put it in writing: this company can't be found."
At 9:30, Wenchang Road Police Station in Chengbei, three intersections from Wanshun Building. A woman sat on the steps smoking; when she saw Shen Zhixia coming up, she stubbed the cigarette into a crack between the steps.
Behind the window sat an officer in his thirties, a law enforcement recorder clipped to his chest. She laid out the photos from her phone, the disconnected-phone recording, and the list of twenty-one households from her notebook, one item at a time on the counter.
The officer listened to the whole story—the lock change, the emptied apartment, the dead phone lines—and set down his pen.
"Contract dispute. We don't handle those."
"I'm not here asking you to get my money back." She said, "All I need today is one sentence from you: this company signed contracts, took money, moved out, and their phones are disconnected."
"I'm not writing that."
"Then let me file a report."
The officer gave her a look. "If you come alone, it's just a contract dispute."
"I'm not the only one coming in this morning." She pushed the list forward. "Seventeen households, eleven neighborhoods, four hundred and ten thousand yuan. On June 15th, the Market Regulation Bureau already placed this company on the Abnormal Operation Directory. The reason column says—unable to be contacted at registered address."
The officer dragged the page over, studied it top to bottom twice, then bent over the computer and typed for a while.
"Wait a moment."
He went inside for seven or eight minutes. When he came back he had a form in his hand. He sat down and asked for her name, ID number, the company's name, when it moved out, when the phones stopped going through.
"Leave me a copy of your materials," he said. "Photos, recording, the list—all of it. Empty business premises, uncontactable persons—we'll take an initial look at this sort of thing. Preliminary inquiry."
"How long will that take?"
"Hard to say."
"Any amount of time is fine." She said, "Just give me that paper today."
He finished filling out the form, stamped the date in the acceptance box, tore off the copy and handed it over. The paper had the accepting unit, the date, and in the matter line: Reporting company business premises emptied; legal representative and all listed contact numbers unreachable.
As she was leaving, he called after her: "How many of you are there, exactly?"
"On the registry, seventeen households."
"Send a few more in," he said. "More people, easier for me to push it up the chain."
The cigarette butt was still wedged in the stair crack. The woman who'd been smoking stood up from the bench, a plastic bag full of papers in her hand. She looked at Shen Zhixia and asked, "You're here about Youyu too?"
Shen Zhixia nodded. The woman said, "My water got cut off last week."
Then she pushed the door open and went inside.
[Thud. You weren't the only one filing today.]
Eleven o'clock, third floor of the Citizen Service Center. The corridor was full of people waiting; the number machine chimed every so often. At the Market Regulation window sat a woman in her forties, nails trimmed short, a stack of identical forms on her desk.
Shen Zhixia handed in both contracts, the loan contract, printed screenshots of the Abnormal Operation Directory entry, a transcript of the disconnected-phone recording, and the seventeen-household list.
The woman flipped through them one by one, then looked up. "We accept complaints and reports. You'll get a response within seven working days."
"I need a receipt."
"This one's for you." She typed for a while and printed out a page with a reference number in the upper right corner. "Keep it safe."
"Once a company is on the Abnormal Operation Directory—what happens?"
"If they stay on for three years without correcting it, they go on the Serious Violation and Dishonesty List. The legal representative takes a hit on high-speed rail, loans, and starting companies." She clicked her pen cap shut. "That's the credit side."
"What about getting the money back?"
"That's a civil matter. You'll have to go to court."
Shen Zhixia folded the paper in half and put it in her bag. The one from the police station was already in there.
[Thud. Two pieces of paper in one day. Neither one says anything about money.]
Three in the afternoon, Minsheng Road Building 5. She'd barely reached the stairwell when she saw Zhao Guangtian leading two people upstairs—a young couple, and in their hands was the number from the rental notice.
"Mr. Zhao."
Zhao Guangtian turned. "Showing the place." He held up the key. "Every day it sits empty, I lose money."
The young couple stood on the stairs waiting for her to move. She didn't. She spoke directly to them: "The tenant's contract for this apartment hasn't been terminated. It runs until next May, and her things are still inside. Before you sign anything, think carefully about who you'll be dealing with."
The two exchanged a glance, folded up the rental notice, and went back down the stairs.
Zhao Guangtian clenched the key in his fist. "You're breaking my rice bowl."
"I'll come upstairs and we can talk for a minute."
"Say it right here."
"Fine." She said, "Three months, sixty-six hundred—the number you gave me on the phone yesterday."
"Whoever gives me that sixty-six hundred, I'll give her a key and she can live there until next May."
"She isn't the one who owes you that money."
"Then who does?"
"Youyu." She said, "April, May, June—twenty-two hundred each month, three payments, not one has arrived. What it owes you is one number; what she owes the bank is another number. Both of them are standing in this building."
"So where are they?"
"Gone." She lifted her bag. "This morning the police station gave me a paper saying the company's premises were emptied and no one can be reached. The Market Regulation Bureau gave me a complaint reference number. Both papers are in my bag. Not one word on them says 'refund.'"
Zhao Guangtian turned the key over in his palm. Somewhere in the building a range hood switched on; the smell of hot oil rolled down the stairwell.
"Then what are you here to talk to me for?"
"What you need is a piece of paper with someone's name on it." She said, "Yesterday you asked me on the phone who to ask for those three months. I'm here today to leave you a place."
She opened her notebook to the middle, and read aloud from top to bottom: Minsheng Road Building 5, Unit 502, monthly payment 2,200. April, May, June—three payments, 6,600.
"I'm leaving this line open for you."
Zhao Guangtian's eyes rested on those words, but he didn't reach for it.
"If my name's on it, the money comes back."
"No." She said, "I won't promise you the money comes back. What I can tell you clearly is: if you rent this place out again right now, the next person is going to end up in the same mess."
"My son's mortgage hits on the twentieth," he said. "If this place sits empty another month, where am I supposed to find twenty-two hundred?"
She capped her pen and said nothing to that.
After a while, Zhao Guangtian pushed the key into his pocket. "I won't sign with anyone before the end of the month. You come get the things tomorrow before nine. Bring boxes."
"I'll be here before nine."
Seven p.m. The noodle shop had closed up. He Xiufen stacked the last two bowls in the sink and slung her rag over her shoulder. Tang Guo dimmed the livestream light as low as it would go, phone propped against the table corner, private messages still climbing.
"Sis," she said, "Jiang Bo sent over two photos."
"Whose?"
"Bank statements from two landlords in Chengxi. He says other tenants helped get them." Tang Guo turned the screen toward her. "The account name on the last payments—both are Jiangzhou Xinhe Trading Co., Ltd. One from April, one from May."
Shen Zhixia copied the dates into her notebook: March 19th, April 19th, May. Three neighborhoods, one in Chengdong, two in Chengxi, half the city between them.
"Changed from the east side to the west side, and it's still the same building-materials company." He Xiufen leaned over for a look. "This isn't swapping out pipes. It's the same pipe wearing a different name."
Shen Zhixia turned to a new page and wrote two lines across it.
Top line: Tang Guo — June 20th — 2,000.
Bottom line: Unit 502 — July 10th — 2,200.
A finger's width of space between them. She took a pencil, lined the two rows up, and drew a vertical mark down the middle.
"This top number is what the bank is coming to her for," she said. "This bottom number is what's waiting downstairs every month."
"Two hundred off," Tang Guo said, leaning in.
"Two hundred a month, twenty-four hundred a year." Her pencil tapped the line. "That two hundred is its shortfall. Two hundred less coming in each month, twenty-four hundred less each year—all made up by the next person through the door."
He Xiufen wrung the rag in her hands and studied the page.
"How many things do you have in your hands right now?"
"One person, one apartment, two receipts."
"Not enough." He Xiufen picked up a bowl. "Under that company there are over a hundred people with paychecks. You can't write everything down with two hands. You can't win this case alone—you need to bring people together."
Tang Guo laid her phone face-down on the table. "I'm paying this month's two thousand."
"Then pay it," she said. "Paying doesn't mean accepting it. Just don't give yourself another black mark."
Tang Guo took her bowl and went into the back room. Only one light was left on in the shop.
The notebook still lay open on the table. The top two thousand was Tang Guo's own money going out to the bank; the bottom twenty-two hundred was what would be waiting downstairs starting next month. Same apartment, same money—it only ever went out once.
[Thud. One sum of money. People standing at both ends of it.]