Chapter Six: Willow Lane

The next three days passed in utter calm, as if nothing at all had happened. The old man who dealt in hidden treasures also vanished, but I suspected he was lurking somewhere near East Yu Gate, watching every move I made in my old temple shop with a blank, inscrutable face.

Jin Yitiao, however, had been frequenting my store quite a bit these days. He first helped pay for a batch of surveillance equipment, and then delivered thirty thousand yuan worth of goods I’d left with him earlier. Even though there was still little progress in unraveling the situation, life had to go on, and as long as I didn’t abandon the shop, could those people really dare rob me in broad daylight?

Maybe it was simply the philosophy that harmony brings wealth while discord drives business away; business these three days was much as before—four or five waves of customers each day, more inquiries than sales. Even the landlord stopped by once, and after much persuasion, I managed to buy myself another week’s time. But where could I possibly scrape together a year’s rent in just a week, and with another three months’ deposit on top of that? My mind was so obsessed with money I felt half-crazed, and after several days without closing a single deal, the thought alone made my heart ache.

Of course, what preoccupied me most were the recent strange occurrences in the shop. I hadn’t dared tell my father. He was having the time of his life at the nursing home, playing chess and dancing with the old ladies every day. I’d feared him since childhood, for any trouble was met first with a flurry of blows. We had no relatives in this line of work, so for now, all my hopes rested on Jin Yitiao and his connections.

One morning, as I opened up shop, I sat idly behind the counter leafing through the account book, racking my brain for ways to handle the rent, when I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Two men entered.

One I recognized: Lao Rong, the local fixer around East Yu Gate. The term "fixer" felt old-fashioned, a relic from the pre-revolution days, now largely replaced by community police. Yet, like the world of thieves, such roles survived where there was need, handling matters that couldn’t be dealt with in the open.

Seeing him, I put down the account book and was about to greet him with a smile, but the moment I saw the middle-aged man beside him, my eyes narrowed.

Three years behind the counter had taught me to read faces. I didn’t claim to read strangers’ fortunes, but I certainly had an eye for people, often comparing their bearing to the patina on an ancient jade—indescribable, yet instantly felt.

The man with Lao Rong had a dark complexion and steady gaze; he moved silently, and simply standing there, he gave the impression of a deep, bottomless pool, his whole presence utterly impenetrable.

Catching my frozen expression, Lao Rong smiled and said, “Brother Bai, this is my big brother. He has a matter to discuss with you.”

Before I could reply, the man’s gaze swept around the room and fixed on me. “You’re Bai Buer?”

I nodded, replying cautiously, “Are you looking to buy or to sell?”

He didn’t answer my question but said, “Please come with me. Someone wants to see you.”

My brow furrowed. I looked at Lao Rong, who kept smiling. “My big brother is no ordinary man. He’s here to ask for your help—there’ll be benefits for you.”

But the middle-aged man cut him off, saying, “Not me. It’s someone above who wants to see you.”

“Which ‘above’?” I asked.

“Can’t say.”

His tone was forceful, carrying an unconscious air of command that grated on the ear. After a moment’s thought, I pulled Lao Rong aside and muttered, “What’s going on? This guy asks me to leave with him without a word of explanation. Is he really your big brother? You two don’t even look alike.”

Lao Rong wore a pained expression. “Don’t ask so much. I’m just following orders. But I can guarantee you—there’s no harm in this for you.”

“And if I turn up in the Hai River tomorrow morning, you’ll collect my body?”

I didn’t know Lao Rong well, hardly even called him an acquaintance. I only knew he had some real skills in the shadowy side of things—not like Jin Yitiao’s petty tricks, but a genuine talent.

As we spoke, the other man strolled over. His eyes swept me up and down as he said, “The Buddha has hit a dead end, suspects he’s caught a ghost. You’re wanted to check the goods.”

My heart skipped a beat. His words were cryptic; Lao Rong’s eyes went wide, but I understood. This was the language of the trade.

Every underworld has its own code. As the saying goes, “Better to give a gold ingot than a word of ‘spring’”—‘spring’ being the slang, the code words of the underworld.

Here, “the Buddha” referred to a certain class of thief in the Tianjin and Beijing area. “Hit a dead end” meant a deal where antique goods couldn’t be inspected or opened. “Caught a ghost” implied that the item in question was suspected to have come from a tomb. In short, some powerful figure had gotten hold of questionable goods and wanted me to appraise them.

I wasn’t so much flattered as I was curious—why would a big shot seek out a nobody like me?

“At least tell me where we’re going,” I said.

“You’ll know once you meet Jin Yitiao,” the man replied.

Before I could say anything else, he checked his watch, walked to the door, and gestured for me to follow. Jin Yitiao hadn’t contacted me at all these past days, not even answering his phone. Considering he might be in their hands, I had no choice but to go along.

“I’ll just lock up the shop first.”

Muttering to myself, I locked all the doors and windows, double-checked the security and surveillance, then followed the two men out.

Right outside, I saw an old Hongqi CA770 sedan parked at the curb. This model was discontinued back in the 1980s, and after more than two decades, the car had become a symbol of status and power. Few in all of Tianjin had the privilege of riding in one—collectors among the city’s elite treasured them, and their market value rivaled that of prized Jun ware ceramics.

My little shop sat by the road near the Hai River, and the Hongqi’s ostentatious presence had drawn quite a crowd. Some people were snapping photos of the license plate, so I deliberately stood in view of the security cameras—just in case something happened, there’d be some record.

Once inside, Lao Rong and I sat in the back, the middle-aged man upright in the passenger seat. Seeing his back now, I was certain—this man had been in the military, and not just any soldier, but a battle-hardened special forces type.

The pressure was palpable. Lao Rong sat beside me, looking tense, clearly in no mood to talk. I turned my head to the window, watching the city streets race by, mind whirring as I tried to guess whom I was about to face, and how Jin Yitiao had ended up in their hands.

After about an hour, with several turns, the car entered a dead-end alley. The man in front, who had been resting with his eyes closed, suddenly snapped awake and told us it was time to get out.

“This is Liuzixiang, isn’t it?”

Stepping out, I glanced around and remarked casually.

The middle-aged man shot me a surprised look, but quickly suppressed it.

By now, dusk had fallen, and the alley’s few dim streetlights glowed faintly. Besides us, there wasn’t another soul in sight. Liuzixiang wasn’t a name most Tianjin folks would recognize, but among opera enthusiasts, it was a veritable temple.

There’s an old saying: “Learn the art in Beijing, become famous in Tianjin, earn silver in Shanghai.” In the opera world, lineage was paramount—your background, your “class,” determined everything. Without proper apprenticeship, you weren’t considered “one of the insiders”—much like in my own trade, where you needed a master to bring you in. If Beijing was the gathering place for the troupes, Tianjin was the proving ground.

No opera fan was more exacting than a Tianjin audience. Years ago, Master Ma Lianliang himself performed “Eight Hammers” here, playing the one-armed Wang Zuo. By mistake, he tied up his right arm instead of his left—the one meant to be “cut off.” Without hesitation, a teapot flew onto the stage and the whole hall erupted in boos. Ma was so mortified he returned the audience’s money and apologized. Only after performing another stellar show did he redeem his reputation.

Liuzixiang was the very place where Master Ma suffered his only defeat.