Chapter Thirty-Five: Taking on Projects Myself

Jiang Xuan worked diligently for Mr. Song, because Mr. Song had promised him a future: once the construction company was established, he’d let him lead his own crew. In this matter, Zhao Zejun was fully supportive; to be frank, he himself didn’t have the power to give Jiang Xuan such prospects right now. And if Jiang Xuan could rise through Mr. Song’s influence, it would only benefit them both, with no downside.

But now it seemed Mr. Song was simply dangling a carrot in front of Jiang Xuan, making him work hard for the promise. Usually, Mr. Song would throw him some small rewards—like that used motorcycle—so Jiang Xuan lived better than most street punks. In Yijiang City, the name “Little Xuan” was beginning to gain recognition; various bosses knew that Mr. Song’s Little Xuan could fight, dared to take risks, handled things well, and was highly capable.

Yet, the promise of leading a construction team never materialized. A few big contracts had come in within months of the company’s founding, and several crews were already out working, but Jiang Xuan remained sidelined. He was beginning to understand: Mr. Song wanted his hard work, but wouldn’t give him real authority.

“Wherever I go now, there’s a crowd calling me Brother Xuan, but it’s all for show. If I want to buy a phone, I still have to ask you for money,” Jiang Xuan said with a cold laugh.

Zhao Zejun thought for a moment and said, “Maybe you’re just too sharp right now.”

Having been a deputy general manager at a small company in his previous life, Zhao Zejun could more or less guess Mr. Song’s thinking. Jiang Xuan was undeniably capable, which was why Mr. Song had drawn him in. But Jiang Xuan wasn’t one of Mr. Song’s confidants; he hadn’t been with him long enough. If he was suddenly given real power, it would be hard for Mr. Song to balance personnel matters and explain things to those who had been with him from the start.

There was probably another reason. Those who live by the sword die by the sword; both Mr. Song and Jiang Xuan came from the underworld. With Jiang Xuan being so outstanding, Mr. Song wasn’t about to hand over real power just yet—he wanted to avoid the risk of losing control in the future.

After listening to Zhao Zejun’s analysis, Jiang Xuan was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Now that you mention it, I do recall a few conversations with Old Song that seemed like subtle warnings. Should I start keeping a lower profile?”

“That’s not possible. If you suddenly start acting low-key now, even a fool could see you’re pretending, just waiting for your chance to strike. Besides, Mr. Song uses you precisely because you stand out! If you keep a low profile, your value disappears,” Zhao Zejun replied.

“Well, damn, doesn’t that put me in a dilemma? Like I dug a hole for myself?” Jiang Xuan said, frustrated.

Zhao Zejun glanced back at his parents watching TV in the living room, took the phone to the balcony, and continued, “That’s true. You’re all over the place—sometimes showing up for street fights, sometimes watching over venues, sometimes running errands for the construction company. You’ve solved a lot of problems for Mr. Song, but you haven’t specialized in anything. Over time, you’ll just fade away.”

“Exactly! That’s what bothers me. If I just wanted to be a punk, I wouldn’t have bothered with Mr. Song. These old-timers really are deeper than I thought—I underestimated them,” Jiang Xuan said.

Zhao Zejun pondered and then asked, “Do you have to rely on Mr. Song? Could you take on a project yourself?”

Jiang Xuan was taken aback. “Do you have a project?”

“I do, but it’s nothing big, just a few thousand yuan jobs. There might be more coming, though,” Zhao Zejun said.

“Great! Small jobs are perfect for getting some experience. I can find people; if not, I’ll just hire laborers from the market by the day.” Jiang Xuan’s tone shifted. “But I don’t have any qualifications.”

Zhao Zejun laughed. “Who needs qualifications for this? It’s just a few thousand yuan project—no government inspection required. As long as you can assemble a crew, that’s enough.”

“Then there’s no problem at all! Tell me the details—what’s the situation?”

“It’s just building a small house. There are no quality requirements—any old materials will do,” Zhao Zejun said.

Jiang Xuan was puzzled. “What do you need it for? I’ll tell you, I’ve learned a lot about the construction business lately. For frame buildings, the load-bearing beams are key; you can cut corners elsewhere, and at worst, you’ll get leaks or uneven floors. But if you use trash materials for a house, it might collapse in a few years! Don’t underestimate single-story houses. For our elders, building a house was a major life event—no detail was too small or standard too high. Houses are for people to live in; a little lower quality is one thing, but if it collapses, that’s a huge problem. Even Mr. Song wouldn’t be so reckless.”

“You misunderstood. I just need the house itself—no one will live in it. As long as it doesn’t collapse within a year, it’s fine,” Zhao Zejun said.

“Huh?” Jiang Xuan was stunned. “Have you come up with another way to make money?”

Zhao Zejun weighed his words before replying, “I’m only telling you this; keep it to yourself. I’ve caught wind that Gaogang Village will be demolished this year. I bought a house there, and I plan to build several unregistered structures. When demolition comes, all of it turns into cash.”

“Isn’t that a huge scoop? Where did you hear this?!” Jiang Xuan was shocked.

It was only 2002, and the real estate market hadn’t taken off yet. But if you could be sure an area would be demolished soon, buying property ahead of time was a surefire way to make money—a much better return than keeping your savings in the bank. Having worked at the construction company, Jiang Xuan was half an insider and more confident in the industry’s future than outsiders.

Zhao Zejun lowered his voice. “I can’t say where I got the information. Just keep it to yourself; whether you take the job or not is secondary—just don’t mention a word to Mr. Song.”

“I get it. If he found out, we wouldn’t even get the scraps,” Jiang Xuan snorted. “Mr. Song is a greedy old crocodile—smells a drop of blood and rushes over, won’t let anyone else have a bite until he’s tipped over the whole pot.”

There was no time to lose. Zhao Zejun cherished every moment in this lifetime and said, “Here’s what we’ll do: after midnight, once my family’s asleep, let’s meet up and discuss the details.”

“Alright!”

At the stroke of midnight, fireworks thundered outside. Zhao Zejun waited more than an hour, until the noise died down and his parents were asleep, and then slipped quietly out of the house.

Jiang Xuan was already waiting downstairs, wearing a long coat and leaning against a lamppost, smoking, with his motorcycle parked nearby.

“Come on, I’ll take you somewhere. We can eat and talk.”

The motorcycle stopped in a shabby alley, where firecracker paper was scattered all over the street. Under a dim streetlamp stood a red makeshift house selling wontons and barbecue.

On New Year’s, there were only two customers inside. The owner, a thin middle-aged woman, was grilling meat and coughing—probably from the cold and the smoke.

“Happy New Year, Auntie,” Jiang Xuan said cheerfully as he walked over.

She looked up in surprise. “Little Xuan, what are you doing here on New Year’s?”

“Oh, the Spring Festival Gala was boring. I came out to talk over some things with a friend. This is Zhao Zejun—Auntie, you know Junzi too. Give us two big bowls of wontons and some skewers. Grill extra; if we can’t finish, I’ll take them home for a midnight snack.”

After sitting down, Jiang Xuan glanced at the woman grilling skewers, then turned to Zhao Zejun and said, “That’s Junzi’s mother. She lost her job and sets up here to make ends meet. Junzi’s working security at the bar and can’t leave for the holiday, so I drop by to help keep an eye on things. Let’s talk here.”