Chapter Thirty-Nine: A House of Evil?

Following Zhao Zejun’s recipe for spicy crayfish, Junzi’s mother bought twenty pounds of live crayfish, cleaned them thoroughly, and sold out within half a day. After a few days, spicy crayfish became the signature dish of their food stall; every day brought both returning regulars and new customers eager to try it, and business soared.

Zhao Zejun had no intention of making money from Junzi. The crayfish business was profitable but easy to imitate—soon enough, others would catch on, and competition would be fierce. Besides, whatever Junzi’s family earned was probably not even enough for his mother’s medical expenses; there was no real cure for her lung disease, only ongoing treatment.

“If you’ve got the money, hire someone to help out. Your mother’s lungs are already weak—no need to expose her to all that smoke from the barbecue and make things worse,” Zhao Zejun advised.

“She said she’d hire someone once business stabilizes,” Junzi replied.

Junzi was quick on his feet. He hopped onto Jiang Xuan’s motorbike and soon returned with a large foam box, several big lunch containers packed with various marinated dishes, a huge box of spicy crayfish, and a case of beer hanging from the handlebars.

The construction crew gathered in the courtyard, enjoying their lunch in the midday sun.

Zhao Zejun wasn’t much of a drinker. After toasting a few rounds with the workers, he set his glass aside. The men were especially intrigued by the spicy crayfish—it wasn’t just a dish for women, but also a perfect accompaniment to beer.

In the midst of their meal, a man appeared at the gate. “Well, I could smell something good from the street! Boss Zhao, you’re eating well today!”

It was Ren Jifu. Even during the New Year, he wore his tattered army coat. He swaggered into the courtyard, plopped down beside the small table, grabbed a pair of disposable chopsticks, and helped himself to a generous piece of pig’s head meat. He even poured himself a drink.

Jiang Xuan and the others stared, startled by the man’s shamelessness, but assumed he must be an acquaintance of Zhao Zejun and said nothing.

Zhao Zejun kicked Ren Jifu from behind. “Hey, who told you to eat?”

Ren Jifu caught himself with his hand and grinned cheekily. “Well, timing is everything, Boss Zhao. I sold you my house, didn’t I? What’s wrong with letting me have a few bites of your pig’s head?”

As he spoke, he deftly pulled a high-end cigarette from the table, lit one, and tried to pocket the remaining half-pack into his coat.

The workers looked furious. Those cigarettes were meant for everyone—a kind of communal property. Stuffing them into his own pocket was nothing short of shameless.

“If you dare take those cigarettes, I’ll chop your hand off,” Zhao Zejun said, his face darkening.

Jiang Xuan realized that Zhao Zejun had no connection to this man at all. She casually picked up an empty beer bottle, smiling as she eyed Ren Jifu’s head, as though considering where it would hurt most to strike.

Ren Jifu’s mouth twitched; he put the cigarettes back, jumped up, and backed into a corner. “What, ganging up on me just because you have numbers? Boss Zhao, don’t think a few migrant workers can scare me. I’ve got friends on the street, you know—”

“Enough nonsense. What do you want?” Zhao Zejun interrupted.

“See, that’s more like it. Listen, buying my house was a smart move,” Ren Jifu said, surveying the building materials in the yard. “Tsk, tsk. You’re clever. Add a few extensions to this courtyard and it’s five suites. I really sold at a loss!”

“It’s all there in black and white. Even if I built ten suites, it’s none of your business. What are you really here for?” Zhao Zejun pressed.

“Fine, fine. I was unlucky to sell. Boss Zhao, I’ve got a deal for you. You’re looking to buy property in the village, right? I know of a place for sale. Interested?”

“Oh, so you want to cut your brother, the agent, out and take the commission for yourself?” Zhao Zejun asked with a smirk.

Ren Jifu pretended not to hear the sarcasm. “Business is business. He charges a three-percent fee—I won’t charge you a cent.”

Zhao Zejun laughed. “What is it today, National Day of Good Deeds? Fine, take me to see it.”

Jiang Xuan exchanged a look with Junzi. Junzi stood up. “Brother, I’ll go with you.”

“Look at you, so timid. If I wanted to trick you, I wouldn’t show up myself; I’d send a few thugs. Relax, I really have a house for you,” Ren Jifu said, swaggering toward the gate. As he passed the table, he snatched the half-pack of cigarettes and dashed out of the yard.

“I’ve never met anyone so shameless in my life,” Jiang Xuan said, half laughing in exasperation.

“Remember him—his name’s Ren Jifu,” Zhao Zejun said with a cryptic smile, patting Jiang Xuan on the shoulder before striding out with Junzi.

They followed Ren Jifu through the winding village paths and arrived at a house near the well in Gaogang Village.

Inside lived an elderly couple, so old their backs were permanently bent. The old man leaned on a cane; his left leg was missing below the knee. The old woman supported him, staring blankly at the young men before her.

“Boss Zhao, no commission from me. You still pay twenty-five thousand, but let me do the talking,” Ren Jifu said.

Zhao Zejun thought, you’re saying this right in front of the sellers, do you really take them for fools?

Then he realized—the couple was hard of hearing.

Ren Jifu sat right in the middle of the room and shouted at the old man, “Old Wang, you want to sell your house, right? I brought the buyer!”

“Oh, yes! That’s right! It’s too damp in the village—my legs hurt. Sell the house, and we’ll buy a small place in the city,” the old man shouted back.

“Listen, your house is in terrible shape, and someone even died here. It’s unlucky! I had to work hard to convince the boss to come. Don’t get greedy and ask for too much.”

The old woman, realizing Zhao Zejun was the buyer, shuffled over with a trembling hand and offered him a glass of water. “Please, have some water!” she shouted.

Zhao Zejun took the glass, warming his hands rather than drinking, and glanced around the room.

The family was poor; the only modern item was a radio. The most striking thing was a small glass frame on the wall, holding a faded certificate.

At first, Zhao Zejun thought it was a school award. He squinted to make out the blurred characters—only a few were still visible.

“…Korean Aid… Volunteer Army… Third-Class Merit… Special Commendation…”

Zhao Zejun suddenly turned to stare at the old man’s missing leg, his face growing grim.

Ren Jifu was still raving, spittle flying. “This house is terrible. After all my work, the boss finally agreed to pay twenty thousand, not a cent more. We’re all neighbors—I won’t charge commission. Just give me a few hundred yuan for my trouble!”

“Twenty thousand…” The couple looked at each other, calculating whether, with their savings, it would be enough to buy a small place in the city.

“I don’t want this house,” Zhao Zejun said harshly, glaring at Ren Jifu. “You never mentioned someone died here!”

With that, he strode out of the house.