Chapter Forty: The Fool Who Pays

The elderly couple stood frozen in place. Ren Jifu hurried after them, scurrying as he spoke, “Boss Zhao, don’t go! I was just trying to drive their price down, that's all. Sure, someone died related to this house, but that was decades ago—and it didn’t even happen inside. That unlucky couple had a son, about three or four years old, who was playing by the well and fell in and drowned. Boss Zhao, listen, this house is actually a good deal. The owners had no other children, no relatives or friends. If you buy it, there will be no strings attached, no one to come looking for trouble…”

“What are you implying? Are you saying this house comes with a heap of problems, and I should be prepared for someone to show up at my door every other day?” Zhao Zejun suddenly stopped, turned, and squinted at Ren Jifu.

Junzi stepped forward, expression unchanged, and angled himself slightly behind Ren Jifu.

Ren Jifu hesitated, then quickly said, “Boss Zhao, you’ve misunderstood me. I was just trying to help you out, and maybe make a little money for myself, that’s all.”

Zhao Zejun stared at him for over ten seconds before suddenly breaking into a smile.

“Alright, let’s leave it at that. This house is just too unlucky. I’m not looking to buy property right now anyway. If I ever am, you can keep an eye out for me, alright? I have something else to do—I'll be on my way.”

His attitude shifted completely. Ren Jifu, no fool, scowled and said, “Boss Zhao, are you just brushing me off?”

Zhao Zejun smiled and left with Junzi.

“Damn it, a few lousy bucks and he thinks he’s something! One of these days I’ll clean him out!” Ren Jifu muttered bitterly.

On the way back, Zhao Zejun gave Junzi a few instructions: “Remember that old couple just now? If you see anyone trying to buy their house, do what you can to ruin the deal.”

Junzi didn’t ask why. He simply nodded and agreed.

There’s some money he’s willing to make, even if it means taking risks, but some money is better left untouched. He feared that if he took money like that, he’d never sleep easy again, his wife would run off with someone else, and he’d never have peace of mind. As for the old couple’s house, as long as it wasn’t sold, in less than half a year, once the area was slated for demolition, it would naturally become a sixty-square-meter apartment in the city, with two or three years’ rent subsidy to boot.

“And that guy from earlier—if he comes back, don’t bother being polite,” Zhao Zejun added.

“Got it.”

Perhaps Heaven has eyes. He had just given up on a house, and on the last day of winter vacation, Ren Bida called.

As expected, after the New Year, the real estate market gradually picked up, and two more properties came up for sale.

“How’s your cousin doing these days? Still winning at the casino?” Zhao Zejun asked casually on the way to view the houses with Ren Bida.

“Winning? He lost seventy thousand, cleaned himself out. No place to live, so now he just works at the casino, helping them run scams every day. I’ve washed my hands of him. Honestly, if he got hit by a car walking down the street, it’d be a blessing—save him from hurting anyone else.”

After saying this, he glanced at Zhao Zejun. “He hasn’t caused you any trouble, has he?”

“No, not at all,” Zhao Zejun replied with a smile.

“That’s good. Boss Zhao, if he ever steps out of line, don’t go easy on him for my sake. I don’t consider him family.”

As they talked, they arrived at the seller’s home.

The first seller was a young couple. They planned to leave for Shenzhen after the New Year and didn’t intend to return. It was a spacious apartment, two bedrooms and a living room, asking thirty-five thousand, but finally agreed on thirty thousand.

The deal went smoothly. It seemed the couple had long since had their fill of Gaogang Village’s harsh environment; they felt no attachment or reluctance and signed the contract, completed the paperwork, and left with the money without a second thought.

The second seller was an old man living alone.

After the incident with the volunteer soldier, Zhao Zejun had drawn a line for himself: he would not buy homes from elderly people with no family. Young people sold to build a better future, but for the elderly, their house was their future. Buying such a home was just too heartless.

But this time, it wasn’t as he had expected.

The old man was a silversmith, never married, no children, and now, with his health failing, he didn’t want to die in the city. He planned to sell the house and return to his hometown, to come full circle.

“These days, young people in the city buy their jewelry from big stores. My craft is a lost art, what a shame…”

The old man was still spry, a bit of a talker, and kept muttering about how his silversmith skills had been passed down for generations, and how he was letting his ancestors down by letting the art die with him.

“Alright, old timer, even if your craft is one of a kind in the world, the house price is still the house price,” Ren Bida said cheerfully.

“Money is nothing!” the old man retorted stubbornly.

Zhao Zejun couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course, sir. I have your twenty-five thousand right here. Would you like to count it?”

He might say money is nothing, but once he had it in hand, the old man licked his fingers and counted it over and over, four or five times in total.

Zhao Zejun understood then: money might be nothing, but the old man sure liked the smell of it.

After counting, the old man waved them off. “Wait here a moment.”

He turned and went into the back room, returning with a cloth bag.

He tossed it on the table, and the sound of metal clinking rang out.

The old man tipped the bag over, and with a flourish, a pile of shiny coins spilled out—twenty or thirty of them.

“What are these?” Zhao Zejun asked curiously, picking one up.

The coin was green and tarnished, with the profile of a bald man on one side.

Silver dollars, known as “Yuan Big Heads,” were currency from the Beiyang government and the Republic era, made mostly of silver. Due to their historical and material value, and the limited number minted, they had become prized collectibles.

“I can see you’re a man of means. These things—well, I can’t take them with me when I die. I’ll leave them all to you,” the old man said, holding up three fingers.

“Sir, you’re pretty trendy—giving me the OK sign?” Zhao Zejun grinned. Was he really being offered such a deal?

“OK, nothing! Three thousand yuan for the lot, a bargain for you. Three thousand, take them all. I’m sorry, ancestors—I’m selling all the good stuff,” the old man muttered.

Zhao Zejun had a fair idea of the value of these coins. Zhao Tao had a few “three-year” Yuan Big Heads; each could sell for one or two hundred yuan. Even if this pile wasn’t worth three thousand, it wouldn’t be too much of a loss, and his father liked them, so he could bring them home for him to enjoy.

He was about to pay, but Ren Bida tugged at his sleeve.

“A word in private.”

At the door, Ren Bida smiled and said, “Buddy, don’t be the sucker here. That old fellow isn’t just a silversmith—he’s a forger. He’s well-known around these parts for it. That pile of Yuan Big Heads is probably fake.”