Chapter 42 I’m So Poor I Have to Sell My Cell Phone

Smack! Smack! Smack! Chai Jin landed several loud slaps across the man’s face, then seized his head and shoved it straight into a nearby trash bin. Inside the bin was a reeking mix of household garbage from the neighborhood, the stench of urine left by mischievous children passing by the previous night, and phlegm spat by various aunties—utterly revolting.

The same aunties who had just been egging the young man on with the loudest jeers now fell silent in unison. They pretended as if nothing had happened, resumed their orderly place in line, and didn’t spare another glance in that direction.

After forcing the permed-headed youth into the bin, Chai Jin lit a cigarette and said coldly, “Still got a foul mouth?”

It took quite some time before the young man managed to scramble out, thoroughly cowed. “No, I don’t dare anymore. I’m sorry, I just lost my head… My girlfriend is waiting for my call.”

“Brother, I know I was wrong.”

Chai Jin looked him over darkly. “Go wash your hair. You can’t go see your girlfriend like this; you reek.”

“Oh, right. Thanks for the advice.”

“Anything else?”

“No, nothing.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

“Alright, take care.”

Chai Jin glanced at his watch, turned, and strode out of the alley, hailing a taxi with an air of nonchalance.

No sooner had Chai Jin left than the permed youth began his posturing, cursing up a storm as if he could devour Chai Jin alive. Yet even as he ranted, his hand unconsciously reached up to his hair. Instinctively, he brought his fingers to his nose.

Gag!

“Who’s the filthy animal that pissed in the trash bin?! In such an international metropolis, to have something so uncivilized and inhumane happen—aren’t we just disgracing our country on the world stage?!”

The people nearby looked at him as if he were a fool.

…

The distance from Jing’an to Fudong was considerable. In 1992, Fudong District was still a desolate place—regarded as the countryside by the old locals of Zhonghai. Much of the journey was along dirt roads, and the dust kicked up by roaring trucks was suffocating.

Up front, the driver grumbled nonstop about how he shouldn’t have accepted this fare.

Chai Jin sat in the back, gazing out the window at the bleak landscape, his heart churning with emotion. Who could have foreseen that this district, once dismissed as the backwaters, would become one of the most prosperous areas in the nation after so many years?

After a bumpy ride, the taxi finally rattled its way through the rough roads to the designated spot.

After paying the fare, the driver muttered, “This trip cost me dearly—just washing the car will cost more than the fare!” Muttering complaints, he floored the accelerator and sped away, his rear tires leaving a cloud of dust behind.

Chai Jin waved the dust away from his nose, squinting as he peered through the haze and saw the neon sign for “Dreamlike Club” flashing across the street. He crossed over and went inside.

Business was booming within, despite it being only five or six in the evening. Inside, young men and women with permed hair and flared pants were already twisting and turning on the dance floor. Overhead, a dazzling, multicolored disco ball spun.

Chai Jin found a seat and ordered some food, watching in silence. One day, he thought, these youths would become the backbone of public square dance troupes.

He waited until half past seven.

At that moment, a man with a prominent belly and a thick beard strode through the door, a massive mobile phone in hand. He wore a big, flashy dress shirt—a favorite among southern men—and was instantly recognized by the staff, who flocked around him, calling out “Boss Cai,” “Mr. Cai” from all sides.

With no other way to escape, the man pulled out a handful of small bills from his pocket, handing them out before the crowd finally dispersed.

Chai Jin recognized him at once—it was Cai Weiqiang. He stood and waved.

Cai Weiqiang, clutching his brick-sized mobile, walked over and sat down, fixing Chai Jin with a stare: “So it really is you.”

“I thought it might be someone trying to set me up again.”

Chai Jin smiled calmly. “Sit down. I have something to discuss.”

Lighting a cigarette, Cai Weiqiang’s eyes still bore that predatory glint, though the aura of hardship he now exuded could not be concealed. Chai Jin asked, “What happened last year?”

Cai Weiqiang sighed, then began to recount his story.

Only then did Chai Jin realize: Cai Weiqiang specialized in black-market stock trading. He didn’t speculate himself; rather, he operated as a black-market exchange. You’d buy or sell stocks through him, and he’d take a cut of the commission.

These black-market deals were everywhere before official exchanges were established. The authorities were still “crossing the river by feeling the stones,” and the incomplete legal system gave men like Cai their chance.

But at the end of last year, new regulations were issued—one of which was a crackdown on black-market trading. As a result, they were all rounded up and many were sentenced.

Cai Weiqiang, thanks to certain connections, managed to get pulled out. He was free, but most of his assets had been confiscated.

In those days, with little market experience, the rules were far from perfect. Many seized the opportunity for overnight riches—earning in a day what ordinary folks couldn’t dream of in a lifetime. But if they didn’t pull out in time, when proper laws came into force, whatever ill-gotten gains remained would be slowly reclaimed.

Such was the character of the 1980s and 90s.

In the end, subscription certificates inevitably wound up in black-market circulation. Chai Jin needed Cai Weiqiang’s underworld connections and liquidity—this was why he had sought him out. However, he didn’t mention the certificates yet; if Cai Weiqiang got involved, the capital behind the scenes would become too substantial.

As Cai Weiqiang vented his frustrations, he grew increasingly agitated: “Do you know how I used to support my friend’s club here?”

“Every time I walked in, I’d tip every staff member a hundred bucks! And now? All I’ve got in my pocket are a few measly bills.”

“And you called just in time today—this mobile, I was about to pawn it for six thousand. The buyer is coming tomorrow. If you’d called a day later, you wouldn’t have found me.”

“You’ve fallen that far?” Chai Jin regarded him coolly.

“I can’t even afford to eat. I’m thinking of going back to Guangdong to raise fish,” Cai Weiqiang replied gloomily. Clearly, he’d been through a miserable few months.

Midway through his lament, he suddenly paused. “Right, you mentioned turning things around on the phone—what did you mean?”

Only now did Cai Weiqiang notice the change in Chai Jin. The first time he’d seen him in the restaurant, Chai Jin had looked utterly down and out. But now, there was a new breadth to his presence—a confident, worldly air. His situation had clearly improved.

Chai Jin set down his cup. Though young in appearance, he exuded a wisdom beyond his years. Glancing at the dance floor, he spoke quietly, “Reopen the black-market exchange—do you dare?”

“Are you crazy?” Cai Weiqiang blanched. “Do you know how strict the crackdowns are now?”

“Just yesterday, several of my friends were taken in. It’s only going to get worse. If you keep doing this, you’ll wind up spending the rest of your life inside.”