roccoschili Chapter 11: The Auntie's Intelligence Network
Chapter 11: The Auntie's Intelligence Network
When Cheng Xiaojin came out of Tieguai Li's basement, it was already completely dark, and the streetlights cast a long shadow of him.
He pedaled his bicycle back, swaying back and forth, those few words going over and over in his mind.
Made in the 22nd year of the Yongle reign.
He bought it for 800 yuan, even though it's 600 years old.
As soon as he turned into the alleyway of Huguosi Street, he saw Tong Kexin standing behind the stove of the braised food stall, waving at him. Her apron was stained with oil, and the large iron ladle in her hand was pointing in his direction.
"Cheng Xiaojin, come here right now."
Cheng Xiaojin pedaled even faster, and in two seconds he darted to the stall, leaning the handlebars against the wall.
"What's wrong? Why are you in such a hurry? Did the stew pot leak, or is someone trying to dine and dash?"
"Please sit down."
Cheng Xiaojin patted the folding chair under his bottom and sat down. Tong Kexin turned around, ladled out a bowl of braised pork belly and placed it in front of him. The pork intestines and lungs were piled high, and she pointed with the handle of the spoon to the convenience store diagonally opposite.
"Around 3 p.m., a man, about 27 or 28 years old, with a buzz cut, came in."
Cheng Xiaojin's hand holding the chopsticks froze in mid-air, and the piece of fatty intestine he had just picked up fell back into the bowl with a thud.
"and then?"
"He sat here and ate a bowl of braised pork, and while he was eating, he tried to get information out of me."
"What are you trying to get information out of me?"
Tong Kexin wiped the oil stains off the edge of the stove with a rag, leaned forward, and lowered her voice.
"First, they asked who lived in this alley. I said all sorts of people lived there—retired people, working people, street vendors—it's the same everywhere."
"He then asked if there was a young man surnamed Cheng living nearby, saying he was a friend of his and they hadn't been in touch for a long time and wanted to catch up."
Cheng Xiaojin put his chopsticks on the bowl, his brows furrowing.
"What did you say?"
Tong Kexin's lips curled up high, and she tapped her head with the handle of a spoon, a smug look on her face.
"I told you there are plenty of people with the surname Cheng in this alley. What's your friend's name, and what does he do for a living?"
"He said his name was Cheng Xiaojin and that he sold antiques at a stall in Panjiayuan. I said I didn't know him, I only sell braised dishes, and I don't know anyone in Panjiayuan."
Cheng Xiaojin gave her a thumbs up.
"Great job, Kexin! It would be a waste of your talent if you didn't go into intelligence work."
"He believed it?"
Tong Kexin pursed her lips and picked up a strainer to stir the stew in the pot.
"Whether he believes it or not, I don't know, but he followed up with two more questions. First, does Cheng Xiaojin often come here to eat? Second, who does he usually associate with?"
Cheng Xiaojin tapped his fingers twice on the edge of the folding table, the rhythm so slow it was as if he were doing some kind of accounting.
"What did you reply?"
"I can't explain the first one clearly. So many people come here to eat braised pork offal, I can't remember who's who. As for the second one, I'd say you must have the wrong person. I really don't know anyone who sells antiques."
"and then?"
"Then he paid the bill and left, glancing back at me as he went."
Tong Kexin draped the rag over her shoulder, raised her chin, and pointed in the direction of the alley entrance.
"Short haircut, dark jacket, an old scar on the web of his right hand, his right shoulder is slightly higher than his left when he walks, so he is probably right-handed and often does manual labor."
Cheng Xiaojin paused for two seconds, then reached up and scratched the back of his head.
"You're so observant?"
"Nonsense. I've been selling braised pork offal at the alley entrance for eight years. Tens of thousands of all sorts of people have passed by me. I can tell who's normal and who's not at a glance. This person isn't normal. He's being too deliberate with his questions. A genuine friend wouldn't ask where I live before asking my name."
Cheng Xiaojin picked up the bowl and drank some hot soup. The chill in his stomach dissipated almost completely, and he connected this matter with what Tieguai Li had said before.
Fatty Sun's men were indeed investigating him; they had already found out where he usually ate.
"besides."
Tong Kexin took out a crumpled tissue from her apron pocket, unfolded it, and saw a few lines of writing scrawled on it with a ballpoint pen.
"After that person left, I went to collect the dishes and found something that had fallen from under the table where he was sitting."
She bent down and took out a folded piece of paper from the iron box under the stove, handing it over with a bit of braising liquid still on the corner.
When Cheng Xiaojin opened it, he saw a handwritten list with messy handwriting, listing five or six names and addresses.
The first line is about Cheng Xiaojin, a stall in the eastern part of Panjiayuan, in a residential community in Fengtai District.
Second line, Li Tiezhu, basement level of Panjiayuan Back Street.
The third line reads: Ma Wenchang, a certain number in a certain alley.
There are a few more lines after that, and each name is followed by a note indicating the relationship with him: friend, mentor, elder.
Cheng Xiaojin held the piece of paper and looked at it for a long time, his fingers creased the edges of the paper.
"Did he drop this?"
"It slipped out of his pocket; he didn't notice it when he left. Or maybe he dropped it on purpose to scare you."
Cheng Xiaojin scoffed, folded the paper, put it in his coat pocket, and pressed the pocket opening to make sure it wouldn't fall out.
"Trying to scare me? Do you think I, Cheng Xiaojin, am easily frightened? If he's so capable, he should come to Panjiayuan and ambush me. Only someone like Fatty Sun would come up with such petty tricks."
"Sister Kexin, can you do me a favor?"
"explain."
"Keep an eye out for any unfamiliar faces wandering around the neighborhood lately, especially in the alley where Master Ma lives and the back street where Tieguai Li lives."
Tong Kexin tapped the edge of the pot with a spoon, making a clanging sound.
"Do you even need to tell me? Aunt Zhang mentioned it to me yesterday, saying that a black van has been parked at the entrance of Ma Ye's alley for two days in a row, with people sitting inside but not getting out, just standing there."
Cheng Xiaojin frowned and leaned forward.
"When did this happen?"
"Yesterday and the day before, around three or four in the afternoon, we stopped for about an hour and then left."
Cheng Xiaojin's heart sank. He hadn't expected Fatty Sun to act so quickly, even eyeing Master Ma's courtyard.
He finished the braised food in the bowl in a few bites, stood up, took out money from his pocket, and after a while, pulled out ten yuan and put it on the table.
Tong Kexin quickly grabbed his hand and stuffed the money back into his pocket.
"This bowl is free."
"That won't do. Your small business isn't easy to run either."
"Don't be so stubborn with me. Save your money and get things done."
She pushed his hand back, turned around and went back behind the stove to work, flicking the rag with her back to him.
"Just don't let anything serious happen."
Cheng Xiaojin stood in front of the braised pork stall, watching her busy figure. He wanted to say something to thank her, but he opened his mouth and didn't say anything. He turned around and got on his bicycle.
After returning to his rented room, he squatted under the bed and rummaged through the old wooden box left by his grandfather.
The box is made of camphor wood and is quite old; the hinges are rusted, and it takes some effort to open it each time.
With a strong pull, he pried open the box lid with a click.
Inside were several yellowed handwritten notebooks, some in my grandfather's neat, square regular script, filled with his insights on antique appraisal, such as how to look for rust on bronzes, the bottom of porcelain, and patina on jade—scattered and unsystematic.
The handwriting on some pages is different; the strokes are harder and heavier, unlike Grandpa's handwriting.
Cheng Xiaojin had flipped through these notes before, but hadn't looked at them carefully. Today, she flipped through them again and found a folded piece of paper in the lining of one of the notebooks.
The paper strip was very small, folded twice, and the paper was brittle, crumbling at the slightest touch.
He unfolded it carefully.
There were only two words on it, written with a fountain pen.
Keep one.
His father's name.
The handwriting wasn't his grandfather's or his father's. After examining it for a long time, Cheng Xiaojin felt it looked like it was written by a woman, with delicate strokes and curved ends.
The back of the note was blank; there was nothing on it.
"That's strange, who wrote this?"
Cheng Xiaojin muttered something, tucked the note back into the notebook, closed the wooden box, and stuffed it back under the bed.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a while, lost in thought, his mind filled with the names on the tracking list he had just seen.
The phone suddenly rang; it was Tieguai Li.
Cheng Xiaojin took the phone and put it to his ear.
"Hey? Why are you calling in the middle of the night? Did you mess up your metalwork or is your basement leaking?"
"Counterfeit goods are basically a done deal, but there's a problem."
Tieguai Li's voice came through the receiver, with the humming of a grinding wheel in the background.
"It's so well done that I almost couldn't tell the difference between real and fake."
Cheng Xiaojin chuckled, leaned back on the edge of the bed, and crossed his legs.
"Isn't this a good thing? Your skills are truly well-deserved. Once this is done, I'll treat you to braised pork offal for a month, with plenty of pork intestines."
"That's good, but if you can't tell the difference when the goods are delivered, it'll cause a huge mess. You need to come and make the final mark, the kind that only you can recognize."
Cheng Xiaojin put his legs down and reached into the inner pocket of his coat to press the list.
"Okay, I'll go first thing tomorrow morning."
After hanging up the phone, he walked to the window, lifted the curtain, and looked outside.
Under the streetlight downstairs, stood a man in a dark jacket, with a buzz cut, a cigarette between his fingers, looking up in the direction of his floor.