Chapter 67: 67, Chivalrous Men Often Come From Butchers, Prepare For Danger In Times Of Peace
Fang Wen, dressed in a long gown, left his residence and strolled down the street. Along the way, many people, whether he knew them or not, greeted him proactively, and Fang Wen smiled in response.
With the establishment of Taishan Airlines, the Northeast Eight Great Families finally gained a foothold in Shanghai. People from the Northeast Eight Great Families arrived successively from Beiping and were all arranged to live in this area.
This place was in the suburbs with cheap houses, many of which had been bought outright or leased long-term by Bada Company, making it the best place to settle them.
The small tavern ahead was a frequent spot for people from Taishan Airlines and Bada Company. It was also the place agreed upon to meet Sun Debiao tonight, and moreover, the location specified by that mysterious person for the meeting.
Fang Wen lifted the cloth curtain and entered the tavern.
The attendant greeted him with a full smile: “General Manager Fang, you’re here. The usual spot, right? Someone has already arrived.”
“Is that so.” Fang Wen removed his wide-brimmed hat and scarf, handed them to the attendant to hang on the coat rack at the door, and walked over by himself.
The usual spot the attendant mentioned was the window seat inside the tavern—neither stuffy nor noisy, quite quiet.
It was his fixed seat for gatherings with friends and colleagues here.
Four people were already seated there ahead of time, with some cold dishes on the table, chatting idly.
Sun Debiao, Shopkeeper Liu, Howard, and a Boeing mechanic named Paul who didn’t understand Chinese.
Basically, Sun Debiao and Shopkeeper Liu spoke in Chinese, while Howard and Paul spoke in English, each carrying on their own conversations.
Only when Fang Wen arrived did these four have a common topic.
Fang Wen sat down. “Why haven’t you ordered dishes? Old Liu, you order.”
“Waiting for you.” Shopkeeper Liu smiled and waved, waiting for the attendant to come over, then ordered two pounds of braised beef and a few local stir-fried dishes.
Of course, wine couldn’t be absent in a tavern. Sun Debiao took out a bottle and placed it on the table.
“This is Fengxiang Shaoxiu bought from Fuyang. I hear it’s smooth-tasting, perfect for letting Paul have some too.”
Fang Wen took it to look.
The bottle read: Xijing specialty, Fengxiang Shaoxiu. Wards off cold in winter, prevents plague in summer. Ideal for home, travel, entertaining guests, weddings, betrothals, and gifting.
The advertising slogan was quite amusing.
Just didn’t know how the shaoxiu tasted.
He had the attendant take the wine to warm it up.
Soon, the wine was warmed, the dishes were served, and the five each poured a cup. They didn’t clink glasses but sipped slowly.
This wine was indeed very smooth. Paul, not much of a drinker, had no reaction after drinking it.
Drinking wine, eating dishes, the chat began.
“Shopkeeper Liu, these days our Taishan Airlines must have made quite a bit of money, right?” Sun Debiao asked bluntly.
As Taishan Airlines’ chief accountant, Shopkeeper Liu naturally knew the company’s operational cash flow, but such matters were only convenient to share with Fang Wen, not others.
He responded vaguely: “Mm, of course it’s going great.”
Then he changed the topic: “Now that people from our Eight Great Families have all come over, the patriarchs want to build another foundation in Shanghai. The manpower temporarily staying here will soon be busy.”
“Doing what?” Fang Wen asked.
Before Shopkeeper Liu could answer, Sun Debiao cut in eagerly.
“Of course, the old trades. Fuchanglong’s trade, Taihexing’s silk, Deshenglong’s medicinal materials, Tongqinghe’s tea and wine, Juyuan Cheng’s silver and money, Fusunxing’s department store, Ruifengxiang’s furs, Shuntaihe’s porcelain.”
“Can’t.” Shopkeeper Liu shook his head. “The foundations of those businesses are all outside the passes. This time, the patriarchs want to emulate Taishan Airlines and do another deal—open a transportation company.”
“What transportation company?” Fang Wen asked in surprise.
“Ferry. We’re negotiating. If we buy it, we’ll be busy.” Shopkeeper Liu replied.
Fang Wen wanted to speak but held back.
This deal might seem good to the Eight Great Families, but in Fang Wen’s view, not necessarily.
In a few years, Shanghai would fall, and the ferry business would inevitably be greatly affected.
Ferries unlike airlines with such high profits, wouldn’t recoup investment without several big years, and by then the Eight Great Families would likely suffer heavy losses.
Airlines were different—airplanes could be relocated anytime to open new routes elsewhere, and they were vital transport tools in wartime, no need to worry.
But such words couldn’t be said.
Couldn’t very well advise the Eight Great Families: Don’t open a ferry company, the Japanese will occupy Shanghai in five years and invade China comprehensively?
He shook off the thoughts. Fang Wen offered no opinion on it, instead pouring another cup of wine and savoring it slowly.
Time passed bit by bit, slowly reaching past nine at night.
Shopkeeper Liu, unable to hold his liquor, excused himself first. Sun Debiao stood to see him off.
Then Howard and Paul also left.
Only Fang Wen remained in the small tavern.
The tavern boss came over, full of smiles: “Mr. Fang, you’re in high spirits today.”
Fang Wen glanced at the mechanical watch on his right wrist: “Another plate of braised beef, two meat stir-fried dishes, and tidy up here.”
“You have another guest? Right away.”
Immediately, the tavern boss went back to work, and the attendant came to clear the table remnants.
Once tidied, the newly ordered dishes were served again.
Fang Wen sat there silently waiting.
Past ten o’clock, but the other party hadn’t shown. He prepared to get up and leave.
This time, the tavern’s cloth curtain was pulled open.
A man of short stature, wearing a baseball cap, hands in his pockets, head down, walked in.
“Hello.” Before the attendant finished, the man had already walked straight to Fang Wen and sat down.
The atmosphere was a bit odd. The tavern boss hurriedly pulled the attendant to retreat to the inner room.
Fang Wen sized up the man before him, overlapping with memories from a month ago.
In terms of build, it matched. Appearance? Hard to tell—the man’s baseball cap brim blocked his face.
“Who are you?” he asked probing.
The other man was blunt, picking up the wine bottle to pour himself a cup, downed it in one gulp, and grabbed two slices of beef.
“Meat’s average, wine’s good.” He removed his baseball cap and said with a straight face: “Green Gang Hui generation Zhao Jiu.”
The meaning was that the other was from Shanghai’s Green Gang. Fang Wen felt slightly disappointed.
Yet he smiled, raising his cup.
“Thanks for the timely early warning that day. I’ll drink first as respect.”
Only then did Zhao Jiu’s expression ease. He clinked cups with Fang Wen, then proactively explained the situation from then.
“That day, I was heading to Zhabei to run a scheme, to get some spending money from the East Ocean Brothel. The person was already dazed, about to succeed, when suddenly two more arrived.”
The matter wasn’t complicated.
Zhao Jiu was Green Gang, but that job wasn’t assigned by them.
Though he had rank in the Green Gang, he made his living on his own.
Day to day, he was active around Zhabei, doing petty thefts, scams, and cons.
Just like that day, he and his accomplice drugged a courtesan in the East Ocean Brothel, about to steal something.
But unexpectedly, two more came outside—one hiding on the roof, one behind the bed.
These two thought the woman inside was asleep, unguardedly conversing, occasionally slipping in some Japanese in their words.
Zhao Jiu, long mixing in Zhabei, knew their origins: an organization called the Black Dragon Society, mostly Japanese ronin fluent in the national language.
Originally paid no mind, just waiting for these two to leave to grab the money and slip away.
But later, he overheard their talk involving assassinating Fang Wen at Shiliupu, and for some reason, got the idea to report it.
That led to what happened that day.
Hearing the other’s account, Fang Wen felt emotional inside.
He’d thought he was saved by some organization, but it turned out to be an ordinary Green Gang thug.
Fitting the half-line: Righteousness often from butchers and dog-slayers.
He unhesitatingly took off his valuables and gave them to Zhao Jiu, promising heavy thanks later.
The other cupped fists in refusal: “Zhao Jiu knows the score. I’ll accept this favor. Later, I can say I went against the Japanese and saved an air combat hero. Taking your money—what’s that?”
Since the other said so, Fang Wen no longer pressed, cupping fists in return: “Then I’ll accept this favor too. If you have troubles later, come find me anytime.”
The other was a bit touched, cupping fists to his brow again, said nothing, turned, and left.
Watching Zhao Jiu’s departing back, Fang Wen pondered one thing.
In this war-torn era, for safety, it wasn’t just supernatural ability—needed reliable people around to protect one’s safety.
