Chapter 5: I’m Very Much A Coward When It Comes To My Life
The day’s search and arrest ended, and the patrolmen dragged their tired bodies back home.
Naturally, they found nothing, except for a small portion who were mad for money and desperate for promotion; the vast majority just slacked off whenever they could.
Those who slacked off slacked off, those who took the chance to eat, take, obstruct, and demand did so; who really took searching for anti-Japanese elements to heart?
It was already completely dark, and when Cao Weida and Duomen casually grabbed a bite at a snack stall and returned to the courtyard.
“Man, you didn’t make less today, huh.” Entering the house, Duomen glanced at Cao Weida’s pocket and teased.
Cao Weida patted his pocket, making a crisp clinking sound, and chuckled, “Nothing gets past you; yeah, I did make a little windfall.”
Taking some oil water on the side during searches had already become an unwritten rule.
They were already bearing the bad reputation, so if they didn’t pocket some real benefits for themselves, wouldn’t that be too much of a loss?
Many patrolmen were the sole breadwinners supporting a whole family on that salary; what could that pittance do? Naturally, they had to scrounge for some extra cash.
The money scraped from searches was really nothing to him, but he couldn’t afford to stand out as the exception.
Everyone else takes, and you’re the only one who doesn’t; if you’re not the problem, who is?
Didn’t you see even Duomen takes when it’s time to take?
But deep down, he was already cursing; compared to this bit of harvest, he cared more about his slacking points!
All day today, he only gained three slacking points!
His system was hilarious; work time was calculated by later generations’ statutory hours: only eight hours a day, twenty-two days a month.
Gaining only three slacking points today meant he lost five slacking points!
It pained him sorely.
“No, I have to think of a way; it’s really too disruptive to my slacking.” He thought to himself.
“Man, take it easy; some folks we can’t afford to mess with.”
Cao Weida nodded, “Don’t worry, Master Duo; I’m no fool, and neither are they in business. A little money for peace and quiet, and we didn’t ask for much.”
The saying goes, easy to deal with the king of hell, hard to deal with the little devils.
Those who do big business are all very well-informed.
This time it was arresting anti-Japanese elements; they didn’t want any trouble.
Cao Weida still had a conscience; he never reached into ordinary people, only those running casinos, tobacco shops, pleasure houses, and the like.
He wasn’t greedy: ten or eight silver dollars was fine, a hundred or eighty wasn’t too much.
Of course, no one was dumb enough to give a hundred or eighty; most were sent off with three or five silver dollars.
Not much per place, but in quantity, it added up to decent income.
Military scrip?
Even too rough for wiping ass!
（Military scrip, full name military vouchers, used in occupied territory from 1937-1945, a special currency mainly for allocating grain and military supplies, with the primary purpose of plundering wealth and supplies from occupied territory.）
（Due to unlimited issuance, the devaluation was terrifying, depreciating 2 million times from start to finish.）
He wasn’t picky, his attitude warm and amiable; after taking the money, he’d glance around inside and leave, very rule-abiding.
He got the money and was satisfied; they paid and saw he followed the rules, so they were satisfied too—no worries about payback later.
“Master Duo, I’m planning a trip to the black market. Anything you want me to pick up if I see it?”
Night had fallen, the time when all sorts of shady characters came out.
And the black market was their favorite haunt.
After the Japanese Army occupied Beiping, to ensure grain supplies for the Japanese Army and Japanese expatriates, they strictly controlled grain in Beiping.
They set up agencies like the Rice and Grain Control Committee to tightly control import, transport, sales, rationing, and more.
Beiping’s citizens could only use Japanese Army-issued vouchers to get fixed rations of grain made from scraps like bran, wheat bran, soybean dregs, even mixed with pebbles and dirt—”republic flour.”
Additionally, the Japanese Army banned private grain trading, sealed grain and rice shops, strengthened outer blockades, cut off grain supply transportation lines, and forcibly scraped up people’s stored grain.
Those who haven’t lived in this era can never imagine how tough life was for people in occupied territory.
Forget Cao Weida, a transmigrator from modern times; even Beiping folks used to hardship utterly loathed this grain.
But no choice—if you didn’t want to starve, you had to eat it!
And whenever rules were made, they always created interests for some.
There’s a saying from later generations: all ways to make money are in the criminal code—and it applied here too.
Duomen was startled, “You got some courage, kid; daring to swap for grain at a time like this? You trying to get yourself killed?”
The black market was black because the rulers forbade it.
If caught by the little devils, even a cat with nine lives would get executed ten times over!
“Relax, Master Duo; I’m careful, and I value my life.” Cao Weida shrugged, “Mainly, we’re out of grain at home; I really can’t swallow that bran or mixed flour stuff—that’s not fit for humans!”
“What, so you saying I’m not human?” Duomen laughed and cursed, but didn’t argue.
After all, that stuff really wasn’t for humans; these damn little devils were too inhuman, treating their China’s people like livestock!
Hesitating a bit, Duomen nodded,
“Alright then, see if there’s any cornmeal and get half a bag.” Duomen pulled out money while warning, “But be careful; since we didn’t find anything today, there might be little devil military police patrolling tonight—don’t get caught.”
“Don’t worry; you know me—if there’s danger, I’ll be the first to bolt.”
Duomen laughed, “That, I believe.”
Night was hazy, moonless and windy.
Wearing coarse cloth thin jacket and black cloth over his face, Cao Weida sneaked toward the nearby black market.
He’d been to this black market many times; coming from later generations, after choking down bran the first time and nearly smashing the bowl in rage, he’d come every now and then for the past half year.
The black market was in a hutong entrance; outside the hutong entrance, shadowy figures kept vigilant watch on any movement nearby.
These were the black market’s lookouts; for such head-chopping business, someone had to keep careful watch.
People came to buy and sell, and naturally needed safety guarantees; these lookouts provided that.
“Who goes there! What business?”
“Gentlemen, ran out at home; looking to buy some smoked meat—got any today?”
The lookouts knew it was a regular, but still reminded, “Got it; whether or not, see for yourself—get in quick. You know the rules.”
“Know ’em, know ’em; rest easy.”
This was all black talk, used to spot real customers—much like bandits’ code.
In Cao Weida’s view, this crap talk was pretty useless; it just sounded the part, but real value? Who knew.
After all, if real catchers showed up, would this so-called black talk really distinguish?
Doubtful.
Or maybe it was just for the searchers’ ears?
He didn’t care; it wasn’t his business. He just needed to buy grain.
Inside the hutong, it opened into a maze of crisscrossing alleys, winding nine turns and eighteen bends—perfect for escape.
Already quite a few people lurked in corners, standing or squatting in the dark; even haggling was silent, hands in sleeves gesturing—like special agents on a meet.
That was the code: buyers don’t ask sellers’ source, sellers don’t ask buyers’ origin.
Cao Weida wandered around but didn’t buy.
Not that he didn’t want to; he just didn’t see what he wanted.
Half a day of browsing with no action naturally drew notice.
Just as Cao Weida was disappointed and about to leave, someone tugged his sleeve.
“Man, not seeing what you want?”
Cao Weida raised a brow, well-hidden in the dark.
The guy wore a hood, small face wrapped in a scarf—couldn’t see full features.
But he noticed the guy’s ears seemed smaller than average.
Voice deliberately low: “Looking for smoked meat; sparkling stars if not, or at least some air—but none in sight.”
“And you are?”
“They give face on the streets, call me Little Ear; I set up this joint.”
Little Ear?
Cao Weida got it: “So it’s Master Lian; greetings.”
Little Ear Lian Cuihua, a New World hoodlum.
Despite the girly name, he was one of the rare rule-following, righteous, iron-blooded men around Tianqiao.
Because of that, South City hoodlums gave him face; plenty followed him for a living, earning him small boss status.
“You’re too kind, man; what you want is all contraband.”
Cao Weida smirked; if it wasn’t contraband, why bother coming here?
Sensing Cao Weida’s displeasure, Little Ear explained: “Normally there’s not much here, but some; but with today’s incident, no one’s daring to sell contraband these days.”
Cao Weida nodded understandingly; he’d thought of that too. It was already risky; with this mess, everyone valued their life.
“So, still none, huh?”
Jianghu folk prized face most; Little Ear took it as provocation.
“If it’s on the market and you can pay, forget smoked meat or sparkling stars—I can get you white sugar, lard, even old cannon!”
“Man, if you got the courage, follow; if not, go back where you came from.” With that, he ignored Cao Weida and walked off.
Cao Weida grinned; thought he’d go home empty-handed tonight, but surprise harvest!
He immediately followed.
As for being scared? No such thing.
Little Ear’s reputation was solid; he cared most about rep, wouldn’t do anything to ruin it.
Everyone out here sought wealth, not lives.
Worst case, he Cao Weida valued life, but wasn’t a coward.
Think Cao Ye was made of clay?
He moved, and several men nearby followed; Cao Weida noticed but ignored them, knowing they were Little Ear’s younger brothers.
Minutes later, the group reached a remote courtyard; Little Ear pushed the door and entered first.
Cao Weida scanned around, then followed silently.
The men behind followed; the last one gently closed the door.
The house wasn’t big, but warm—clearly a fire burning.
Little Ear sat first on a stool, one foot on the edge, gesturing for Cao Weida to sit.
“Some tea? Just Pu’er; don’t mind it.” Mouth said don’t mind, face smug.
These days, folks couldn’t fill their bellies; most had less than two ounces of grease in their guts—who’d spend on such luxury, or let tea scrape it away?
“Master Lian’s generous; I’ll borrow your light.” Cao Weida smiled, removed his face cloth, picked up the tea, and chugged.
Once here, no need to hide; lest they look down on him.
Little Ear eyed Cao Weida’s face, hesitating: “Brother looks familiar; have we met?”
Cao Weida smiled faintly, “Good memory, Master Lian; I’m patrolman Cao Weida from the Outer Fifth District police station.”
“No wonder so familiar.” Little Ear got it; he didn’t deal much with cops, but living in the area, they’d crossed paths.
Then, his face darkened a bit,
“Brother, when does your searching end? Patrolmen swarming the streets, got us unable to make a living.”
