Chapter Seven: The Great Rogue

The middle-aged man instructed us to stand still while he stepped forward and knocked on the tightly shut dark green door. His knocking was rhythmic—three heavy, two light—a clear signal to those inside. With the sound of bolts being drawn, the door opened inward, revealing two young men dressed in black, fitted clothing. They spoke briefly with the middle-aged man, who nodded toward me and beckoned me inside.

He lingered at the entrance, lighting a cigarette as I followed one of the young men into the courtyard. I noticed Old Rong was kept outside as well, and a sense of foreboding crept over me. The rigorous interrogation I’d managed to avoid at the police station—surely it wouldn’t be happening in this shabby alley.

The young man gestured for me to follow him without a word, leading me into a two-story building in the courtyard, its architecture reminiscent of the Republic era. I trailed obediently behind him, entering directly into a grand theater. Onstage, an elder and a young actress were locked in a dramatic duet. The melody was unfamiliar, but the couplets carved into the wooden pillars flanking the stage caught my eye:

"Study as a lord, study as a son, study as a husband, study as a friend; gather the loyalty, filial piety, and brotherhood of ages, played again and again—who says it’s mere performance?"

"Whether rich or poor, whether joy or anger, whether sorrow or delight; consider the fleeting unions and heartbreaks, scrutinize closely—it’s sure to astonish."

Above, a horizontal plaque read: "Glorious Era's Original Sound."

This was the signboard from Guanghe Theater, one of Beijing’s three great opera houses. I’d heard of it, though never seen it myself. My father, a veteran opera enthusiast at the retirement home, often sang a few lines at home and, before his stroke, enjoyed going to Guanghe and Huayue Theaters for amateur performances. So I had some familiarity.

Following the young man, we circled the stage almost in time with the rhythm of the gongs, ascending to the second-floor balcony. The corridor was broad and somber, green-shaded lamps overhead, thick red carpet underfoot—so plush that even a firecracker tossed onto it wouldn’t make a sound.

Soon, we reached a private room marked with the character "Bamboo" in ancient script. The young man bowed, knocked three times. "Third Master, the guest is here."

The wooden door swung open, and an elderly man in a black Zhongshan suit approached, smiling. "You’re the Bai family’s boy?"

"Yes," I replied.

The young man stepped back, closing the door tightly as the elder studied me with a kindly smile. "So young. Do you enjoy opera?"

"I’ve listened, but don’t really understand it," I answered.

He chuckled, eyes twinkling. "Young people should have their own amusements. This performance of ‘The Execution of Chen Shimei’ is almost over. Have some tea, and we’ll discuss the rest after they’ve chopped off Chen Shimei’s head."

He didn’t wait for me to reply, but led me to a window-side table and fell silent, eyes fixed on the stage.

The room was empty, save for us. I picked up the glass teacup—at least two centuries old—and hesitated to drink. This elaborate setup in Liuzixiang, such secrecy about the purpose, left me unprepared.

"They’re about to execute him," the elder murmured. Onstage, the actor playing Chen Shimei was pushed to the execution block; the bright blade flashed before his head, and Judge Bao sang his final lines. The curtain fell.

The elder saw me exhale, and smiled. "Don’t be nervous. I called you here to ask a favor."

"Please, if it’s within my ability, I’ll do my utmost," I replied.

He waved a hand. "Just a small task. As a descendant of the 'Flower-list Chronicles,' it shouldn’t be difficult."

Before I could respond, he produced a jade pendant depicting a maiden tossing a pot, setting it on the table. I glanced at it and said, "Dog-blood staining."

He smiled. "How can you tell?"

I drew a deep breath, pointing to a streak of red on the jade. "You see, dog-blood stained pieces always have clotted spots at the edges. If you look closely, it’s like knots tied on a straw rope—easy to recognize."

"Not valuable?"

I replied politely, "Normally, those trying to imitate blood jade should use the traditional oil-infusion method: ideally, the old method, or at least the new. Jade is buried for ten years, then worn close to the body for another ten, then reburied. That’s how true blood jade threads form. Modern dog-blood staining fools only novices—sold as fakes, they fetch poor prices."

Oil-infusion was the ancient technique for coloring jade: ‘old’ in the Song, ‘new’ in the Ming, and in modern times, dog blood is used—thick and cheap.

The elder hadn’t expected me to identify it so quickly, and laughed. "Without reference, without boiling the jade, just by sight you know all this. It seems the descendants of the Flower-list Chronicles do have real talent."

I nodded, not denying it.

"Since I’ve shown you this piece, shouldn’t you tell me your full name?"

He laughed heartily. "You really won’t let yourself be shortchanged!"

"Small business, hardly worth comparing with someone of your stature," I said.

He nodded, met my gaze for a moment, then spoke. "My surname is Jin. Friends in the trade call me Third Master."

"Jin Zhenbang—Master Jin?"

I stared at him, wishing I could just leave.

Tianjin, with its river port culture, bred a host of streetwise toughs and petty hoodlums—ranging from the common thugs with thick gold chains and rings (called 'zazi' here), flaunting valuables and brands, real or fake, just to show off wealth.

But remember, the true kingpins are gentlemen.

They wear cloth shoes with thousand-layer soles from Hengliansheng, cotton socks; their clothes are coarse cloth or silk, carrying a small fan like a scholar. No rings or watches—because their status is upper-class. They deal with officials, bankers, financiers, discussing business and international affairs, from the old society to today, unchanged.

Before the founding of the People's Republic, the most famous Tianjin kingpin was Jin Yaowei. He carried a two-inch paper slip—whoever's name was on it died the next day. He was a household name, but no one feared him; no one knew his face, not even his neighbors. He bought Tianjin’s first car, but at night, he’d get off two alleys away and walk home so as not to disturb anyone’s rest.

And Jin Zhenbang—this man before me—was Jin Yaowei’s younger brother, the guardian of Tianjin’s underground order, the current patriarch of the thieves’ guild.

Never in my life had I imagined crossing paths with such a figure—let alone sitting in a private room, appraising goods for him.

And I couldn’t fathom how Jin Yitiao could have ended up in his hands. This could be deadly.

Seeing my unease, Third Master Jin waved grandly. "No matter. You’ve seen the item; I have another question."

"Please, Master Jin," I replied, gathering myself.

"This blood jade—how much do you know?" he asked.

I thought carefully, choosing my words. "In the trade, blood jade is also called ‘blood-stained.’ It’s typically associated with corpses. When a deceased is buried, a jade piece is forced into the mouth. If the person has just died, the last breath carries the jade into the throat, into the blood vessels. Left for a thousand years, the dead blood permeates, threads run to the jade’s heart, forming brilliant blood jade. To make it priceless, after a century, it’s dug up, worn close to the body for ten years, then buried again with a living person, repeating the cycle several times. Only then does flawless blood jade emerge."

Third Master Jin nodded approvingly. "As a descendant of the Flower-list Chronicles, have you ever seen genuine blood jade?"

"Our shop is small, profits thin—never handled such treasures."

"I haven’t seen one either. A while ago, someone brought me a piece—still a fake. Isn’t that infuriating?"

Catching the meaningful look in his eyes, my heart skipped. I gritted my teeth and asked, "The person who brought you the item—was it Jin Yitiao?"