Chapter 61: Surely We Won't Ruin Boss Yao's Event, Right?

The motorcycle turned off onto Maoling Road.

Ahead, there were two rows of low-rise shopfronts, the buildings somewhat aged, their walls dull and gray, as if relics from the eighties. Though it was past two in the afternoon and the weather was hot, the street bustled with people, especially in front of the “Television Video Tea Room,” where patrons were constantly coming and going.

Seated on the back of the motorcycle, Wang Qiang glanced casually at both sides, easily spotting several shops whose names brimmed with the era’s flavor, such as Grand Suit Sachima, Prosperous Rice Store, and Little Yang’s Vehicle Shop.

“This used to be the market. I’d come here every morning to buy groceries,” Mr. Zhu said, slowing the motorcycle.

The aromas wafting from both sides of the street made Wang Qiang’s stomach rumble; he’d only had a few tea eggs for lunch. He asked offhandedly, “Your friend’s clothing shop is over here. Is business any good?”

“He does a roaring trade,” Mr. Zhu replied, a hint of envy in his tone. “He makes more in a day than I do in my inn… Here we are.” He stopped the motorcycle beside a van, nodding at it. “That’s his car.”

Even owning a van in this era marked a person as well-off.

Climbing off the motorcycle, Wang Qiang looked toward the clothing shop. Above the entrance hung a sign reading “Baihui Fashion.” Inside, racks overflowed with shirts, skirts, and trousers. There were even shoes of all kinds—sneakers and leather shoes—lined up near the door.

The two entered.

The place was spacious, easily over two hundred square meters, not small by any means. Seven or eight customers browsed the racks for clothes.

A bald man in his forties, wearing a black T-shirt and a thick gold chain around his neck—nearly as thick as a thumb—was tending to the customers.

“Old Yao!” Mr. Zhu called.

The bald man turned, “Hey, Old Zhu, what brings you here? Take a seat, I’ll be right with you.”

“Alright.” Mr. Zhu glanced at Wang Qiang. “Let’s sit for a bit.”

“No rush,” Wang Qiang said, following him to take a seat by the counter.

On the counter lay a half-pack of Ashima cigarettes. Mr. Zhu, without a hint of hesitation, took one and began to puff away, even offering one to Wang Qiang.

Wang Qiang politely declined, which revealed the close relationship between Mr. Zhu and Mr. Yao.

“Ma’am, fifteen isn’t expensive at all.”

“Can’t you make it a little cheaper?”

“If I could, I would. How about this—I’ll throw in a pair of socks for you, alright?”

Mr. Yao walked over to the counter with the woman, patting Mr. Zhu on the shoulder, “Let me through.”

Mr. Zhu remained seated, jokingly bumped into him.

Mr. Yao laughed and cursed, slipped behind the counter, took twenty yuan from the woman and put it in the drawer, then handed her five yuan in change. As she walked out, he called after her, “Come again next time, ma’am.”

Once she had left,

Mr. Yao turned to Mr. Zhu, “You want to play cards tonight?” Then he noticed Wang Qiang. “And this young man is?”

Mr. Zhu introduced, “My cousin Wang Qiang. You can call him Xiao Wang.”

Wang Qiang stood up. “Hello, Mr. Yao.”

“Hello. Smoke?” Mr. Yao offered him the Ashima cigarettes.

Wang Qiang smiled and declined. In his previous life, he had smoked, but after getting a second chance, he didn’t want to let nicotine ruin him again. Before his rebirth, he’d been a heavy smoker, unable to quit. Now, not yet addicted, he kept his distance.

“Old Yao,” Mr. Zhu flicked his ash, “I need a favor.”

“We’re brothers, aren’t we? Just say the word,” Mr. Yao replied, lighting a cigarette with a flourish.

“Good, that’s why you’re a true friend.” Mr. Zhu was pleased, gesturing to Wang Qiang.

Understanding, Wang Qiang opened his snakeskin bag and took out two pairs of jeans, placing them on the counter.

As he did, Mr. Yao asked in surprise, “What’s this?”

Mr. Zhu grinned, “My cousin has over a hundred pairs of jeans. He was going to sell them himself, but something urgent came up and he needs to leave town. I wondered if you could help by taking them off his hands.”

Wang Qiang looked at him hopefully. If possible, he’d sell them to Mr. Yao at cost, just to recoup his investment, as he was in a hurry to get more electronics from Deep Town. Having tasted the profits from selling walkmans, he no longer cared for the slow-moving jeans—though slow, only compared to the pace of selling walkmans.

Mr. Yao hesitated, glancing at Mr. Zhu and then at Wang Qiang, visibly conflicted. On one hand, jeans were expensive and not easy to sell; on the other, his friendship with Mr. Zhu was genuine. If he refused, word would get out and he’d be mocked by their circle.

Truthfully, the thought of over a hundred pairs of jeans was intimidating—who knew how long it would take to recoup the cost? He wanted to refuse, but was unsure how to say it.

Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he said, “Over a hundred pairs isn’t a small number. I’d have trouble taking them all…”

Mr. Zhu protested, “Come on, Old Yao, aren’t we brothers?”

“Hey, hear me out,” Mr. Yao said, smoothing things over. “My suggestion is, Xiao Wang leaves the jeans here, and I’ll settle up with him for whatever sells.”

Mr. Zhu frowned, “If you don’t want to…”

Wang Qiang tugged at him, smiling. “Thank you, Mr. Yao.” He sighed inwardly, knowing it was asking too much for Mr. Yao to buy all the jeans outright. But with nowhere else to move them and needing to hurry to Deep Town, it was better to sell them here than let them go to waste, so he agreed.

Mr. Zhu, however, was displeased, standing up angrily. “Thank you? Come on, Xiao Wang, I’ll take you elsewhere.”

Mr. Yao forced a smile, “Old Zhu, don’t be like that. Every brother has his difficulties. You want to take him to Old Ding’s place, right? Frankly, his clothing shop isn’t as good as mine. It’d be a wasted trip.”

Wang Qiang stood up, smiling. “I’m grateful that Mr. Yao is willing to help me sell them. Zhu—cousin, there’s no need to look elsewhere.”

As long as he could find a place for the jeans, he could head to Deep Town tonight. Time was money. The only drawback was that recovering his investment in the jeans might take longer.

Seeing Wang Qiang agree, Mr. Zhu had nothing more to say, though his expression remained sour.

Mr. Yao then asked, “About how many pairs of jeans are there?”

“About a hundred and ten,” Wang Qiang replied, adding, “I brought seven or eight samples for you to look at.”

Whether out of respect for Mr. Zhu or his own decency, Mr. Yao opened the drawer and took out five hundred yuan, pressing it into Wang Qiang’s hand. “This is a deposit. Don’t refuse. Bring all the jeans over later.”

Just as Wang Qiang was about to speak, a young woman in the shop called out, “Boss, can you come here?”

“Coming!” Mr. Yao replied, then said quickly to Wang Qiang, “There’s an empty rack by the door. Put the jeans there and mark the price on the tag with a marker. I’ll take care of the customers.”

With that, Mr. Yao squeezed out from behind the counter and went to attend to the young woman.

Mr. Zhu looked a bit glum.

Wang Qiang noticed and felt grateful for Zhu’s help. Still, these things required mutual consent. Getting five hundred as a deposit was already ideal; he wouldn’t demand more.

With Mr. Yao busy, Wang Qiang placed the seven or eight pairs of jeans on the empty rack by the entrance, took a marker, and prepared to write a price on the blank tag. He considered pricing them lower for a quick sale, but remembering Mr. Yao’s shop also sold jeans, hesitated. In the end, he wrote twenty yuan.

Too low would undercut the shop.

Too high, and he risked slow sales.

Twenty yuan was a fair price, neither too low nor too high—it wouldn’t disrupt the shop and could help promote his own jeans, speeding up his return on investment.

After writing the price, Wang Qiang glanced inside and saw Mr. Yao still busy with customers. He walked over to Mr. Zhu and said, “Mr. Zhu, could I trouble you to come with me again?”

“Old Yao’s not being very fair,” Mr. Zhu grumbled, still upset. He had promised to help Wang Qiang with his problem, but his closest friend had let him down—or at least, he felt let down.

Wang Qiang was more philosophical, smiling, “He’s already helped me a lot, and so have you. Thank you.”

This made Mr. Zhu feel better. “As long as you’re okay with it. Come on, let’s get the jeans, and then I’ll take you to the market for some cooked food. Tonight we’ll have a drink together.”

“No problem. My treat tonight, don’t argue,” Wang Qiang replied. It was only right to treat someone who’d helped so much—favors should go both ways, not just one-sided.

The two left the shop, joking as they went.

As he climbed onto the motorcycle, Wang Qiang glanced back inside. Twenty yuan a pair—hopefully, it wouldn’t undermine Mr. Yao’s business.