The Little Shopkeeper of Black Street

When I was nineteen, my father died, leaving me a crumbling general store and a mountain of debts that could get me killed.

Brother Tiger’s men blocked the doorway and slapped the ledger down on the table. “Eighty silver dollars. Pay up, or pay with your life.”

I bowed and smiled obsequiously, then turned around and planted a trap in their shoes.

On this black street, where people devour one another without a trace, I learned three things:

Read people down to their bones. Do things in a way that reaches their hearts. Strike three inches from the vital point.

Later, the gambling den boss fell into my hands, Old Liu the patrolman came to me with tips, and even the sharp-tongued Lin widow across the street would leave me a bowl of hot noodle soup on rainy nights.

They all thought Chen Jiu had struck it lucky.

Only I knew there was no such thing as luck.

I simply wrung every last sound out of every coin, saw through every person, and ground all my fear from the night into teeth that could bite by day.