Courtyard House: A Start with Black Gold Swallowing 100,000 Silver Dollars

The night they received the permit, Sun Qiang and Lü Wei hired a construction team to start work overnight. Job postings were plastered all over the alleyways of the urban village, and the sounds of welding machines, pile driving, and concrete mixer trucks echoed from six in the morning until eleven at night.

Li Guojiang was then dragged into sourcing equipment and fabrics—domestic sewing machine factories only accepted orders from state-owned enterprises; private individuals wanting to buy? No way. The dyeing and finishing plants supplied their grey fabrics exclusively for export; individual buyers didn't even know which way the warehouse doors faced. All of this was achieved through Li Guojiang's connections, a few phone calls, and a few meals; he managed to pry open a crack in the impenetrable barrier.

Building the factory, laying floor tiles, erecting steel frames, installing electrical boxes, painting the walls... Sun Qiang and Lü Wei oversaw everything. They ate with the workers, personally mixed the cement if the grade was wrong, and weighed it three times under the scorching sun if the dimensions on the blueprints were two centimeters off.

Two months later, a 10,000-square-meter standalone factory building rose from the ground—no partitions, no walls, no canteen, no warehouse, not even a decent office, only four high windows, a cement floor, and steel beams crisscrossing overhead.

What's the point? Speed!

The sooner production starts, the sooner you'll receive payment. Delivering goods even half a day late could mean missing out on the Canton Fair, missing out on repeat orders from Hong Kong businesses, and missing out on the first batch of available booths at Xiushui Street. Money doesn't wait for you to breathe.

Other supporting facilities? We'll talk about that later. Once the assembly line is running, we'll patch things up from scratch, build warehouses, set up dormitories, and open convenience stores—we can't let ourselves be held back by not being able to breathe.

Another month passed, the machines roared, the cutting beds whirred, and the first batch of 50,000 bell-bottom jeans were ironed flat, stacked neatly, loaded onto a green train, and escorted north to Beijing by Lü Wei himself.

Sun Qiang stayed in Shenzhen to oversee the factory, managing personnel, materials, and shipments. The two agreed to take turns each month, with one person staying at the factory and the other handling sales, ensuring that not a single thread on the production line would break.

Two days later, the train stopped at Beijing Station.

Without taking a break, Lü Wei grabbed two pairs of jeans and headed straight for Li Guojiang's house.

"Here, Guojiang, feel this." He tore open the plastic bag, shook out a pair of pants, waistband up, cuffs hanging down, "Exactly the same as the ones sold on the street, right?"

Li Guojiang took it, ran his fingers over the fabric, and compared it to the one he was wearing: "Hmm, the texture, elasticity, and stitching are all perfect."

"Of course." Lü Wei smiled. "From the yarn to the starching, from the cutting to the overlocking, everything is a replica of the most popular styles on the market—even the stitch density of the sewing machine has been adjusted."

"How much does it cost?" Li Guojiang asked.

"I heard it was around ten or twenty yuan?"

"Hehe, fifteen yuan exactly. Including labor, electricity, packaging, and transportation, it'll be at most eighteen yuan and ninety-five cents. Our factory price is forty yuan, so we make a net profit of twenty-one yuan per piece."

Li Guojiang whistled, "More than doubled." He paused, recalling his past dealings in tape recorders and motorcycles, where the profit margin was at most 80%. "Doing it yourself is definitely different."

"Want me to help you with some distribution channels?" he asked.

"No, no, no!" Lü Wei waved his hands repeatedly. "You're in the office during the day, why would you need to run a stall? Xiushui Street, Xidan, Liulichang, Houhai—I'll find someone I know to show me the way. There are already shops, stall owners, and customers. We just need to handle delivery, payment, and bookkeeping. If anything goes wrong—like seizures, overstocking, or disputes—just give us a call, and we'll be waiting for your reply."

The division of labor was decided early on: Li Guojiang would use his connections and bear the risks; the other two would contribute their labor, running errands and sweating to ensure every step was done properly.

That afternoon, Lü Wei hired four locals, who rode tricycles carrying bell-bottoms, and plunged into the narrow alleys of Xiushui Street.

Temporary tents were set up at the Xidan intersection, folding tables were placed at the entrance of Houhai Hutong, and small flags advertising "factory direct sales" were quietly hung next to the old book stalls in Liulichang.

As soon as the price was revealed, the vendors swarmed around, scrambling to grab it: "Ten yuan cheaper than Li Guohang's? Really?"

Lu Wei didn't say anything, but turned his pants inside out—the lining was stamped with "Shennan Garment Factory" in steel, the stitches were dense, and the brass buttons were shiny.

"Genuine product, no deception."

The crowd dispersed with a commotion, scrambling to place orders.

With an extra ten yuan, the stall owners were scrambling to buy goods from Lü Wei, so who would bother with Li Guohang's goods anymore?

The result was self-evident—Li Guohang and his team's goods piled up in the warehouse, gathering dust, with only a few boxes unopened. Xiao Cong, who was in charge of the Beijing area, was the first to notice something was wrong: the usual three delivery orders a day suddenly stopped; regular customers were not answering their phones or showing up, and even Old Zhang, the bicycle repairman at the street corner, changed his tune, saying, "There are fewer people wearing bell-bottoms lately."

He immediately sent two clever buddies to secretly investigate. Three days later, they returned with a report: it was a new guy named Lü Wei who was delivering goods to each shop with a sack, offering prices two cents lower than theirs, and even offering to let customers try on clothes and return or exchange them.

Xiao Cong slammed his fist on the table: "Who is this person? Where did he come from?"

After finding out where he came from, he went straight to the old teahouse in Xisi Hutong. Pushing open the bamboo curtain, he saw Xiao Fo leaning against a rattan chair peeling oranges.

"Little Buddha, someone's stealing our business," Xiao Cong whispered. "He snatched the whole bell-bottom jeans deal. Should we tie him up and ask him who he is?"

In their eyes, this area of ​​Beijing was long ago their own private garden. If they dared to touch a pair of pants today, they'd dare to touch a watch, radio, or polyester shirt tomorrow—they wouldn't tolerate any outsiders taking a bite.

Without looking up, Xiao Fo picked up a segment of orange pith with his fingertips and slowly uttered, "Please come over and take a look at me in person."

Someone who can spread their goods so smoothly throughout the streets and alleys of Beijing can't possibly be a hoodlum picking up cigarette boxes on the street.

Once the man was led into the teahouse, Xiao Cong realized something was amiss: he was tall and thin, his blue overalls were faded from washing, and there were traces of indigo dye on his cuffs. He spoke in a low voice, but his back was straight.

"Hey kid, you've got some nerve!" Xiao Cong stepped onto the bench, flicking his butterfly knife with a "whoosh," the tip gleaming silver in the sunlight. "Who do you think you are, running wild in this place?"

He served seven years in prison, where he established his authority through his fists, and after his release, no one dared to look him in the eye.

Lü Wei's Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't back down an inch: "The capital isn't your ancestral hall. If you can sell it, why can't I?"

This wasn't just empty boasting—he remembered Li Guojiang's name, and the Director Chen from the Public Security Bureau's household registration department, with whom he'd shared a couple of ounces of Erguotou the day before yesterday. It was just that these guys in front of him, with their buzz cuts and toothpicks, didn't look like they were government employees. Mentioning their names might just make him look like someone trying to intimidate street thugs with the police station.

Xiao Cong sneered and gestured with his chin to the side.

A young man with shoulder-length hair and a shallow scar on his forehead strolled forward lazily, flicking his finger lightly on the blade: "I'll cut your tendons and ligaments, five years at most. We have connections, you'll be released after three years. What about you?"

He tilted his head and looked Lü Wei up and down, as if examining an old piece of furniture awaiting appraisal: "For the rest of your life, you'll be in a wheelchair and on crutches. There's no third way."

Another person next to him immediately chimed in: "Five years is nothing. You'll still be drinking soy milk, eating hot mutton, and having girls chasing after you." His tone was as casual as if he were talking about adding an egg to dinner.

Lu Wei felt a chill on the back of his neck, and beads of sweat trickled down his spine.

It's completely ruined. No matter how loud the sewing machines in the factory are, they can't be pedaled anymore.

He suddenly remembered what Sun Qiang had said last month: "There's a thin layer between the underworld and the legitimate world; once you tear it open, both sides will bleed."

Forget it. If I can't do it in Beijing, I can still make it in Shanghai. The docks there are bigger, there are more factories, and the workers there wear bell-bottoms even more wildly than here.

Seeing his eyes soften, Xiao Cong immediately moved closer, saying, "Pay me 100,000. Consider it as you taking over our space and stealing our customers' 'tea money'."

"One hundred thousand?!" Lü Wei nearly bit his tongue. "I worked for eight whole days and only earned that much!"

"You think it's too expensive?" Xiao Cong grinned. "Then go to the police station right now and report us for extortion."

Before he finished speaking, he gestured towards the doorway with his lip. A young man in a black jacket silently stepped forward half a step, said nothing, and simply put his right hand into his pocket, revealing half of the gleaming handle of a switchblade.

Lu Wei closed his eyes and pulled a wad of crumpled banknotes from his canvas bag.

That evening, clutching his empty wallet, he went into a private room on the second floor of the state-run restaurant and told Li Guojiang everything. At the end, he added, "...Guojiang, do you know anyone in Shanghai? I want to try somewhere else."

Li Guojiang was picking up a piece of liver with his chopsticks when they stopped mid-air: "What? You got ambushed? And they're forcing you to pay 100,000? And they won't let you sell your pants in Beijing?"

He was taken aback at first, then burst out laughing, and quickly wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief: "Oh dear, this matter... really makes me both laugh and cry."

Of course he knew who did it—Xiao Fo's gang always only listened to his older brother, Li Guohang. He had clearly asked Lü Wei before, "Do you need me to let Xiao Fo and the others handle the procurement and distribution for you?" Lü Wei shook his head, saying he wanted to make his own way, and he didn't stop him. Who would have thought that the most taboo thing in the underworld rules is cutting off someone's livelihood—that's even more ruthless than smashing someone's stall or overturning their pot lid.

"Lü Wei," Li Guojiang put down his chopsticks and wiped his fingers clean, "why didn't you mention my name when they arrested you?"

"Guojiang," Lü Wei was taken aback, "you come from a cadre family, how come you associate with thugs?"

In his memory, someone with Li Guojiang's background would hesitate for three seconds even when offered an ice pop by a street vendor.

Li Guojiang smiled and said, "They are my elder brother's men. After we finish this meal, I'll take you there."

Before they finished their meal, the two got up and went out.

Under the old locust tree at the entrance of Xisi Hutong, Xiao Fo was leaning against the wall smoking. Seeing Li Guojiang, he stubbed out his cigarette, bowed, and called out, "Young Master Guojiang!"

Lu Wei tripped and almost missed a step.

He had only ever heard the term "young master" in storytelling performances—it was a title used only in the grand mansions of the old society. He and Sun Qiang had pondered for a long time and could only guess that Li Guojiang's family had "some connections," but who would have thought that such connections carried the weight of being called "young master"?

Upon entering the teahouse, Li Guojiang cut to the chase and introduced, "This is my partner, Lü Wei. He's in charge of distributing our factory's new flared jeans in Beijing. I heard he was invited for 'tea' by your people?"

Little Buddha understood immediately, turned around and yelled, "Little Cong! Get in here right now!"