Chapter 1513 - Heyuan Street

Lin Ming laughed along. Since Wang Xinglong was determined to go, he could hardly spoil the fun. The two walked together toward the Wenlan River. Lin Ming guessed their destination was that "Heyuan Street."

Halfway there, a heavy rain suddenly fell. They ducked into a roadside teahouse, ordered a pot of tea, and sat out the storm, taking the opportunity to have dinner. The teahouse also sold various snacks. Wang Xinglong ordered a bowl of Lingao rice noodles and asked for extra beef. Seeing Lin Ming not eating, he asked:

"Brother Lin, aren't you hungry?"

"Since we're going to the pleasure quarter, there'll be plenty of food there—surely more refined than here."

In Ming times, pleasure houses were not merely brothels but social venues; in matters of food and dress, they led "fashion."

"Brother Lin, the food in those houses is far beyond our means." Wang Xinglong shook his head. "A single cup of tea there costs more than a cup of wine outside."

Lin Ming realized he had nearly given himself away—in Guangdong, he never paid when visiting pleasure houses. In Foshan, proprietors would be only too glad to have him as a guest; elsewhere in the province, wealthy merchants and tycoons always picked up the tab.

"Brother Wang is right. I wasn't thinking."

"From the look of it, Brother Lin must have lived quite well back on the mainland." Wang Xinglong laughed.

"You flatter me." Lin Ming smiled awkwardly. "Things past are too painful to recall."

"Brother Lin, there's no need for embarrassment. Here in Lingao, many people came because they were down and out with nowhere else to turn..." Wang Xinglong was still speaking when the steaming noodles arrived: slightly yellowish rice noodles floating in an oil-flecked broth, topped with slices of beef, pickled vegetables, peanuts, shrimp, and the like. It looked full and appetizing.

"Brother Lin, have a bowl too. This is a local specialty." Wang Xinglong picked up the vinegar pot from the table and poured in a generous amount, then lifted the lid off a ceramic jar and scooped out several spoonfuls of a glistening red sauce, stirring it into the bowl.

Instantly the air filled with a pungent aroma—fragrant, sour, nose-tingling. Lin Ming's thoughts stirred, recalling that trip to Macau and the water-boiled sliced pork—it too had carried that same stimulating scent.

"This is chili sauce—a new thing the Australians brought. Whets the appetite and livens up a meal."

Lin Ming also ordered a bowl. After they finished, the rain had stopped. The streets, which had been awash with water, were now almost completely drained; though the pavement was damp, there was not a puddle to be seen. Lin Ming marveled inwardly—even in Foshan, prosperous as it was and mostly paved with flagstones, rainwater did not drain so quickly. In low-lying alleys and narrow lanes, water would pool into ponds, leaving a muddy, impassable mess.

By the time they stepped onto the street, the lamps were just coming on. The two strolled leisurely. As the local, Wang Xinglong pointed out shops and sights along the way, explaining as they went. Some facilities puzzled Lin Ming, and all were duly explained—many things exceeded his expectations. The thoroughness of the Cropped-Hairs' urban planning and the depth of their resources astonished him. He noticed that the more inconspicuous and easily overlooked the detail, the more the Cropped-Hairs were willing to spend on it.

Watching Wang Xinglong's smug expression, Lin Ming suddenly felt like a country bumpkin being shown around the city by a city-dwelling relative.

Because of the rain, few people were on the streets. But Lin Ming noticed the atmosphere was distinctly tense. At every major intersection, Cropped-Hair police stood guard; alongside them were soldiers with loaded muskets, frequently stopping pedestrians for checks. It seemed a major case had occurred.

"Has there been some big case?" Lin Ming asked quietly.

"What, don't you read the papers?" Wang Xinglong asked, somewhat surprised, then laughed. "Right, Brother Lin just arrived."

"Read the papers? You mean the court gazettes?"

"This isn't the Ming—where would there be court gazettes?" Wang Xinglong said carelessly. "It's the Lingao Times. Local news and reports. Our shop subscribes to a copy—Manager Qian probably took it. There was already a report: last night's burglars still have some at large, and they're searching the whole city."

"I see." Lin Ming thought he had better read this newspaper—it would make gathering intelligence much more convenient without having to ask around. He was very interested in the matter of the burglars. Unable to wait until he returned to see the paper, he asked, "Did the gazette—the newspaper say what kind of people these burglars are?"

"It didn't specify, but there were plenty of details: thirty in total, all martial arts masters from the jianghu. Some were even notorious old hands with aliases." Wang Xinglong spoke eagerly, seizing the chance to show off. "They infiltrated Lingao in several batches. But what they didn't expect was that the moment they arrived, they fell under police surveillance."

Wang Xinglong, relishing the opportunity to boast, embellished the tale with flair. From what Lin Ming heard of the circumstances, there seemed to be no government backing, and he secretly breathed a sigh of relief. His greatest fear was fellow agents coming to Lingao: he knew almost everyone at the middle and lower levels of the Guangdong Brocade Guard system. If someone recognized him, he would be finished.

The two chatted as they walked, proceeding unobstructed until they reached Heyuan Street.

Pink lanterns still hung along the street, the rosy light falling on the flagstones in an indescribably romantic glow. Wang Xinglong knew his way and led Lin Ming inside. The street was not wide—only enough for two "Australian carts" to pass abreast. One side faced the Wenlan River's sandy bank; the earthen dike was planted thick with peach, willow, and apricot trees. Lingao's winters were warm; by now green buds had sprouted and branches were laden with flower buds. The other side was lined with two-story buildings packed closely together, much like the streets of East Gate Market—only here, no attendants stood at the doors to greet guests. It was remarkably quiet.

Curtains hung before the doors, and the signboards were uniform in style—probably made at the same place. Besides the pink lanterns, each establishment displayed a yellow wooden plaque proclaiming: "Licensed Premises for Custom Trade." Below were categories—Class A, Class B, Class C, and so on—followed by large Arabic numerals. At the doors there were no pimps or prostitutes touting for customers; instead, waist-high signboards listed various terms Lin Ming did not understand: "Dragon Drill," "Fire and Ice Five-Fold Heaven," "Celestial Maiden Scatters Flowers"... Nearby, other boards displayed rows of small portraits of the courtesans—a dense, impressive array.

"Ah, Quandao, what do you think of the girls in this house? Are the services special?"

"No good, far too ordinary. Let me take you somewhere truly stunning—the girl's buns are..." A man in Cropped-Hair attire dragged another along, hurrying forward.

"Buns? Girl? Services?" Lin Ming caught only a few words. He could not help feeling puzzled—this was a strange sort of pleasure house. Was this the Australian custom? As for "custom trade," he had no idea what it meant.

The street was crowded with men in groups of three to five, laughing and chatting. Some headed straight for their destinations; others hesitated, looking from one house to another. Here and there a drunk staggered along; some simply lay sprawled on roadside stone benches, retching. Besides customers, many rickshaws waited for fares, and snack vendors had set up stalls nearby.

Despite the many doing business here, order was excellent and the ground quite clean. Looking again, Lin Ming understood why: there were police here too—a tall two-story sentry box where several officers stood watch. Beside it was a set of stocks, with a few unfortunates chained and bloodied.

Lin Ming was still taking it all in when Wang Xinglong clapped him on the back. "Well? Have you ever seen a pleasure quarter like this?"

"Eye-opening, truly eye-opening." Lin Ming nodded repeatedly. He noticed roadside fixtures resembling signposts labeled "Call Station." Below sat several heavily made-up women, clearly of middling looks and no longer young. They looked like prostitutes, yet did not solicit customers—only sat silently. Each wore a yellow paper tag on her chest. He asked quietly, "Are these also...?"

"Yes, these are sole proprietors," Wang Xinglong said, slipping into new vocabulary. "The houses are corporations."

"What?"

"To put it simply, the houses are like shops with signboards. These women are like peddlers."

"I see." Lin Ming found it incredible. "And that's permitted? A 'half-open door' business with no madam, no procurer?"

"Here, 'half-open door' trade is not allowed. Everything must be registered and licensed; otherwise it's 'illegal prostitution,' and if caught, you're sent to sift sand. As for madams and the like, they're completely unnecessary—business here is quite safe, the flesh trade included." Wang Xinglong laughed. "But the taxes are not light."

Lin Ming thought, The Cropped-Hairs are truly shameless—the government actually collects earnings from the sale of flesh! He felt a twinge of disgust. Still, it was a substantial revenue stream. He understood street life and the inner workings of various trades, and he knew that though the flesh trade was despised and lowly, it could make enormous profits. With the Cropped-Hairs' perverse shrewdness, they naturally would not let such a fat morsel slip.

"Here it's pay as you please. Those with money go to the houses; those without can take a roadside girl to an inn and relieve their urges." Wang Xinglong continued, "Every month the Australians even have the working girls examined by doctors—treat the sick. Truly a charitable deed..."

Lin Ming cursed inwardly, Charitable, my foot! It's good business sense, that's all! By now he had some understanding of how the Cropped-Hairs thought. The Ming government treated cities and commerce with a laissez-faire attitude—so long as nothing went wrong, officials ignored everything. Many things that could have brought great profit were never pursued. The Cropped-Hairs, by contrast, paid attention to everything, managing every detail with meticulous order.

No wonder they had exploded from the tiny patch of East Gate Market to sweep through Fujian and Guangdong in just five years, their power shaking the seas. Beyond their countless ingenious devices, it was this all-pervasive management of their territory—where else in the world could match it?

Lost in thought, Lin Ming heard Wang Xinglong stop walking and say, "Let's choose this one for tonight."