Trouble

Deliverance Studio wasn't large, and the light inside was dim.

A heavy wooden counter stood directly ahead. Its surface had been worn smooth and glossy, with shallow and deep gouges along the edges.

Against the wall behind the counter stood a wooden shelf, sparsely arranged with paper boys and girls, paper horses, and paper sedan chairs, all already coated in dust.

Chen Mo walked to the shop entrance and removed the heavy door panels one by one, stacking them against the wall.

The front door of his shop wasn't the usual pair of swinging wooden doors. Instead, it was made of thick wooden boards fitted together vertically.

Each board was about a foot wide, with grooves cut into the edges so they could interlock.

During the day, when the shop was open, the boards had to be removed one by one and stacked beside the entrance. At closing time, they were put back one by one.

These plank doors were unique to the old-style shops on Funeral Street. Supposedly, unclean things often tried to push their way in at night, and an entire door was easy to force open. With this kind of door, even if a few boards were removed, the rest would still hold fast, making it more secure.

Chen Mo reached out and grasped the edge of the leftmost board.

It was heavy and cold to the touch, its surface worn glossy from years of handling.

He lifted it with all his strength, then pulled it outward.

With a soft clack, the board came free of its groove.

The morning light outside immediately streamed through the opening, casting a rectangular patch of brightness on the ground.

Dust motes swirled in the beam of light.

Chen Mo leaned the board against the wall, then went to remove the second one.

Clack, clack.

He didn't open the entrance all the way. His father had told him that shops on Funeral Street must never open their doors completely: leave three parts yin, block seven parts yang. That was the rule.

The cold morning breeze, tinged with the fishy smell of the river, poured inside, making the faded Deliverance Studio cloth sign above the door sway slightly.

He picked up the broom in the corner and began sweeping the stone steps in front of the shop and a small patch of the street.

By then, the other shops on the street were gradually beginning to take down their door panels, too. But hardly anyone greeted anyone else. Everyone silently went about their own business, most of them wearing gloomy expressions, numbed by years of dealing with death.

He had barely swept twice when Liu Shoucai, the owner of the Fortune Longevity Coffin Shop across the street, ambled out with a long-stemmed tobacco pipe in his mouth.

He glanced at Chen Mo and slowly blew out a smoke ring.

"Little Chen, you're opening early today." His voice was hoarse, with its usual phlegmy rasp. "Any word from your father...?"

Chen Mo kept working without looking up. "No."

"Ah." The Fortune Longevity shopkeeper sighed, though it was hard to tell whether he meant it. "These are troubled times... Your father was skilled and honest. With him gone so long without a word, I'm afraid it doesn't look good."

"You've already fallen three months behind on the Black Tiger Gang's sanitation fees. Can you really keep this shop...?"

It sounded like concern, but there was a probing edge beneath it.

Business on Funeral Street might have been unlucky, but at least it was a living.

Chen Dachuan's craftsmanship was renowned throughout Linhe County, and Deliverance Studio had once done quite well.

Now the one in charge was gone, and only a half-grown boy remained. It was inevitable that people would start eyeing the place.

Chen Mo stopped sweeping and straightened up, looking at Liu Shoucai. His gaze was calm, even carrying a trace of fatigue from lack of sleep, but for some reason, when that gaze swept over him, Liu Shoucai's pipe paused slightly at his lips.

"Whether I can keep it or not, I have to try." Chen Mo's tone was even. "Thank you for your concern, Boss Liu."

Liu Shoucai gave a dry laugh, said nothing more, and turned back to his shop.

Chen Mo went back to sweeping.

He knew that the other shopkeepers on this street, along with people nearby who knew Deliverance Studio's current situation, were probably all watching and waiting, perhaps even scheming about how to swallow up this prize.

The former Chen Mo had been timid and unable to hold his ground. But now...

Chen Mo swept the last stone step clean, then gathered the dust and a few withered leaves beside the gutter at the edge of the street.

The morning chill seeped through his thin clothes, making his already frail body shiver.

Leaning on his broom, he looked up. Funeral Street resembled a gray giant worm just waking from sleep, slowly writhing as a dense incense-and-candle smell hung in the air.

Just then, a clatter of footsteps came from the end of the street, mixed with impatient coughing and phlegmy grunts.

Several men in black short jackets swaggered over, their chests exposed, some gaunt and others potbellied. The leader wasn't the regular Scarface, but a skinny man with a pair of ratlike whiskers. He held a filthy ledger in one hand, while a short knife with an old strip of cloth wound around its hilt was conspicuously tucked at his waist.

Scarface himself trailed behind with his arms folded, his gloomy gaze sweeping over the shops one by one.

"Shopkeepers, it's the start of the month! A clean street means better business for everyone. The Black Tiger Gang works hard to keep things in order, so it's time to renew those sanitation fees!"

As soon as he finished speaking, a few muffled curses could be heard from the shops.

"Damn it, this early... What rotten luck!"

"Sanitation fees? We haven't seen Old Man Liu sweeping the street in three months, but they're quick enough to collect the money!"

"The Black Tiger Gang's practically scraping three layers off the street..."

They grumbled, but no one dared say it out loud.

The merchants on Funeral Street seemed to have grown more timid, as if the yin energy they'd been exposed to for years had seeped into their bones.

Standing on his shop's steps, Chen Mo looked up at the sky. A pale red crescent moon still lingered on the horizon.

He didn't have a watch, but he could make a rough guess: it was no later than somewhere between six and seven.

Since when did gangsters have to work nine to nine, six days a week?

The skinny man with ratlike whiskers led his crew from shop to shop, collecting money with practiced ease.

When they reached the Fortune Longevity Coffin Shop, Boss Liu had already prepared the silver dollars. With a smile, he handed them over. "Good morning, Mr. Xu. Just a token of appreciation. Thanks for the effort."

The skinny man with ratlike whiskers took the money and weighed it in his hand. He glanced at the few black-lacquered coffins inside the shop, then smiled without warmth. "Business is booming, Boss Liu. Send some good timber to the gang next time. Our Second Master's been wanting to have a coffin made."

The smile on Boss Liu's face stiffened. He nodded repeatedly. "Of course, of course."

Collecting the money didn't go entirely smoothly.

At Li's Incense and Paper Money Shop, Old Man Li stiffened his neck, his face flushed red. "I paid last month! The shop's only just opened this month. Where am I supposed to get the money?"

The skinny man with ratlike whiskers didn't get angry. He merely tapped the ledger lightly against his palm. "Old Man Li, rules are rules. Look at this street. If the Black Tiger Gang weren't keeping order, how many petty thieves would come around and cause trouble?"

"If that disrupts your business, you'll lose more than just a few dollars. The brothers in the gang have to eat, too. Do try to understand."

As he spoke, the two men behind him stepped half a pace forward, their eyes unfriendly.

Old Man Li's lips trembled, but in the end, his wife tugged at him, and he reluctantly fished out two silver dollars.

The Black Tiger Gang's men clearly knew their trade, using different tactics on different people.

For the honest and timid, or those with somewhat better business, they added a pointed hint or reminder. For anyone who showed a little resistance, they applied pressure wrapped in talk of rules and understanding—soft on the surface, hard underneath.

Only when they ran into someone truly difficult did they send out a genuine brawler like Scarface.

Before long, they swaggered up to the entrance of Deliverance Studio.