HLM – Chapter 44 Selling the Red Box

In truth, the red box wasn’t with him, of course—but Old Wang had the sandbox, which meant he could take it out anytime and anywhere. So he nodded solemnly and said, “Yes, I brought it. It’s on the helicopter.”

“I didn’t see it,” Charlie said blankly.

Wang Bo replied impatiently, “You just didn’t pay attention. Remember when I boarded the chopper and put a black backpack in the back seat? The red box is in there.”

Charlie looked confused. “Then you’re really weird. Why the hell would you bring the red box to Wellington?”

Wang Bo said, “Why do you ask so many questions? What are you, a walking encyclopedia? Blue Cat Naughty’s Three Thousand Whys? I just like carrying it with me. I planned to sell the red box before I even came to Wellington, alright?”

“Alright, alright! Why are you so agitated? I’ll contact someone from Christie’s Auction House for you tomorrow—they’ll probably be interested in the red box.” Charlie raised his hands in surrender. “Also, can you work on that temper of yours? I swear, you’d be a tyrant if you lived in ancient times!”

“Thanks for the compliment. A tyrant is still a monarch. I never thought I was this gifted and brilliant,” Old Wang replied smugly.

And so, the two never made it to the bar. Charlie went with him to retrieve the red box from the helicopter.

The helipad lights were dim in the evening. Wang Bo had already prepared a backpack and the red box earlier, so once he opened the chopper door, he just picked it up—Charlie never noticed a thing.

The next morning, while Wang Bo was enjoying some local Wellington fruit pastries, there was a knock at the door.

Charlie entered with two middle-aged white men. He introduced them, “Wang, welcome our friends from Christie’s. This is Quincy Robinson and Duby Snellders—experts in European archaeology and royal collections.”

Wang Bo greeted them warmly and took out the red box for them to inspect.

Quincy put on gloves and opened the red box solemnly while Duby took photos—standard procedure to keep a record, in case anything went wrong with the item later.

As the red box was opened, The Bay Poetry Collection was the first thing revealed. Wang Bo suddenly remembered he had left the poetry book inside, so he quickly removed it and said, “Sorry, gents. Please, go on.”

Determining the authenticity of the red box was easy. As Charlie had said, both men were experts. After examining the patina and the printed inscriptions, they quickly confirmed it was genuine.

Especially helpful was the inclusion of some photos of Margaret Thatcher and Sir Howard together, which further authenticated the red box’s provenance.

The two men exchanged a glance. Quincy made a call and then said, “Sir, we’ve consulted with our manager. If you’re willing to sell at 530,000 NZD, we can close the deal immediately.”

Wang Bo shook his head. “530,000? No way. Let me give you my price—800,000. That’s right, 800,000 New Zealand dollars. If you’re interested, take it.”

At this quote, both men laughed. Quincy said, “Mr. Wang, you’re quite the joker, but that price is outrageous. We simply can’t go that high.”

Of course, Wang Bo knew they wouldn’t accept the price outright—this was just the beginning of negotiations.

Now was the time to earn “baby formula money” for his little town-son. Old Wang was energized. “Hear me out, gentlemen. 530,000 is out of the question. You’re experts—you should know that was the price from two years ago. With inflation alone, that should be around 600,000 now, right?”

“Next, we have a saying in China: ‘Things are valuable when they’re rare.’ You might not understand that, so I’ll move on. Margaret Thatcher used only two red boxes in her life. The first is already in someone’s private collection. That makes this one the only red box in circulation in the world. So, adding another 200,000 for rarity—totally reasonable, right?”

Quincy responded patiently, “You may have a point, but you’re overlooking something critical—we are an auction house. We need to make a profit. If we buy the box at auction-level prices, where’s our margin?”

Upon hearing this, Wang Bo knew it was in the bag—they were set on getting this box. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be negotiating like this.

Charlie realized it too. They shared a look, sly smiles forming on both their faces—like a pair of old foxes. The negotiation officially began.

The two worked in tandem: Wang Bo held firm on his bottom line, while Charlie acted as mediator, smoothing things over to keep talks from breaking down.

Throughout the process, Quincy kept making calls. After forty minutes, the price had been brought down to 720,000 NZD. Quincy stepped out for one final call, then returned and said, “Alright, alright. You two are really tough negotiators. We’ll accept 720,000—but those photos need to be included.”

Wang Bo agreed to the deal. He knew those photos were special—he’d noticed how Quincy and Duby had been sneaking glances at them during the negotiation.

They shook hands, sealing the deal. Quincy pulled out a pre-stamped purchase contract, filled in the red box and the photos, and had Wang Bo sign. The deal was done.

Wang Bo glanced at the photos once more. Charlie, sensing his thoughts, grinned. “You guys really scored. Not only did you get a rare red box, you got those precious photos. I bet you’ll earn a bonus for this.”

Quincy said, “Alright, Mr. Stallone, no need to be coy. We know what you’re getting at. You want to know what’s up with the photos, right?”

He picked one photo—the one of the Iron Lady and Sir Howard—and handed the rest back to Wang Bo. “Only this one holds real value, because of what’s written on the back—by Thatcher herself.”

He flipped the photo over. On the back, it read: “Thanks to my dear friend Howard for his gracious hospitality. Because of him, New Zealand feels like home. May God bless him, and may God bless England.
—M.H.T.”

Duby added, “But this photo alone isn’t worth much. Only when paired with the red box in an auction could it add value—but even then, our profit margin is slim.”

Wang Bo didn’t care how much Christie’s could earn. Business isn’t about one side taking all the profits. Everyone needs to earn something for a deal to go through.

Quincy took Wang Bo’s bank card, snapped a photo, and made a call. Shortly after, Wang Bo received a bank text message: 720,000 NZD had been credited.

The deal was done—everyone was happy. With that, Wang Bo’s trip to Wellington had netted him over 1.2 million NZD. Converted, his total worth now exceeded 10 million—of course, in RMB.

So Old Wang wired another 100,000 RMB to his parents. Since international transfers needed time to process, he gave his dad a call to let them know to check their account.

Upon hearing that their son had wired 200,000 RMB home, his mom grabbed the phone and asked in a trembling voice, “Xiaobo, did you go abroad to do pyramid schemes or something? How did you suddenly make so much money? Let me tell you, don’t do anything illegal! We may not be rich, but we live upright and with pride…”