LRAB Page 79
Page 79
"It should be his."
“There are many bicycles like this in the South District.”
"Oh... Boss Victor."
Jimmy covered his forehead, quickly considering the heat and alcohol effects. He said directly, "This is difficult."
Victor put his arm around him: "Difficult? If you succeed, I'll personally give you a thousand dollars."
"This is really difficult; it's not about the US dollars."
"There may only be two breakthroughs: confirming the bicycle incident and turning oneself in to the police."
Jimmy looked grim and unwell. Victor explained, "I'm not trying to insult you with money; you're my friend. It's just that this might be difficult, so we need some funds."
Five thousand US dollars.
Jimmy understood that if Victor could save his friend who was in prison, then one day he would save him too: "I'm fifty percent sure."
Jimmy outlined the general approach: "Persuade the prosecutor using the two methods mentioned above. Then, go to the South Precinct, find the officer in charge, and give him an irrefutable reason to supplement the evidence for a reduced sentence. At the same time, go to the hospital and get this guy's intellectual development tested, then fabricate a diagnosis of dementia, developmental delay, or mental illness. Finally, find the victim's family and persuade them."
"good idea."
Victor poured wine into Jimmy's glass. "Five thousand dollars?"
"Fifty percent of the time, the people at the front can handle it."
Jimmy smiled wryly—the boss was already pouring drinks, so this matter definitely needed to be addressed: "Persuading the victim's family is difficult."
Victor lit a cigarette, the smoke swirling around him. "But people in the South know how to live well."
Chapter 65 American Law Doesn't Protect You
The party in the room continued when someone suggested going to a bar, and a large group of people set off.
Downstairs, the Blues House was blasting deafening hip-hop music, and the dance floor was packed with writhing bodies.
Victor couldn't remember how much he'd drunk, only vaguely recalling awkwardly swaying in the middle of the dance floor with Max, Ray losing an arm-wrestling match to a tall woman, and Millie and Ethan arguing fiercely in a corner...
······
The nights in Princeton in March were still cold. Max Wilson stood at the entrance of the Hilton Hotel, tightening the collar of his thin trench coat.
His breath lingered briefly under the streetlights before quickly dissipating, much like his seven-year career at ESPN.
"Mr. Wilson, do you need help calling a taxi?"
The doorman asked politely.
Max shook his head, took out a few crumpled bills from his pocket, picked out the smallest denomination, and stuffed it into the doorman's hand. "No need, thank you."
He had to save every penny—he'd lost his job.
The lights of the banquet hall flickered behind him through the glass doors, and the sounds of clinking glasses could be faintly heard inside.
That was the annual dinner of the Sports Media Association—the United States Boxing Association. He was a regular at such events and had even served as the sole reporter for ESPN on several occasions.
Tonight, he's just a fringe figure, a loser about to leave ESPN.
Max touched his briefcase to make sure the camera and voice recorder were inside.
There was also a one-way train ticket in the bag—Prince to Dallas, departing at 11:20 p.m.
He couldn't afford a plane ticket, and ESPN retained his meager shares but ruthlessly cut off all his benefits and reimbursements.
"Victor!"
Max murmured the name, feeling a bitter taste rise in his mouth, followed by anger.
"Damn yellow-skinned monkey, why don't you just accept it obediently? I'll make sure you have nowhere to stay in America!"
A yellow taxi pulled up in front of him, interrupting Max's thoughts.
He climbed into the back seat and gave the name of the train station.
"Catching a train?"
The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror: "There are a lot of Black people doing 'business' on the train at this time of day, it's not safe at all."
"Yes. But they can't get money out of my wallet when I don't have any."
Max didn't want to talk about it.
He looked down at the photos in his camera—the fake smiles at the dinner party, including one of Viktor all alone:
"So what if you're a champion? American boxing won't recognize you!"
The taxi drove through the night, and Max gazed at the neon lights flashing past the window.
The boxing city is abandoning him, just as it has abandoned countless people who came with dreams.
The Dallas Sports Weekly paid him only a quarter of what he earned at ESPN, and he was covering women's basketball, but at least it was a fresh start.
"We've arrived. Twenty yuan and fifty cents."
The driver's voice brought him back to reality.
Max paid the fare and stood in front of the train station with his briefcase.
A cold wind swept through the square, ruffling his already thinning hair.
He checked his watch—9:45, more than an hour until departure.
Maybe he should find a place to have a drink, for this terrible day, and for the unknown tomorrow—but he has no money.
Just then, the roar of an engine came from the right.
Max turned his head and saw a rusty Ford sedan speeding onto the sidewalk like an out-of-control beast, heading straight for him.
The world became exceptionally clear yet incredibly slow in that moment—he could see clearly the man in the driver's seat wearing a black hood, with only his nose and mouth visible;
I could see clearly the hands wearing black leather gloves on the steering wheel; I could see that the skin peeking out from the edge of the glove on the right wrist was yellow.
Then time suddenly accelerated.
At the moment of impact, Max felt his body being thrown into the air like a rag doll.
The briefcase flew out of his hand, and the camera and voice recorder scattered all over the ground.
He heard the sound of his bones breaking, but strangely, he felt no pain.
Ten meters, fifteen meters—he crashed heavily onto the cold cement ground, half of his face was scraped raw by the rough surface, blood and gore, his vision blurred, and he struggled to breathe.
The Ford did not stop.
It changed direction, and the wheels ran over Max's legs.
This time, the pain overwhelmed him like a tidal wave. He opened his mouth to scream, but only spat out a mouthful of blood. His heart and lungs were ruptured, and he was suffocating.
The car door opened, and the hooded man staggered out, his clothes soaking wet and dripping water.
Even through the air, Max could smell the strong odor of alcohol on him, but the man's eyes were clear, indicating he hadn't been drinking.
The man looked around, then looked up at the sky—a gesture so deliberate, as if he were reluctant to leave the human world.
Max used his last bit of strength to turn his head and look in the direction the man was looking.
The surveillance camera above the train station had its red light flashing, but the angle clearly avoided the accident scene.
This was no accident, the dying Max suddenly realized.
This was a meticulously planned murder.
The man approached Max and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket.
He crouched down and met Max's eyes.
Through the opening in the hood, Max saw a pair of cold, completely sober eyes.
"Thank you."
The man said in a low voice, hoarse like sandpaper scraping, "Let my child grow up."
The lighter flame flickered in the cold wind.
The man lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and then exhaled a smoke ring.
"don't want····"
Wilson's words couldn't sway the man, who simply took two puffs of his cigarette: "There's no other way; it has to be cleaned up properly."
He then threw the lighter at his clothes, which were soaked in alcohol.
The flames instantly engulfed his body.
The man didn't scream, he just stood there and muttered, "Actually, it's not that bad for my liver," before sitting down on Max like a burning statue.
The fire quickly spread to the Ford, the fuel tank soon exploded, and the heatwave overturned the car.
Max felt his skin begin to burn, the pain exceeding the limits of human endurance.
In his last moments before losing consciousness, Max roared in a hoarse voice, "Victor! Victor!!!"
The sirens grew louder as they approached, but it was too late.
Max Wilson couldn't close his eyes. Flames engulfed his body, even his eyelids disappeared, but they couldn't swallow the killer's last words:
Long live God!
······
When Victor woke up, his memories were like film strips cut by scissors.
In the next scene, blinding sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains into Viktor's eyes, and his head throbbed as if someone were hammering him.
He groaned and rolled over, his arm touching a warm body.
Max had her back to him, her bare shoulders pristine white.
Viktor sat up abruptly, a movement that made his vision go black.
A few drops of dark red blood on the lifted bed sheet caught his eye, along with seven or eight vodka bottles on the floor, but his stomach clenched.
Fragments of last night flashed through my mind—intertwined fingers, rapid breathing, the two of us entwined, enjoying ourselves to the fullest… but mostly blank, as if a large chunk of my memory had been washed away by alcohol.
Viktor covered his mouth.