Chapter 23 Chapter Twenty-Three

New York City comes alive at this time of night. Nine o'clock in the evening is like raising the green flag for the car race, and the boiling moment has just begun. New York City's slumber time is not at night, but when the city is at its most depressing.Ironically, that happens to be the busiest time in New York City: morning and afternoon rush hour.It is only at this moment that people shed the dull appearance of the workday, adjust their state, and feel alive. They're making all-important decisions: which bar to go to?with which friends?Which clothes to wear?To wear a bra or not to wear a bra?

Should I wear a condom? ... Then out onto the street. Fred Dellray was now jogging in the cold spring breeze, feeling a surge of energy, like electricity running through the cables under his feet.He doesn't drive very often and doesn't own a car to his name, but what he feels at this moment is like stepping on the gas pedal, burning gasoline violently, as if this energy throws you to your destiny. It's two blocks from the subway, three blocks, four blocks... Something else seemed to be burning.A hundred thousand dollars in his pocket. Fred Dellray couldn't help thinking as he loped along the sidewalk.Am I ruining everything?Yes, I'm doing the morally right thing.I'd risk my career, I'd risk jail time, if this unclear lead finally reveals the perpetrator, For Justice or someone else.As long as it is information that can save the lives of New Yorkers, anything is fine.Of course, the one hundred thousand dollars was a drop in the bucket for the object he robbed.If bureaucratic short-sightedness works, perhaps no one will notice the cash is missing.But even if no one finds out, even if William Brent's clues come in handy and they succeed in stopping more attacks, will Delary's malfeasance gnaw at his heart, guilt like a malignant tumor Is it getting heavier?

Will he sink into a heavy sense of guilt, and his life will be completely changed, become gray and worthless? Change…… It's not too late for him to turn around, go back, go back to the federal building, and put the money back. But no.He's doing something right.He can bear the consequences, whatever they may be. But, damn it, William, you better get some information for me. Delary was now crossing the streets of Greenwich Village, walking straight up to William Brent, who blinked slightly in surprise, as if he thought Delary would not come.They stand together.It wasn't a trap -- that is, an undercover operation -- or a recruiting meeting.It's just two men meeting on the side of the road to do business.

Behind the two stood an ungroomed teenager, strumming a guitar indiscriminately, his lip still bleeding from a recent piercing, singing a song loudly.Delary motioned for Brent to walk down the sidewalk.The bad smell and noisy singing gradually faded away. Delary asked: "Have you discovered any new information?" "um, yes." "What information?" Delary asked again, trying not to sound so eager. "It won't do any good to speak out now. One thread leads to another. I assure you, there will be useful information tomorrow." ensure?It's a term you don't hear very often in the online world.

But William Blunt was the Armani of informants. Besides, Delray had no choice. "Yes," said Brent nonchalantly, "have you read the paper?" "It's over, you can keep it." After finishing speaking, he handed the folded "New York Post" to Brent. Of course, they've done this a hundred times before.Brent put the newspaper in his briefcase without even fumbling for the envelope inside, let alone opening the paper to count the bills. Dellray watched the money disappear as if he were watching a coffin being lowered into a grave. Brent did not ask where the $100,000 came from.Why did he ask?This has nothing to do with him.

Brent now sums it up thoughtfully: "White male, middle-aged. Electric company employee, or insider. Justice for so-and-so. Rahman. Probably terrorism. But could be something else. Murderer Understand electricity. Careful planning." "Those are the things we have right now." "I don't think I need anything else." Brent said without showing conceit.Dellray took his words and attitude as encouragement.Normally, even for a normal informant's fee—around five hundred dollars—he felt like he was being robbed.At this moment, he vaguely felt that Brent would bring good news.

Dellray said, "See you tomorrow. Carmela's, Greenwich Village, you know me?" "I know. What time?" "Noon." Brent's already wrinkled face squeezed out a few more wrinkles, "five o'clock." "Three o'clock?" "Row." Dellray was about to whisper "please" to Brent, something he didn't think he'd ever said to an informant.He suppressed his desperation, and with some difficulty kept his eyes away from the briefcase, which might contain the ashes of his career as a detective.Besides, it will be the ashes of his life.He pictured his son's happy face in his mind.He forced the thought away.

"Fred, it's a pleasure to do business with you." Brent smiled and nodded goodbye.Street lights shone on his big glasses, and then he was gone.