Chapter 9 Chapter Six

St. Peter sat in the Lincoln car and watched the gate of the apartment building.The car was parked in the spot that Jorns the Gravedigger and Ed the Coffin Bucket had vacated less than an hour earlier. Sister Bliss went in to find Guss.But St. Bo didn't believe Pink Boy's claim about the map at all. He believed that Gus was a middleman for illegal diamond or gold smugglers.He picks it up somewhere and then passes it on to someone else. Sister Bliss thought Gus was carrying something with him; St. Peter didn't think so, and he was sure that whatever it was, it must have been in the suitcase.You have to understand that the outlaws who use an old country bumpkin like Gus to make connections have a very clear mind.And suitcases are still the best way to smuggle anything hot - because the most obvious place is the safest place.All those slick feds and dodgy urbanites would think the smugglers were smart enough to use the old trick of the suitcase.This is where the smugglers outsmarted them.But it's human nature, just like the most easily deceived is the person who has been fooled, because he thinks he knows everything.

St. Peter sat there, turning over in his mind, and decided to get the box himself. For more than twenty-five years, he had been called around by Sister Bliss, serving her as guard, cook, nurse, and sycophant, cleaning up the dirty work she didn't want to do.He used to be her lover in the past, but after she dumped him, he wandered around like a stray dog, changing lovers one after another.Now he only hates her, but he can't leave her because he has nowhere to go, and she knows this very well. So he decided to betray her, he planned to get the things, and then fly away, let her take the blame, and see how she dealt with the smugglers.

He saw a green van pull up in front of the apartment entrance. It looked like a railroad van, but with white letters on the side: ACME EXPRESS. Two white men in hickory-striped uniforms and blue-billed sports hats got out of the car.One of them is tall and thin, and the other is of medium height and stocky.Both were clean-shaven and wore no glasses.This is what Saint Peter observed. The two men glanced at the Lincoln, parked on the side of the road, the only one occupied.However, when they saw the old black man in the driver's uniform behind the steering wheel, their suspicions were eased a lot.

They turned and walked towards the gate, and Saint Uncle smiled wryly.He thought they'd put him in the same corny category as old Gus.On the one hand he was bitter, but on the other hand it worked in his favor. He waited until they were inside before starting the engine and letting the car idle.He figured that while he was going to rob the suitcase, he wouldn't do it here and now in front of the apartment.It's too public here, and there's no telling if some nosy guy is watching him from behind the curtains, wondering what the people in this weird limousine are doing around here in the morning hours.He just hoped that Sister Bliss would not do anything to reveal his whereabouts.

At this time, the Bliss sisters were sitting in the administrator's reception room. When the doorbell rang, the .38 caliber revolver was pointing mercilessly at the administrator's wife and the African. "I have to go and answer the door," said the administrator's wife. "Probably Gus." She stood beside the African, and the African sat at the table.When the blissful sisters struck first, the administrator's wife happened to have her back turned. "Stop talking nonsense, go open the door." Sister Bliss raised the barrel of her gun, she sat on the armrest of the sofa bed and signaled, "When they come in, we will know who it is."

The caretaker's wife shuffled sullenly to the door and pressed a button to unlock the entrance latch.She was barefoot, and although she was still wearing the same straight cotton dress as before, she now looked as if she had once rolled on the floor in it.Her face was greasy, and her squinting yellow eyes gleamed fiercely. "Whatever you want, you won't get anything if you do this," she whispered hoarsely. "Get the hell out of here and shut up." Sister Bliss swung the barrel of the gun arrogantly. The administrator's wife shuffled back to the African. Africans sat slumped like molten statues, their white-rimmed eyes staring hypnotically at the pistols.

They waited.In the silence, only their heavy breathing could be heard. The two couriers saw the suitcase next to the elevator in the basement passage, but saw no one, so they took the suitcase away. Once they were back on the street, St. Peter watched them carry a large green suitcase with a shipping sticker on it.They loaded the boxes into the van, closed the doors, and took another look at the Lincoln parked nearby. St. Peter didn't seem to notice them. He stuck his head out of the car window and looked up at the front window of the third-floor apartment, as if listening to someone talking to him.

The couriers looked in the same direction, but they didn't see anything. "Yes," St. Peter called out in the tone of an officer, "Come right on, ma'am." Then he started the Lincoln, looked straight ahead, overtook the delivery truck, and drove all the way along the Riverside Boulevard, maintaining a speed of twenty-five per hour. within miles. The courier gets into the van, the driver starts the engine, and leaves behind the limousine at a relatively fast speed. St. Peter spied on the trailing truck in the rearview mirror, and sped up.He maintains a moderate lead, sometimes widening or narrowing the distance between the two cars, looking like an ordinary driver.

He knew he was playing a dangerous game, and he was alone.But he had been rolling on the edge of violence for so long that he was too old to fear death.What frightened him was the evil plan that was scheming in his head.His advantage is that no one knows him. Except for Pink Boy and Blissful Sisters who know his real name, few people have seen him outside these years.If he could get his hands on it and get away, only two of them knew who did it, but even then they didn't know where to find him. He spotted the van heading downtown, and he picked up speed, gaining a substantial lead.When he reached the entrance of the Seventy-ninth Street Yacht Club, he was already two blocks ahead and parked in the nearly empty driveway.Then, he immediately turned onto the curving private drive, slowed down, and hid in the thick trees of the crescent-shaped park.He caught a glimpse of a van driving down Riverside Drive.So he drove back down the road again, one block behind the van and one van behind, until Seventy-second Street.

The truck turned east on Seventy-second Street, diverted onto Tenth Avenue, and went south.This is a south-facing street leading to the "Lincoln-Holland Long-distance Underwater Tunnel" under the Hudson River, which is currently carrying heavy commercial traffic.This makes things a lot easier, the delivery van has only one rearview mirror mounted on the front left fender.St. Peter followed far behind on the right, and was always separated by some car. As the truck turned toward the Hudson River at Fifty-sixth Street, the Lincoln was exposed for a moment; but the truck was heading south again, along the elevated road over the New York Central Railroad line, and he had cover again.On the west side of the broad brick-faced street, the entire North River is surrounded by the docks of ocean-going ships.Below the elevated railway road, all you can see are trailers parked side by side.A large number of ships poured into the dock one after another on the southbound channel.

The French Shipping Company's unloading dock next to the Kuna Shipping Company's jetty, with the Queen Mary's funnel visible at this time.The delivery van swerved onto the sidewalk and pulled up behind a black Buick that was parked not fifty yards from the entrance to the French shipping terminal. Because of the suddenness of the incident, St. Peter had no time to stop behind the truck, so he had to drive past the Buick and stop again. This is a no-stop zone, so when the patrol car slowly drove up, the two patrol officers in the car watched the three stopped cars meaningfully.Since one of them was a limousine driven by a driver, and the other was a courier van, the police decided to let them go temporarily. Two stern-faced men in black suits and straw hats sat in the front seat of the Buick and watched the patrol car drive past Kuna Pier and out of sight into traffic.The man sitting on the other side of the sidewalk opened the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk.The stocky, dark-haired man with dour features, an olive face and a prominent midriff, his black single-breasted coat was buttoned all over.He stepped out into the street and looked anxiously at the French shipping company's dock exit. St. Peter stared in the rearview mirror, keeping an eye out for those in the delivery van. The Buick driver sits still with his right hand on the wheel and his left dangling out the window.When the burly man approached the sidewalk side window of the Lincoln, his burly figure unexpectedly turned around quietly and quickly, approaching the car.He slapped the roof of the car with his left hand, then lifted his jacket and drew the pistol from his left shoulder strap.He leaned over to peek in the window, as if to speak to the gray-haired old driver, his coat fluttering over his pistol.It was a single-shot Delinga pocket pistol with a six-inch piercing silencer.Without saying a word, he carefully aimed at St. Peter's temple.The sullen black eyes were expressionless. Suddenly, a cold voice shouted behind him: "Hand over the things, or I will shoot!" He didn't see Saint Peter's lips twitching slightly.He turned in a sudden surprise, hitting his head on the top of the door frame and dropping his hat on the seat. Saint Bo rushed forward and grabbed the shotgun that was on the ground. The gunman turned around, his eyes bulging, for St. Peter was raising the muzzle of his double-barreled shotgun.Both sides opened fire simultaneously. The faint click of the suppressed pocket pistol was drowned out by the rumble of the shotgun. In a panic, St. Peter pulled the trigger of the double-barreled shotgun. The gunman's face disappeared, and the thick body fell back under the heavy blow of the twelve-caliber shotgun. A van parked in the middle of the street under the elevated road, the headlights quietly shattered. The driver of the Buick leaned out the window, unloading the empty cartridge from the automatic pistol in his left hand. The air smelled of smokeless powder and burning flesh. Immediately, several holes were punched through the back seat of the Lincoln car, and the rear-view mirror on the left was also shattered.St. Peter was not kissed, but his black curly hair stood on end like a magnet for iron filings.Suddenly, a woman suddenly screamed harshly, and continued to scream. Saint Bo felt as if the top of his head was about to fall off. Then, the man started yelling too, the car horn blared, the police whistle blared, and there was a sudden sound of running feet. The two cars drove away immediately. A tow truck was driving in the left lane while a taxi from the French shipping terminal was stuck in front.Baggage workers and longshoremen ran onto the sidewalk, while a uniformed policeman tried to break through at gunpoint. In a panic, Sheng Bo looked at all this blankly.His mind went blank, he just drove the car straight ahead instinctively, like a fox surrounded by hounds. The van was to his left and the taxi was straight ahead.He turned right past the curb of the pavement and followed the taxi.As the Buick followed the Lincoln, the two vehicles roared down the sidewalk one after the other, and the crowd fled and scrambled for safety. At the entrance to the dock, a porter is loading luggage from a taxi onto a four-wheeled cart.The movers didn't see the Lincoln until it hit the cart.The worker jumped into the air, still holding the suitcase tightly in his hands, as if he was going to catch a train that was parked somewhere in the sky.Other luggage flew away like frightened birds.The cart quickly slid down the pier and into the sea.The porter landed on his feet first, and fell on the roof of the Buick that was rushing over. After turning a perfect somersault, he sat down on the suitcase before landing. On his frightened black face, only oval white eyeballs and white teeth were seen. In front of the shipyard where the Kuna shipped, St. Bo found a gap leading to a back street.He turned in and realized there was no way to go full speed and pass the tow vehicle he had just met on the sidewalk.When he narrowly missed the elevated concrete pier of the railway on the other side, the bumper of the towing vehicle narrowly passed over the left rear fender of the Lincoln. The tow truck applied the air brakes, and there was a screech of rubber on the dry brick pavement.The tow truck honked desperately.But it was too late to stop the Buick that followed the Lincoln car.The towing vehicle hit from the side.The clatter of metal overwhelmed the surrounding noise.Suddenly, a thoughtless riot broke out in the streets and alleys. The tow truck overturned the Buick, with the front wheels running over its body.Hundreds of people fled in all directions as if they were headless. St. Peter was finally able to escape. He did not witness the accident or hear the commotion.He was in the driveway, and the nine blocks ahead were clear.By this time, the black Lincoln had been forgotten.By the time the police arrived at the scene of the accident to collect evidence, St. Peter had already driven through Forty-second Street.No witnesses were able to identify the car model; no one thought to note the license plate number; all accounts of driving varied. St. Peter suddenly found himself trapped at the interchange leading to the Lincoln Tunnel.The three-lane road was so full of cars one after another that it was impossible to reverse and turn back. As he trotted behind a truck of refrigerators, his panic had subsided into an ironic panic.He was not disturbed by the killing just now. "Hmph, don't think Daddy Nigger is easy to mess with," he murmured. Saint Peter has undergone subtle changes.He was the legendary Uncle Tom again—a dumb old nigger, a jester who groveled to white people, and a submissive, loyal, selfless old gray-haired fool. A long line of convoys stopped in front of the tollbooth one after another. While the car stopped moving, St. Peter hid the shotgun under the back seat and threw the shooter's straw hat on the seat. The tollbooth looks like the entrance to a military stronghold where nuclear weapons were hidden during wartime.Next to the toll booths are helmeted and booted policemen straddling heavy locomotives; beyond that are black and white police cars patrolling the tunnel. After collecting the fifty cents toll, the station attendant waved St. Peter forward, but a policeman straddling the locomotive paced over and stopped him. "Dude, what's that pothole in the rear of the car?" St. Uncle grinned, revealing his black and yellow decayed teeth, and his slightly bluish, bloodshot eyes rolled slyly. "It's a bullet hole, my lord," he said proudly. "What!" startled the policeman; he had expected St. Peter's denial. "You mean bullet holes?" "Yes, my lord, the bullet holes are real bullet holes." The policeman frowned and stared straight at St. Peter. "Did you make those bullet holes?" "No, my lord, it's not." The toll collector couldn't help smiling, but the policeman showed displeasure. "Who made that?" "It's my boss, Mr. Sergeant, it's Mr. Jeffers who did it." "Who did he shoot at?" "For me, Mr. Police Officer. If he gets a little upset, he will raise his gun and shoot me, but he has never shot me... Hehe." The toll collector laughed out loud, but the police didn't like it very much. "Pull the car over there and wait," he ordered, pointing to where the patrol car was parked. Saint Boyle complied.The policeman in the patrol car stared at him curiously. The police entered the glass-enclosed toll booths and carefully checked the list of wanted vehicles.This Lincoln was not listed.He fumbled here and there for fifteen minutes, looking increasingly irritable.Finally, he finally asked the toll collector: "Do you think I should detain him?" "Why detain him?" said the station clerk. "An old black man like him can only steal his boss's whiskey at most, what else can he do?" The policeman stepped out of the toll booth and waved his hand to tell him to keep going. So it was only fifteen past seven, and St. Peter was out of the tunnel and driving into Jersey City. He left the boulevard at the first fork and turned north on the rutted brick street beside the pier.He drives slowly and carefully, obeying all traffic signals.It took an hour to reach the first road from New Jersey to the Washington Bridge.He crossed the bridge into Manhattan, and fifteen years later he had crossed the Harlem River and returned to the Bronx. Before arriving at the Bliss Sisters' place, he tossed the dead shooter's hat, took out his shotgun, reloaded it, and placed it on the front seat within easy reach. "Now, let's wait for the opportunity." He said to himself. It was about eight-thirty, and the clock in the car was broken, and St. Peter was not wearing a watch.Anyway, time has long been meaningless to him.