Chapter 16 Chapter Thirteen

The Blissful Sisters believe that there is more than one way to lure a snake out of its hole.If Pinkie didn't show up right away, she was going to trick St. Peter into believing the kid had found something, and then force Pinkie to a showdown. That's when she heard gunshots.Realistic pistol fire sounds.She has heard it countless times, and there is no way she could be wrong. She sat upright on a park bench facing the church by the river, looking around. Then there were screams. It was a logical chain reaction, she thought sarcastically, in the back of her aging heart—whenever someone shoots, women scream.

However, on the surface of her mind, she was full of various speculations.If someone was killed, then this thing is probably a tricky thing to touch, she thought. She then saw two men walking out of the apartment complex.The distance made it difficult to see their faces clearly, and their hats were pulled down to their eyebrows, but she knew she would never forget them. One of them was a fat man with a greasy but fair round face, broad shoulders giving the impression of strength, and a single-breasted suit made of dacron.He put another person's arm, as if he was pushing the person forward.

The other was a thin man with a haggard face and dark circles under his eyes.Even from a considerable distance, she could still see that he was addicted.The man was wearing a light gray summer suit and was shaking as if he had caught a cold. They walked quickly in opposite directions.The Bliss Sisters saw them get into a gray Buick Grand.The car is just like any other car of the same style.She couldn't see the license plate number, only that it was a New York State issued car. She believes that she should have gained something: this information can be sold for money.It's not yet known how much it's worth, but she'll wait and see.

She doesn't have to wait long.The first police car appeared a little over two minutes later; within five minutes the street was full of police cars and two ambulances. At this time, people leaned out of the window one after another, and as usual, crowds gathered.Police have cordoned off and kept the front of the house clear. She thought that it would be no problem to approach the scene now.She saw a person being lifted out of the stretcher and quickly pushed into the ambulance.A third medical worker accompanied him, holding a vial of blood plasma.The ambulance sped away with its siren blaring.

She recognized the face. "'Gravedigger' Johns," she whispered to herself. A shudder ran down her spine. Ed "Coffin Bucket" stepped out and tried to shake off the two ambulance paramedics who were assisting him.They eventually put him in a second ambulance, though. Sister Bliss was about to back away when someone said, "There's another one, an African with his throat cut." She leaves quickly.At this time, they saw two black RVs full of plainclothes criminal police from the serious crime team stop.She knew it was valuable information that could cut her throat and kill her.

To hail a cab, she hurried up the Broadway ramp.She was so flustered that she forgot to open the parasol to shade her face from the direct sunlight. It wasn't until she got into the taxi and felt it move that she felt at ease again.But she knew very well: St. Peter and the troublesome Lincoln had to be got rid of, or she might be in deep danger. Arriving on her street, she found fire trucks, police cars, and heavily dressed people—mostly Italian with a few blacks—in the midday heat, risking heat stroke, to pay them back. Morbid curiosity. This whole city is crazy, she thought, high class or ghetto.

The taxi drove closer and closer, and she stretched her neck to search for her residence, but she didn't see it at all.From the window of the car, she could not see the remnants of the floor.In her eyes, the whole house seemed to disappear out of thin air.The only thing she saw was the Lincoln, which stood out like a red-hot cigarette in the sun. She stopped a taxi and stopped a passerby before approaching the cordon. "What's going on down the street?" "Explosion!" gasped the hatless, Italian-looking worker, breathing heavily as if he couldn't get enough of the hot, dusty air. "The house was bombed. Killed an old couple who lived in it. I heard they were called Bliss. Both disappeared without a trace. Probably dead."

He didn't care how she would react, and immediately after finishing speaking, he searched for the scraps of paper like everyone else. This time is great, is it really wonderful?she thought.She then asked the taxi driver, "Go and see what they're picking up." The driver got out of the car and borrowed a scrap of paper from a young man to have a look.It was the corner of a hundred-dollar bill.He took it back and showed it to Sister Bliss.The young man followed him suspiciously. "Shards of a hundred-dollar bill," he said. "They are probably printing counterfeit money."

"Then tear it up," said Sister Bliss. The two standing were staring at her. "Give it back to him and let him go," she said. She immediately understood that it was St. Bo who was trying to blow up her safe.She wasn't surprised at all.He probably used a ton of dynamite, though, she guessed.She wished he'd picked a better time for his prank. The taxi driver climbed back into the driver's seat and looked at her with growing suspicion. "Aren't you going to that room?" "What nonsense, man," she snapped. "The house is gone, so what else should I do?"

"Don't you want to talk to the police?" he insisted. "I just want you to turn around, drive me back to Baiyuan Road, and drop me off at the playground." At this moment, the green playground is empty.The sun grills the sandpit, and the iron slide emits heat.Sister Bliss sat on the bench, the hot slats searing her hips.But she didn't realize it. She took out the pipe, filled it with marijuana powder in a small oilcloth pouch, and lit it with an old-fashioned gold pipe lighter with her initials engraved on it.Then, she opened the black and white striped parasol, held the sunshade in her left hand, and held a pipe in her right, inhaling the sweet and pungent marijuana smoke deeply into her lungs.

Sister Bliss is a fatalist.If she had read the Rubaiyat by Omar Khayyam (Omar Khayyam, 1048-1122, Persian poet, philosopher, and astronomer), what might come to her mind now is: Move your fingers to write, and the writing becomes a line gradually; whether it is pious or witty, or just shedding tears, words and phrases are hard to erase... But what she actually thought was: Huh, I'm back to the original point of having nothing, but I won't sit still. The experience of life has taught Sister Bliss not to shed tears.Crying whores don't help; and that's what she started out with.At fifteen she ran away from the shack she called home - they were sharecroppers - and became a whore with a pimp because she was too cute and too lazy to hoe corn and services such as picking cotton.When cotton and corn became slow sellers in the market, he told her that if she would sell herself, she would find a buyer.The memory brought up a smile.He's a bad pimp, but he's likable.But in the end he kicked her away just like the others after him, leaving her with nothing but his own clothes. Then her thoughts turned to cynicism: even cotton would rot with time, and corn too wormy to peel, not to mention the yellowing of a prostitute. Anyway, when she switched careers to running a faith-healing facility, her life became richer, which meant she was able to feast on pork chops and roast pigs instead of pig feet and small intestines.After that, her relationship between men and women changed completely, and she began to be the master of the house. Once she got tired of a lover, she kicked them out. She knocked the ash out of the pipe.The ocher pupils were dilated and ruthless, and there were faint pink spots under the tough skin. As she walked up White Plains Road, the drab buildings cast harsh bright hues.She has not been to this highland for more than twenty years.She felt as if her steps were gliding through the air, but her mind remained clear and organized. She began to suspect that she had miscalculated the deal from the very beginning.She'd thought it was a shipment of heroin, but maybe that wasn't the case at all. It can't be Lao Shizi's treasure map, she thought angrily.The kind of old-fashioned scam that was out of the game when the plane was born. Is it true?Another thought in mind so questioned.Is it possible that some gang found a treasure somewhere and drew a map showing where it was?But what the hell kind of treasure would that be?And how did this map fall into the hands of someone like Gus?A simple-minded apartment manager? The marijuana tobacco made her mind jump like a jiroupa.She turned into a grocery store and ordered black coffee. She didn't notice the man next door until he said, "Excuse me, are you a model?" She glanced at him casually.He looked like a salesman, the kind who knocks on doors. "No, I am the devil's mistress," she said viciously. The man blushed. "Sorry, I thought you might be a model for some advertising company." After speaking, he buried his head in the pile of newspapers. It was an evening paper of the American Journal, and she saw a banner headline facing her section: There is another column on this topic.Adjacent to it was a photo of Johns the Gravedigger and Ed the Coffin Bucket, resembling the Harlem robbery duo in criminal file photos. She tried to read the entire report until the man folded the paper. So they both killed someone, she thought, in front of Riverside Church.It must have been around the time Pinky lied about the false fire alarm. Her mind was racing wildly.She tried to recall Pink Boy's words, deeds and demeanor.An idea gradually took shape, but she hadn't yet come up with an answer. She stood up suddenly, and her male companion at the table backed away in horror.But she just pays the bill and rushes out, walking quickly to the nearest taxi rank. She paid the taxi fare in front of Riverside Church and looked at her pocket watch.It's three thirty-seven. She patrolled the streets and alleys.The police car had already left, but there was no trace of the police, only a black RV parked at the entrance and exit of the apartment at the end of the street. Maybe it was a step too late, and when the thought popped up, a sinking feeling rose in her stomach.She opened the parasol, held the umbrella in her left hand, and held a heavy black beaded bag on her right arm. She slightly raised the right skirt and walked slowly towards the end of the street, turning to the apartment. A tall, expressionless white policeman was standing guard at the door.When he saw her, he froze for a moment. "Hey, lady over there," he said to stop her. "You can't come in here." Then he thought for a moment and added, "Unless you live here." "Why not?" she retorted. "Could it be blocked here?" "If you don't stay here, what are you going to do when you go in?" he repeated. "I'm here to collect subscription fees for The Old Man's Home from those black people," she said flatly. But he's a conscientious cop. "Do you have any papers?" he asked. "Or anyone who can provide identification?" She raised her eyebrows. "What kind of certificate do I need? I am the president of the magazine myself." "Oh, then I'm afraid you'll have to come back later. The police are searching inside now, you know, and they don't want any strangers waiting to come into the house." "捜索!" She exclaimed, looking terrified and restless. "Isn't there a dead body hidden in the basement?" The policeman grinned. She reminded him of a character in a stage play he had seen. "Hey, there is no corpse, but a batch of treasures were buried," he said. "My God!" she said. "What has the world become?" His mouth opened wider. "It's scary, isn't it?" She turned to leave. "Oh, if they find it, don't forget about us," she said. He laughed out loud. "Never forget it!" he said. She walked into the apartment next door and chose a spot in the front hall where she could observe the entrance and exit next door.The passing tenants looked at her curiously, but she didn't take it seriously. One thing is certain, she thought, if the thing was in the house, the police would probably find it.But thinking about it the other way around, since the two shooters knew exactly what they were looking for, why didn't they find it? Questions filled her head. God, I wish I knew what I was looking for, she thought. She saw a small delivery truck parked in front of the next door.The sides of the hull are painted SPCA. Ok, now what is this doing?she thought. She saw two men in thick leather gloves and white dust jackets get out of the car and enter the house. They were back a few minutes later, Pinkie's shiba on a heavy leash. There was a bang in her head.What a goddamn waste of time!she thought angrily.And that's how it always is. This is called the most conspicuous place, which is the safest place. She watched as the attendants led the dog into the SPCA van and drove away.She had to resist the urge to rush out to call the dog by its name and retrieve it.It's just that she knew that in this way she would end up in prison, and the dog was still in their hands.It's like watching a friend go overboard, she thought.Although you feel sympathy deeply, there is no way to reach him.There is more than enough heart but not enough strength. She began to wrestle with what the SPCA stood for.It can't be "Catch Animal SWAT", that doesn't make sense.Why do you need special police to do what ordinary police can do? Then it hit her: the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.She had forgotten where she had heard of it, but that was it anyway. She left her post and walked toward Broadway, stepping into the first bar.Instantly found the phone number for the Manhattan branch of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. A melodious, detached female voice answered her dial. "I heard that you sell stray dogs," said Sister Bliss. "I want to buy a dog." "We're not selling stray dogs that have been brought here," the woman explained. "We try to find a home for them where they live in harmony with the owner, and we ask for a donation of two dollars to help the foundation run." "Oh, that's all right," said Sister Bliss. "I can afford two dollars. Do you have a dog now?" "Well, yes, but do you have a particular favorite dog?" "I want a big dog, a dog as big as a lion," said Sister Bliss. "We rarely have dogs that big," the woman said suspiciously. "And we're very picky about who we adopt. Can you tell me why you need such a big dog?" "It is so," said Sister Bliss. "I own a roadside snack bar in New Jersey. Not far from Hoboken. And to be honest with you, it's not a safe area. There's a big fenced yard for the dogs to run though. Of course, there are often plenty of bones too, not to mention meat for him to eat." "I see. You need a watchdog?" "Yes. But he can't be too big. Our previous guard dog was very big. He was a German dog, but the thieves killed him." "I understand. You use the word 'he.' So, does it matter if it's a bitch?" "That's better, as long as she's big enough." "What a coincidence you're calling at this time," said the woman with a sweet voice. "There may be a large bitch within a few days. Would you mind giving me your name and address?" "A few days!" Sister Bliss cried out in disappointment. "I thought I'd get one today. I'm going on a two week holiday tomorrow and I'm hoping to leave that dog in the care of a caretaker while I'm away." "Oh, that's impossible, you know we have to review... But, if you could please hold on, just a minute, maybe..." The blissful sisters waited for a reply. Then the sweet voice said, "Hello, are you still there?" "Yes, I'm still here." "Well, you'll probably get the big dog you want today. It's pretty out of order, but one of these just came in, and if you'd like to call back in an hour, we'll I can give you an affirmative answer. Is it possible?" "Okay," Sister Bliss finished, and hung up the phone. She looks at her watch.Four past three. At exactly five o'clock, she called back. The woman with the sweet voice said she was sorry and a detective had come and taken the dog away. The Bliss Sisters understand exactly how people feel when they say "Damn it!"