Hank counted the wads of bills.It was a very large sum—one hundred and fifty pristine ten-dollar bills.He looked at Jackson coldly with his brown eyes. "You gave me fifteen hundred dollars, didn't you?" He wanted a direct answer.This is serious business. Hank was a wiry little man with freckled brown skin and thin, straight hair.He looked like he was making a deal. "Yes," Jackson replied, "fifteen hundred." It was a serious business for Jackson, too. Jackson was a short, fat black man with purple gums and pearly white teeth when he smiled, but he wasn't smiling now.Laughing was also serious business for Jackson.He was only twenty-eight years old, but, facing such a serious transaction, he looked ten years older than his actual age.

"You want me to turn your money into fifteen thousand dollars, don't you?" Hank then asked. "Yes," Jackson replied, "fifteen thousand." He tried his best to sound happy, but he was so scared that sweat kept dripping from his short curly hair.His round black face glowed like an honest man. "I'll get ten percent of it—that's fifteen hundred dollars, right?" Hank asked gravely. "Yes, I will pay you fifteen hundred yuan." "I'll get five percent," Jody said. "It's seven hundred and fifty bucks, isn't it?"

Jordy is a young boy of medium build with a sallow, rough skin. He has hard muscles due to work. He wears a leather jacket and a pair of GI trousers.His hair was long and thick, burnt red at the straight ends and black at the roots.He hasn't had a haircut since New Year's Eve, and it's mid-February.Because of these unmistakable marks on Jordy, one could deduce that he was a workman just by looking at him. "Okay..." Jackson said, "When it's done, you get seven hundred and fifty dollars." It was because of Jordy that Hank got the money for him. "I want the rest," Imabella yelled, and the others laughed.

Imabella was Jackson's woman: a hot black woman with puffy lips and banana-colored skin, teasing brown eyes, and a bow-like ass, As round as two balls, it seems to be a natural stunner—Amante①.Jackson was already fascinated by this woman as a stag is to a doe. ①In Italian, it means "lover, lover". The group is standing around the table in the kitchen.Outside the window is 142nd Street, and the snow is falling on the frozen piles of garbage, which stretch along the slums like a dike to the end of the field of vision. Jackson and Imabella lived in the house, in a room down the hall.The landlord has gone to work, and the other tenants are not there.At this time, this world belongs to them.

Hank wants to turn the fifteen hundred dollar bill Jackson gave him into a fifteen thousand dollar bill.Jackson looked at Hank, carefully rolled each banknote into a piece of chemical paper, and then glued the rolled banknotes into a cardboard tube like a flower tube, and finally put these tubes together Stacked inside that new gas range oven. Jackson's eyes turned red with suspicion. "I said... dude, are you sure you can use these chemical papers?" "Should work. I've done it with it before," Hank replied affirmatively. Hank is the only person in the world who has a special chemical paper that can replace the face of banknotes.This technique is his own invention.

Still, Jackson watched Hank's every move.Even when Hank turned away and put the bill in the oven, he was staring at the back of his head. "Honey, don't worry so much!" Imabella wrapped her smooth yellow arms around Jackson's arms covered by black sleeves, "You know he can't miss. You've seen him do it before." Jackson had indeed seen Hank do this before.Hank had given him a demonstration two days ago.He turned the ten-dollar bill into a hundred-dollar bill in front of Jackson.Jackson also took the one hundred dollars to the bank. He told the bank clerk that he had won the dice and wanted to ask if the bill was real.The clerk told him: Those banknotes are the same as those printed from the mint, and they are genuine.

The conjured hundred-dollar bill was taken back by Hank, who returned the original ten-dollar bill to Jackson.So Jackson believed Hank. However, this time it will affect his whole life. The money was Jackson's only wealth in this world, and it was all the hard-won savings he had accumulated during his five years working for the funeral director, Mr. Exedus H. Clay.He was in charge of driving the limousine to the funeral, loading the dead into makeshift hearses, sweeping the chapel, washing the dead, sweeping the embalming room, and hauling away dumpsters full of clotted blood, shredded flesh and rotting offal. .

He got Mr. Clay to the max, advanced his salary, he borrowed money from all his friends, he pawned his fine clothes, gold watches, tie clips with imitation diamonds, and one he got from a dead man's pocket , the gold signet ring found...his money was hard to come by, so Jackson didn't want any surprises. "I'm not worried," Jackson said. "I'm just nervous. I don't want to get caught." "Honey, how did we get caught? Nobody knows what we're doing here." Hank closed the oven door and lit the gas. "Jackson, I'm going to make you a rich black man."

"Thank God. Amen." Jackson prayed while crossing himself.He was not a Christian, but a Puritan, a member of the First Puritan Church in Harlem.Moreover, he is still a young man with strong religious thoughts. Whenever he encounters trouble, he will draw the sign of the cross on his chest to pray for peace. "Sit down, honey," said Imabella, "your knees are shaking." Jackson sat down at the table and stared at the oven.Imabella stood beside him, pressing his head against her chest.Hank looked at his watch, counting the time.Jody stood on the other side, mouth gaping.

"Ready?" Jackson asked. "One more minute," Hank replied.He walked to the water tank and took a sip of water. "Is it a minute?" Jackson asked again. At this moment, with a "bang", the oven exploded and the oven door was rushed open. "Big ball of fire! . . . " Jackson yelled, jumping up from his chair as if bouncing off the chair he was sitting on. "Honey, be careful!..." Imabella screamed, hugging Jackson tightly, and laying her body flat on Jackson's back. "Hold still, in the name of the law! . . . " cried a new voice.

A tall, lanky man of color with a policeman's scowl burst into the kitchen.He holds a pistol in his right hand and a gilded badge in his left. "I'm a police officer in the United States of America and I'll shoot anyone who moves." He looked like he was about to do just that. The kitchen was full of smoke and smelled like burning gunpowder.Gas poured from the gas stove, and cardboard tubes heated in the oven were charred and scattered on the ground. "Oh, it's the police!..." Imabella exclaimed. "Damn it, I heard it!..." Jackson yelled. "Fuck him, let's beat him up," Jody yelled. Jordy tripped the cop over the table and ran for the door.Hank got to the door faster than he did, and they both ran out.Policeman extensors on the table. "God, run! . . . " said Imabella excitedly. "Run, don't wait for me!..." Jackson shouted. Jackson was on all fours, prone on the ground, trying to get up with all his might. Imabella ran for the door, but, with too much movement, bumped into Jackson, knocking him down again. The other three had run away before the officer could straighten up. "Don't move!..." the policeman yelled at Jackson. "I won't move, officer." The police officer finally stood up. He suddenly pulled Jackson up from the ground, and quickly put a pair of handcuffs on Jackson's wrist. "If you want to take me for a fool, you will be handcuffed for ten years!..." Jackson's face suddenly turned as gray as the hull of a battleship. "Hey, listen to me, officer. I didn't do anything, I swear to God." Jackson had previously studied at a black college in the South, but whenever he was excited or frightened, the dialect would pop up. "Sit down and shut up!..." the officer ordered loudly. He turned off the gas and began picking up cardboard tubes lying on the floor that would serve as evidence.He opened one, took out a fresh hundred-dollar bill, held it up to the light. "It's a sample of a ten-dollar bill. It still has marks on it." Jackson was about to sit down when he stopped suddenly and began pleading with the police. "I didn't do this, officer. I swear to God. Those two guys who got away did it. I just came to the kitchen for a drink of water." "Don't lie to me, Jackson. I know you and I've got proof, man. I've been watching you three counterfeiters for days." Tears rolled down Jackson's eyes, he was terrified. "Police officer, listen to me, I swear to God, none of this has anything to do with me. I don't even know what to do." Jackson begged excitedly, "That little man named Hank who escaped, It's the counterfeiter, he's the only one who can get the paper." "Don't worry about them, Jackson, I'll catch them too. I'm going to catch you now, and I'm going to take you to the Federal Police. I warn you that everything you say now will be brought to court. Evidence." Jackson slid off his chair and knelt on the ground. "Officer, let me go this time." Tears streamed down his face. "Only this one time, officer. I have never been arrested. I am a religious person, and I have never been dishonest." Jackson Pleading, "I admit, I gave Hank money to do it, but he broke the law, not me. Of course, I didn't do nothing, but if there is a chance to get a lot of money , no one will not do it." "Get up, Jackson, and be punished like a man," said the officer. "You're as guilty as anyone else. If you hadn't given Hank these ten-dollar bills, he wouldn't have had the chance to turn them into hundred-dollar bills." .” Jackson thought that he would spend ten years in prison, and he would not be able to be with Imabella for ten years.He was with Imabella for only eleven months, but he couldn't live without her.He would marry Imabella as soon as she divorced the Southerner to whom she was still married.However, if she went to prison for ten years, she would definitely be with other men, and she would completely forget him. Coming out of prison ten years later, he was old, thirty-eight, dry.No one would give him another job, no woman would take him, and he would be a bum, starving and skinny, begging on the streets of Harlem, sleeping in front of other people's houses, and using alcohol to keep warm.Jackson's mother had never raised a son like this, worked hard to earn money, sent him to a black college, and turned him into a criminal.He couldn't let the police take him into the police station. He hugged the policeman's thigh. "Please show me some mercy for a sinner. I know I'm doing wrong, but I'm not a criminal, as I've just said. My woman wants a new coat and we want one of our own A house, and preferably a car. I surrender to the temptations. You're black like me, and you should understand me. Where are we poor colored people going to get money?" The officer jerked Jackson to his feet. "Damn it, pick yourself up, man. Go get a sip of water. You're doing it like I'm Jesus." Jackson walked to the water tank and drank a glass of water.He was crying like a child, wah wah wah. "You ought to have some sympathy," he said, "any human sympathy. I've lost all my money in this transaction. Isn't that punishment enough? Must I be sent to Prison?" "Jackson, you're not the first criminal I caught. If I let everyone go, where would I be?..." The black policeman said seriously, "Unemployed, penniless, hungry. Like that If I do not, I will break the law and become a criminal." Jackson looked at the vile, dirty eyes in the sergeant's stern, livid face.He knew the guy's heart and had no mercy.As long as the colored people break the law, they lose all the charity of Christ.He had to figure out a way. "Officer, if you let me go, I'll pay you two hundred dollars." He offered a deal.The officer looked at Jackson's wet face. "Jackson, I can't do this. But I think you're an honest man who went astray because of a woman. Because you and I are both black, I'm going to let you go this time. Give me two hundred Dollars, and you're free." Jackson wanted to use two hundred dollars to fill this hole, and the only way was to steal his boss's money.Mr. Clay always puts two or three hundred dollars in his safe.There was nothing Jackson hated more than having to steal Mr. Clay's money.Jackson never stole money.He is an honest man.However, there is no other way now to let him escape from danger. "I don't have any money right now. I have to go to the funeral home where I work to get the money." "Okay, here's the deal. I'll take you in my car, Jackson. But you must keep your word and don't try to escape." "I'm not a criminal! . . . " protested Jackson. "I don't have to run away, I swear to God. I'll go in and get the money, and I'll give it to you." The officer uncuffed Jackson and motioned him to go ahead.They went down four flights of stairs to Eighth Avenue, across from the apartment. The policeman gestured to a flattened black Ford. "You see, I'm a poor man, too, Jackson." "Yes, sir, but you are not as poor as I am, for I am not only poor but also in debt." "It's too late to cry poor now, Jackson." They climbed into the car, drove south on 134th Street, turned east on Lenox Avenue, and stopped in front of the Exedes H. Clay Funeral Home. Jackson stepped out of the car and crept up stone steps covered with red rubber treads into an old stone house with curtained glass doors.He glanced at the dimly lit chapel, and there were three corpses lying in the opened coffin. Smitty, the driver and handyman, was hugging a woman, half-lying quietly on a red chair covered with velvet, like a person lying in an upright coffin.They didn't hear Jackson come in. Jackson tiptoed around them, down the corridor, to the broom closet.He took out a mop and a set of overalls, and tiptoed back to the front office. By this time of the afternoon, if there were no funerals, Mr. Clay would be dozing off on the couch in his office.Antiseptic worker Marcus stays on duty.But Marcus always slipped away to the Persian Cat Bar on 135th Street and Seventh Avenue. Jackson gently pushed open the door of Mr. Clay's office, tiptoed in, leaned the mop against the wall, and began to wipe the small black safe standing in the corner beside an old-fashioned pull-top desk.The door of the safe was closed, but not locked. Mr. Clay was lying on his side, facing the wall.In the dim light of a floor lamp that was always on in the front window, he looked like a refugee who had escaped from an exhibition hall. Mr. Clay was a small, parchment-skinned, elderly man with dull brown eyes and bushy gray hair.His usual attire: a tuxedo, double-breasted off-white vest, striped trousers, collarless shirt with a tie, and a pair of rimless glasses with long black ribbons hanging securely from the vest. "Is that you, Marcus?" he asked suddenly, without turning around. Startled, Jackson replied, "No, sir. It's me, Jackson." "What are you doing here, Jackson?" "I'm cleaning, Mr. Clay." Jackson answered, and deftly opened the door of the safe. "I thought you weren't here this afternoon." "Yes, sir. But I am thinking of Mr. William's family, who are coming to see Mr. William's body this evening, and I know you hope that when they get here, everything will be settled." "Don't try so hard, Jackson," Mr. Clay said in a daze. "I'm not going to give you a raise." Jackson pretended to laugh. "Oh, you are joking, Mr. Clay. It just so happens that my woman is not at home today, and she has gone out to visit." While Jackson was speaking, he opened the door inside the safe. "Women are a nuisance," muttered Mr. Clay. In the money drawer was a pile of twenty-dollar bills, bundled into bundles of several hundred dollars. "Haha, you're joking, Mr. Clay." Jackson said as he took out five stacks of banknotes and put them in his trousers pocket. He fiddled with the mop handle, making a clicking sound, and closed the two doors of the safe. "God, you must forgive me, I have to," he said silently, and then said aloud, "Now I'm going to clean the stairs." Mr. Clay said nothing. Jackson tiptoed back to the broom closet, put away the clothes and the mop, and tiptoed to the front door, Smitty and the woman still asleep. Jackson came out quietly, down the stairs, to the policeman's car.He took out two hundred dollars and slipped them to the police through the open car window. The policeman kept the money between his legs as he counted it.Then, he nodded and stuffed the money into the inside pocket of his suit. "This is a lesson for you, Jackson," he said. "There is no regret for a crime."