In the end, Franklin put his pants back on and handed Fang Moqi a cigar.
Fang Moqi did not smoke, so he gave it to Lan Mu, who sat off to the side and leisurely puffed on it.
Lan Mu could not speak authentic street English, and even understanding it was difficult for him. He could only watch Fang Moqi negotiate with Franklin.
Still, it was English after all, and he caught the general gist. They really were discussing weapons, safehouses, and the like.
Before long, Franklin had another Black man go fetch something.
The man went into the open kitchen and dragged a small cart into the living room.
The cart had four drawers. When they were pulled open one by one, they revealed nothing but firearms and grenades.
Fang Moqi called to Lan Mu, "Come pick something out!"
Lan Mu walked over and casually picked up a handgun, the largest gun in the drawer. It was the famous Desert Eagle.
"Don't use that thing. It's too flashy! Take this!"
Fang Moqi handed him another pistol, which Lan Mu recognized as an M1911.
"An old gun, but light and easy to use. .45 caliber, decent power. Shoot someone in the face with it and even their mother wouldn't recognize them."
Lan Mu weighed it twice in his hand, then tossed it back. "I don't need a gun. Just get me a bow and some arrows."
Fang Moqi smiled. He knew how good Lan Mu was with a bow. In some ways, he was even more dangerous than a gun.
"I'm not used to guns either. I'm buying one for insurance. When it comes to raw power, guns are still more useful."
In the end, Fang Moqi chose a handgun with four magazines, plus twenty grenades.
"Why are you buying