Friends (Part 2)

Patrick parked the patrol car in the designated spot behind the Precinct, killed the engine, and sat in the car for a while. He held an unlit cigarette in his hand for a moment before pushing the door open and heading toward the office of Morales.

He ran into Donovan in the hallway, and the young officer nodded at him.

Patrick didn't respond and didn't slow his pace. Donovan watched his back, shrugged, and continued on his way.

The door to the office of Morales was half-open, and Patrick knocked twice on the doorframe.

"Come in."

Morales was sitting behind his desk with reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, reviewing a patrol shift schedule. On the desk sat a glass of mango juice, condensation clinging to the sides, nearly finished.

"Frank."

Patrick walked in and pulled the door shut behind him.

Morales took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Did you ask?"

"I asked."

Patrick sat down in the chair opposite him.

"Ten thousand dollars. He said you can just spend it—groceries, gas—it'll be gone in a few months. The IRS won't look into that amount."

Morales nodded, waiting.

"Then he brought up larger amounts on his own."

"How large?"

"One hundred thousand, two hundred thousand."

Morales's eyebrows twitched.

"How many methods did he suggest?"

"Three."

Patrick counted them off on his fingers.

"Structuring deposits, buying assets, setting up shell businesses..."

"What does he recommend?"

"He recommends buying assets—buying gold."

"Gold?"

Morales leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his stomach. His gaze shifted from Patrick's face to the dying pothos plant in the corner.

"The reason?"

"No need to manage it, no need to report taxes, no paper trail. The only risk is getting robbed at home... but we're cops."

The corners of Morales's mouth curled slightly, but he didn't speak.

"Also, he said gold will go up."

"Go up by how much?"

"It's nine hundred an ounce now. Within five years, at least eighteen hundred."

Morales narrowed his eyes, reached out to pick up the mango juice, and took a sip. The ice cubes clinked softly against the glass.

"Double?"

"Right, double."

"What did he say? About why it would go up."

"Financial crisis, the Federal Reserve printing money rapidly. When there's more money, it devalues, but the amount of gold is limited. The Fed can't print a single ounce of gold... so paper money devalues, and gold prices rise. Plus, gold has the benefit of being discreet..."

Patrick repeated it all.

The office fell silent. From the hallway came the noise of officers changing shifts—laughter, the hum of the coffee machine—before it gradually faded away.

Morales set the mango juice back on the desk and tapped his fingers on the surface twice.

"A stable investment, worth a try... too bad it's not for everyone."

Morales sighed. He sat up straight, picked up a notepad and pen from the desk, wrote a few words, tore off the note, folded it in half, and pushed it toward Patrick.

"207 Hollis Avenue, Old Tony's jewelry shop."

Patrick took the note without opening it.

"Old Tony?"

"He's a retired brother. Transferred from Brooklyn in '86, served twenty years, retired in '03. His leg was crippled by a shotgun blast, so he opened a jewelry shop to get by. He can be trusted."

Patrick tucked the note into his pocket.

"Understood. I'll let the guys who need to know."

The lieutenant picked up his mango juice again and took a sip; the ice had mostly melted, leaving dense beads of condensation on the glass.

"He is a smart man."

Morales said this suddenly.

Patrick didn't ask who "he" was. He knew.

"The first time he came to the Precinct, I thought he was just a warm-hearted Chinese student—good at math, polite, and looking to make some friends."

Morales set the glass down.

"Later, when he helped the entire Precinct, I began to feel..."

He paused.

"That he might be a saint."

Patrick remained silent.

At this point, Morales even chuckled.

"But he probably isn't a saint, and he certainly isn't a spy. No country would send someone like Dr. Lin An to work as a spy."

He looked up at Patrick.

"So, what is it that he wants?"

Patrick thought for a moment.

"I don't know."

"Neither do I," Morales said.

"But there is one thing I do know: every piece of help and advice he has given us is genuine. Even if I don't understand these things, I've been a cop for twenty-six years, and I know when a man is telling the truth."

His finger tapped the desk for the third time.

"So regardless of what he wants, at least he hasn't lied to us. In New York, a man who doesn't lie to you is already worth sitting down and having a proper conversation with."

Patrick took the note out of his pocket and opened it to take a look. 207 Hollis Avenue. The handwriting was scrawled but clear.

"Then this..."

"No rush."

Morales waved his hand.

"Let's wait and see. Whether gold rises or not isn't up to him; it's up to the market. Tell the guys to test the waters with a little bit of money first.

Use a month or two of gray money, buy a little, and hold it. See what the price is in a few months."

He paused.

"If it really goes up..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

Patrick nodded, folded the note back up, and put it in his pocket.

He stood up, ready to leave.

"Patrick."

"Yeah?"

"That ten thousand dollars of yours."

Morales peered over the top of his reading glasses, his eyes holding a glimmer that was hard to read.

"Don't put it all into gold. Keep two thousand and take Dr. Lin out for a meal. Find a decent restaurant; don't go to that Cuban place again. Take him to Manhattan and get something proper."

The corner of Patrick's mouth twitched.

"He won't take money."

"I know he won't take money, that's why you're taking him out to eat."

Morales put his reading glasses back on and let his gaze fall back onto the shift schedule.

"Observe how he acts in a high-end restaurant, and while you're at it, ask him if the standard deduction for the IRS will change next year."

Patrick was stunned for a moment.

"Why would you ask that?"

"No reason."

Morales flipped a page of the schedule without looking up.

"Just want to see if he happens to know that, too."

Patrick stood there for two seconds, then turned, opened the door, and walked out.

Morales sat alone in the office. The handwriting on the schedule blurred into gray streaks before his eyes. He wasn't looking at it; his gaze drifted over the top of his reading glasses and landed on the dying pothos plant.

"Nine hundred to eighteen hundred."

He muttered to himself, his voice very soft.

"Double it."

He reached out and picked up the cup of mango juice that had completely melted into water, shaking it and listening to the sound of the remaining ice shards rolling at the bottom.

He set the cup down, picked up the phone on the table, and dialed a number.

It rang three times.

"Hello?"

A gravelly male voice.

"Old Tony, it's me, Frank."

"Frank... long time no see. What made you think to call me?"

"Nothing major, just wanted to ask... how's business at your shop lately?"

There was a second of silence on the other end.

"It's alright. Why the sudden question?"

"Just asking."

Morales leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling on the blank space left behind after the sticky note had been torn away.

"In a few days, some friends might come by your shop to take a look."

"Your friends?"

"Friends from the Precinct."

There was another second of silence on the other end. Then, Old Tony's voice sounded again, lower and slower than before.

"Got it. Just let them come; I'll be at the shop."

"Good."

Morales hung up the phone.

One o'clock in the afternoon.

Darnell rode the Roadster Bicycle with Lin An on the back, pedaling along the back alley of Jamaica Community in Queens toward the Abandoned Furniture Factory.

The abandoned factory district was as dilapidated as ever, nothing worth describing, and the Abandoned Furniture Factory stood at the end of the street.

From the outside, this two-story brick structure looked no different than it had half a month ago.

The corrugated iron rolling door facing the street was still sealed with bank tape, and the damage caused by the Crips gunmen's intrusion previously seemed like nothing more than a false memory in Lin An's mind.

The entrance to the narrow side alley was piled with discarded wooden boards and flattened cardboard boxes, effectively blocking the way; unless one were looking for it, it would be impossible to tell there was a path there at all.

The only change was the angle of the cardboard boxes; if anyone had moved them, Old Joe would know.

Darnell parked the bike securely and hid it. The two of them squeezed into the narrow alley side-by-side, reached the end, and stopped in front of a hidden gray iron door. He knocked three times with his knuckles, paused for a second, and then knocked twice more.

The iron door was pulled open from the inside. It did not lead to a basement, but rather into the interior of the factory.

The person who opened the door was Michael, Old Joe's carpentry apprentice. The middle-aged Black man's face bore the exhaustion of labor. Upon seeing Lin An, he nodded and stepped aside to clear the path.

Lin An, carrying a backpack, walked inside.

The light inside the factory was dimmer than outside, but much brighter than the last time he had visited. Old Joe had installed several LED lights on the steel beams of the dome, hanging them with thin wire. The light spilled down in a fan shape, illuminating the entire first floor with clear outlines.

The wiring for the lights ran along the baseboards of the walls, secured with gray electrical tape; one would hardly notice it without looking closely.

This was Hector's handiwork.

There was no telling where Old Joe had secretly tapped the power lines, and one could only hope the employees of the private energy company supplying power to Jamaica Community wouldn't discover the anomaly at the Abandoned Furniture Factory.

The improvements inside the Queen Furniture Factory were not limited to this.

Lin An stood at the entrance, spending a dozen seconds scanning the entire space.

When he had come last time, this place was just a shell that had barely been cleared out, but now, the first floor was clearly divided into three functional zones.

The east side was the work area, where the tools used by Old Joe and the others were placed. The west side was the supply area, stacked with food, clothing, and various miscellaneous daily necessities along with the original discarded raw materials from the furniture factory. The area against the south wall was the rest area, where twenty tents stood.

Old Joe walked over quickly from the work area, pulling out a notebook to report.

"Boss, there are a few things I need to report to you."

"The first thing is about the clothes," Old Joe said.

"The batch of clothes you asked us to sell in the neighboring community last time—all three hundred pieces have been sold out."

"I had Catherine drive Danny over. They went to two different communities and sold the goods in three batches. The low-end clothes were priced low, basically at cost plus a little gas money, and they moved the fastest; they were gone in two afternoons."

"The few pieces in the high-end category—the coats and leather jackets you picked out separately—held their value, selling for three times the price of a second-hand shop per item."

Old Joe flipped a page in the notebook.

"The money from the sales is recorded here. You can check it at any time."

He paused, his fingers rubbing against the edge of his notebook.

"But there is a situation. Someone in the neighboring South Jamaica community has noticed our sales... not the police, but a few thugs. When Catherine went there for the second time the day before yesterday, they followed her for half a street."

Lin An shifted his gaze from the cardboard boxes in the supply area to Old Joe.

"Whose men are these thugs?"

"We don't know, boss."

Old Joe said, looking somewhat ashamed.

"I asked some homeless people I know, and they said there are at least three groups in that area, each occupying different street corners. The largest group has over a dozen people, led by a guy named Rocco. He started out in the black market for used cars and began collecting protection money last year. It's likely his men we ran into, but I'm not certain."

Lin An turned to look at Darnell, who shrugged.

"No problem. I'll ask Fatty and the others later. They hang out in South Jamaica often and know quite a few people, so they should be able to clear up the situation."

Lin An turned back.

"Until we figure out the situation, temporarily stop operations in the South Jamaica community."

"Understood, boss."

Old Joe nodded and flipped to the next page of his notebook.

"The second matter, the one you instructed last time..."

"Right, the clothes have been sold. How much money did we make, and have you set aside the sales commissions?"

Lin An asked.

"Not yet. The total amount and the distribution plan are calculated, just waiting for your review."

Lin An took the notebook from Old Joe and opened it to look.

One of the pages was densely packed with three columns of numbers: total sales, cost deductions, and net income.

Old Joe reported.

"You gave us three hundred pieces of clothing: two hundred and eighty low-end items and twenty high-end items. The low-end clothes were priced at a flat four dollars each, while the twenty high-end items were priced individually, ranging from twelve to thirty-five dollars. After deducting gas money and food expenses on the road, the net income is one thousand one hundred and forty-two dollars."

He paused for a moment.

"My idea is this: the main sales force is Catherine and Danny. Catherine is responsible for driving, bargaining, and dealing with customers, while Danny is responsible for moving goods, keeping watch, and staying on standby in the car. Catherine gets ten percent of the sales, Danny gets five percent, and the others... Hector helped sort the clothes, Michael made two trips moving clothes from the supply area to the car, and Allen checked the vehicle and route before departure. These three will each get two percent."

"That's too little... I'll take fifty percent of the money, and the remaining half will be the sales commission for them to split."

Lin An couldn't be bothered to haggle too much. Anyway, the clothes were all leftover stock, inventory, cut-tag items, or defective goods gifted by the viewers in the chat; they weren't worth much, so selling them at all was pure profit.

[The streamer is a bit too generous.]

[Forget it, that's not important. I have a warehouse full of leftover stock here. If the streamer wants it, I'll gift it tomorrow.]

Old Joe's pen stopped for a second. He looked up at Lin An, then lowered his head again, writing quickly in the notebook while scratching his head. Clearly, this math problem was troubling him.

"It's not that complicated."

Lin An said.

"Catherine and Danny will split that fifty percent directly, which is five hundred and seventy-one dollars. Catherine gets sixty percent, three hundred and forty-two dollars and sixty cents, and Danny gets forty percent, two hundred and twenty-eight dollars and forty cents. As for the other three, give them an extra twenty dollars each, taken from my share."

After Lin An finished speaking, he pondered for a moment.

"And then there's you. You've done a great job lately. Out of my five hundred dollars, you take two hundred. The rest of the money will be the base's operating fund. If there are any necessary expenses for the base, draw from that and just report it to me later."

Having struck it rich twice, Lin An didn't care much for this small change. Currently, there weren't many homeless employees at the base, and their motivation wasn't high, which meant the base was still in a purely investment phase. Making this thousand dollars seemed like a lot, but in reality, it was just okay.

If he were truly short on money, Lin An would take this cash and then provide sufficient food and daily necessities back to the base, using the guns to do something more useful... like selling guns.

Old Joe was stunned by Lin An's words. He remained blank for a few seconds, then licked his lips.

"Really?"

"That's how it will be distributed."

Lin An waved his hand.

"I'll arrange for Darnell to transport the second batch of clothes later... Old Joe, when you have time, also arrange for people to find a second base. Once the factory base is discovered, we will move immediately. The current situation makes it impossible for me to buy out the abandoned factory, so we will fight a guerrilla war first. Once conditions permit, we will transition into a regular force. Alright, what is the second matter?"

Old Joe wiped the corner of his eye and hurriedly said.

"The second matter is about Allen. Regarding the guns, he contacted a friend who wants to sell some through his former comrades-in-arms."

"What kind of weapons, and how much?"

Lin An asked.

"Boss, I don't know. You can ask Allen; he's keeping watch on the second floor right now."

Lin An turned and headed toward the stairs, while Darnell stayed behind to chat and brag with Old Joe.

The second floor had no lights on, but the afternoon sun leaked through the gaps in the window boards, slicing the floor into strips of alternating light and shadow, segmenting the entire space.

Allen sat on that iron stool with the sawed-off legs, his back to the stairwell, facing the window at the rear of the factory.

The blackout cloth over the window had been pulled back about two fingers' width, just enough for him to observe the movement along the back alley and the intersection by the abandoned gas station.

He heard footsteps but didn't turn around; his back muscles tightened for a split second before relaxing again... he had already identified who it was by the rhythm and weight of the steps.

"How is your wound healing?"

Allen didn't answer immediately.

His gaze remained fixed on the outside through that narrow gap, and only after a few seconds, confirming there was nothing worth noting outside, did he turn around.

Lin An looked down at Allen's right leg.

The pant leg was intact, unlike the left side which was pinned up empty below the knee. A military boot peeked out from beneath the hem; the leather was worn white, but it was polished clean.

"It doesn't hurt."

Allen said.

"Finish the medicine I gave you. Once I'm sure the wound isn't infected, I'll find a doctor to perform surgery to remove the shrapnel, and then I'll get you a prosthetic for your missing leg."

Lin An said, patting Allen on the shoulder.

"When that time comes, you'll be able to walk like a normal person... take this shotgun."

Lin An placed his backpack on the ground, took out the last sawed-off Remington 870 shotgun he possessed, and handed it to Allen along with a box of shells.

"This gun is yours. Later, pick two people to form a security team, and you'll be the captain."

Lin An thought for a moment and continued.

"Security team members get a daily wage of one hundred dollars. You'll get your pay from me, not through Old Joe's accounts."

Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun. Lin An trusted Old Joe, but he wouldn't put all his eggs in one basket with this old man. The security team led by Allen was his insurance and his check and balance.

Lin An's words stunned Allen; he sat there holding the shotgun and the shells, at a loss for what to do.

Lin An didn't give this down-and-out soldier a chance to respond, continuing his inquiry.

"The person you contacted, how do they plan to sell the guns?"

Allen collected his thoughts and reported instinctively.

"Reporting to boss, I contacted two of my comrades. They have one AK-47 assault rifle brought back from the Middle East for eighteen hundred dollars, five hundred rounds of ammunition for two hundred dollars, two M9 pistols for five hundred dollars, and two hundred rounds of nine-millimeter pistol ammo for one hundred dollars."

"What about grenades?"

Lin An asked.

"I remember there being grenades for sale."

Allen nodded.

"Reporting to boss, yes. Besides those, they also have grenades for sale: ten M67 fragmentation grenades at fifty dollars each."

[Compared to the black market, these goods aren't expensive at all.]

[It's not that they aren't expensive, they're dirt cheap.]

[Streamer, ask Allen one thing: are these sellers active duty or veterans?]

Lin An read this bullet comment and spoke up.

"Are these two sellers active duty or veterans?"

"Reporting to boss, they are active-duty soldiers."

The corners of Lin An's mouth curled up slightly. He suddenly realized this was a great opportunity, a high-quality channel.

He reached into his backpack, rummaged around for a moment, and pulled out a stack of small-denomination bills, placing them in Allen's hand.

"This is five thousand dollars. I want all of those guns, the ammo, and the grenades... take Catherine's car to pick up the goods. I don't care how you get them. Aside from the cost of the weapons, the rest of the money is your operating budget. I don't care how you spend it.

I only have one requirement: maintain your relationship with the sellers."

"Yes, boss."

The bullet comments began to scroll.

[Five thousand for an AK, M9s, grenades, and ammo—that price is actually cheap, but the channel is worth way more.]

[The streamer said "the rest is the operating budget," meaning the surplus belongs to Allen.]

[The package price for the guns and ammo: AK eighteen hundred, ammo two hundred, two M9s five hundred, pistol ammo one hundred, ten grenades five hundred—that's three thousand one hundred total.]

[The streamer gave him five thousand, so the remaining nineteen hundred is Allen's operating budget. What does that mean?]

[It means nineteen hundred dollars to spend however he wants to keep the sellers happy—he could spend it on booze, women, or gambling.]

[What if Allen embezzles it?]

[The streamer isn't losing out. Five thousand dollars is a cheap price to see a person's true colors and avoid bigger losses later.]