Chapter 7: Huh?
Drake acted like a complete novice during the robbery. Although the sound of gunfire came through the phone, his expression remained calm as he asked, “Donald, are you busy?”
The rough voice on the other end seemed patient. After listening to Drake, he responded slowly and deliberately, “Not busy right now, just wrapping things up.”
“Bang!” Another gunshot rang out.
“Here’s the thing—I have a friend who just arrived in Gotham. The skills he has are ordinary, normal people’s skills, which don’t amount to much in Gotham.”
“You want him to work for me?”
“Don’t you have a restaurant? His face is perfect for attracting women to dine there. He doesn’t know anything about fighting or killing, but he’s not easily scared either. Just an ordinary guy, but he’s got decent charm and guts and doesn’t get stage fright.”
“Charm usually means he won’t keep his mouth shut.”
“Bang!”
“Please, don’t—”
“Bang!”
“I promise you, his mouth is absolutely tight. He’s just a regular guy; there’s no way he’d risk his life bragging.”
“Bang! Bang!”
Several more gunshots echoed from the other side of the line. After a moment, the rough voice spoke again, “Drake, I owe you one.”
“Of course.”
“Is that kid with you?”
Mazo immediately picked up the phone: “I’m here.”
“Be at work at nine tomorrow morning.”
“Beep—beep—”
Staring at the disconnected call and hearing the busy signal, Mazo looked at Drake, utterly confused.
“?”
“Why are you staring? He told you to show up for work, so that means he agreed.”
“What about the location? The requirements? I don’t even know what to wear.”
“I’ll take you there. Just remember the way. The restaurant has uniforms for servers. As for the job—just the usual things servers do: greeting customers, taking orders, serving food, wiping tables, nothing else. Oh, and you have to carry a gun, whether you know how to use it or not. I’ll leave mine with you.”
Mazo chuckled dryly. In Gotham, a gun was standard issue for going to work; everything else was secondary.
“By the way, do you have a wallet?”
“No, I’m used to just carrying my phone... Wait, I don’t even have a phone!”
“My wallet can be yours, but I can’t give you my phone. Camilla doesn’t talk to many people or socialize much. I’ll talk to her and ask her to give you her phone. You have a SIM card, right?”
“No problem, I’ve got that.”
Mazo accepted everything Drake offered without hesitation because he deserved it all. Even without mentioning that Drake had saved his life, just in terms of assets, he had effectively handed over what was worth $9,999 of life restoration.
Ten thousand dollars for a wallet, a phone, a gun, and even a job as a server in Gotham—this was a bargain, truly.
Thinking this, he silently praised the system’s thoughtfulness: it provided several common American bank cards and a SIM card, saving him a lot of trouble.
Drake wasted no time and went to find Camilla. No one knew what she was up to in her room, but only after Mazo had laid out a bed on the floor did Drake take out a compact phone and hand it to him.
That night, Drake and Camilla’s room was surprisingly quiet. Mazo slept soundly on the sofa.
The next morning,
Drake got up early and woke Mazo.
“Let’s go. I’ll take you to your workplace.”
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Mazo glanced at the clock hanging in the living room. The hour and minute hands both pointed at seven, leaving him bewildered. “Why so early? It’s only seven.”
“We don’t have a car.”
“Ah?”
Moments later, a reluctant Mazo hurriedly got dressed. Drake then dragged him out the door, and they jogged to a nearby iron pole, battered and riddled with holes.
“Drake, I get that you don’t want me to be late, but we should at least have breakfast first.”
“No time. We’ll eat on the way. If we wait any longer, you’ll be late.”
As he spoke, Drake wrapped a scarf around Mazo’s neck.
“Good Lord, how far is this place you’re taking me?”
“It’s in the Audisburg district. Not close to the East District, but the route’s decent. If we’re lucky, it’ll take about half an hour.”
After finishing the scarf, Drake placed a hat on Mazo’s head.
“Huh?”
Mazo looked confused. “What do you mean, ‘if we’re lucky’—”
“Screech.”
A bus arrived and the doors opened, cutting off Mazo’s question. Drake grabbed his hand and pulled him aboard, quickly finding seats.
Mazo sat down heavily, about to continue his question, only to feel a cold wind hitting one side of his face. He turned and saw that all the bus windows were missing. The icy gusts swept in through the empty spaces where the windshield should have been, and everyone around had wrapped their heads tightly.
“What...?”
Before he could react, he saw Drake pull a gun from his pocket and hold it.
“What are you doing?”
Drake didn’t answer and instead got up to talk to the bus driver.
“Damn it, you can’t just—”
Mazo tried to pull Drake back but then noticed something odd about Drake’s seat—there was a hole in it.
He had wondered earlier why the bus body was covered in so many welded patches, little pieces of metal stitched together like a patchwork quilt.
“Wait, are those bullet holes?”
He had thought maybe there’d be a few thugs, gangsters, prostitutes, or addicts on the bus, but now he realized there had been a firefight inside the bus? Maybe he should just walk to work. That might be safer.
At that moment, Drake seemed to have come to some agreement with the driver. He took out several colorful bills from his wallet and handed them over. The driver smiled and pulled out a handgun and several magazines, handing them to Drake.
“Huh?”
Drake returned, proudly holding the gun, and sat beside Mazo. Seeing Mazo’s unsettled expression, he asked with concern, “What’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”