Chapter 831 - 4: Prescott (2)

Greed made Damon quietly stretch out his hand and slip the wallet into his palm, while the smile on his face stayed exactly the same—

Compared with the false one just now, it was maybe a bit more sincere.

The little girl lowered her head. She saw what Damon did, but didn't say anything, just hugged her toy rabbit and climbed out from the backseat, obediently following Damon up onto the pickup.

Before getting in, she gave her unconscious father one more look.

With a "bang," the pickup's door was shut. Damon settled back into his seat and, out of habit, slipped his hand into his jacket for a cigarette.

The instant his fingers touched the pack, he realized he was out.

He licked his lips in discomfort, but as he thought of the watch and wallet he'd just pocketed, Damon's mood lifted a lot.

He stomped on the gas. The pickup, like an old man at death's door, let out a hoarse roar, pulled away from the stalled car, and sped toward Prescott.

...

They drove past fields shrouded in darkness, where many country homes fenced in by wooden rails had already turned on their lights.

Cows stared into the distance from their pens; from time to time, a dog barked.

The trees lining the road grew sparser, the view opened up, and there were still a few ragged clouds hanging in the distant sky, though the light was steadily brightening.

Chen Zhou leaned against the big iron drums in the truck bed, pulling his coat tighter around himself.

The road wasn't too bumpy; the cargo on the truck rocked and swayed, constantly squeezing him toward the middle.

He had no idea how far it still was to the end of this journey. All he could do was close his eyes and quietly wait for this "free ride" to stop.

During the latter half of the trip, the driver was clearly impatient. The pickup raced along, almost excited, accompanied by chaotic clanging of metal, and the outline of a small town slowly appeared in the distance.

At the very outer edge of the town stood a three-story church, and some early risers were already heading there to pray.

...

Every so often, Damon would raise his wrist to check his watch, terrified he'd be too slow and delay the delivery.

Maybe today was his lucky day. The road had thrown him a few twists, but overall it had gone very smoothly. He'd not only scored a new watch and picked up a wallet, he'd even managed to pull up in front of Brian's shop right on time.

Seeing Mr. Brian and his eldest son already waiting at the door, then checking the time, Damon felt downright cheerful.

"You wait in the truck. Once I'm done unloading, I'll take you to the police station."

He gave a brief instruction to the little girl in the passenger seat, then hopped out, humming to himself.

As he'd expected, Brian, that sly old fox, immediately came over to greet him—

Anyone fooled by that pleasant demeanor of his was guaranteed to get skinned for a hefty sum.

Cursing these "city folk" and their tricks under his breath, Damon put on a show of pulling out his cigarette case, making as if to offer Brian one.

He was hoping that once Brian noticed he was out of cigarettes, the man would politely give him one.

But Brian only glanced at him, ignored the awkward gesture, and directly urged him to start unloading.

"Damn, what a miser."

Damon had long guessed Brian would react like this. He dropped the idea of getting a taste of high-end cigarettes, and in a sulk headed for the truck bed.

...

When he'd gotten out of the truck earlier, Damon had noticed the bed was sagging much lower than usual, and now, after just a short while, it had returned to how it normally looked.

Dawn hadn't fully broken yet, and he couldn't figure out why. Damon decided not to think about it, went straight to the rear of the truck, and swung open the cargo gate to start unloading.

...

The Brian family had French blood. Supposedly their ancestors were craftsmen in Paris, only coming to the United States after falling on hard times.

Damon had heard the old folks in Prescott say that Brian knew a few big shots in the state legislature, and even the Sheriff in town had to show him respect. So even though Damon had plenty of complaints, he still didn't dare cross Brian.

Of course, status was one thing; more importantly, the commission Brian offered was actually quite generous. Even with a bit of skimming, it was still a respectable income for Damon.

Although they lived in Prescott, Brian and Mrs. Brian's work kept them closely tied to the outside world.

They were wax sculptors, a couple whose main job was making all sorts of celebrity wax figures as well as exquisite wax handicrafts.

Most days, the Brians holed up in their house, pouring their energy into sculpting wax.

Every once in a while, they would sell the wax figures they'd made for celebrities or museums. Rumor had it some of their pieces ended up in big cities like Las Vegas, New York, Hollywood, and so on.

And Damon was the one in charge of supplying Brian with the materials needed for making these wax figures.

The big drums on his truck were filled with plaster, clay, paraffin, and pigments—things like lead white, ultramarine, Prussian blue, etc.

Every week or two, Damon had to drive to Stonehaven, the capital of Arkansas, or to other relatively nearby towns to load up goods, then haul them back with no complaint.

Aside from him, there were a few other old guys with trucks who liked doing this kind of heavy, dirty work.

For people in town, this job was already worth fighting over.

Normally, Damon's sticky fingers kept him from getting this gig, but recently the other old guys' beat-up pickups had all broken down for one reason or another, so it was finally Damon's turn to rake in some money.

...

The iron drums of paraffin or clay were heavy, and Damon's truck wasn't allowed to drive directly into Brian's yard—

It would ruin the lawn Mrs. Brian tended with such care, or scare their bad-tempered bully of a dog.

Because of that, Damon had to use a handcart as a middleman, lifting the drums onto it and then wheeling them into the warehouse.

This final unloading was harder work than both loading up and driving. Brian never helped with it; at best, his eldest son would occasionally carry a few sacks of pigment to share the load.

That enthusiastic young man was only helping with the easiest part, but it still meant one or two fewer trips.

Damon always felt flattered by this—

It was no small thing for a rich man's kid to help him with manual labor.

...

After a few trips, fine beads of sweat were already forming on Damon's forehead. He desperately needed some nicotine to perk himself up.

But looking over at Brian, sitting on a chair sipping his morning tea, Damon figured the man wouldn't share so much as half a cigarette.

Yet he wanted one so badly right now. After some thought, Damon decided to take a look at that wallet.

A guy rich enough to buy a brand-new sedan might very well keep a pack of cigarettes in his wallet.

Walking back to the pickup, Damon wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, picked up the wallet he'd found, and opened it—only to see that not only were there no cigarettes inside, there wasn't even a single bill.

"Fuck!"

He cursed, flung the wallet onto the seat, then suddenly felt something was off.

When he finally realized what it was, he saw the little girl from the truck had vanished. On the passenger seat, all that remained was a blanket and a small plush toy.

"Wait… where is she?"

Damon craned his neck and saw that the opposite door was tightly shut, and there was no sign of the girl under the seat either. He couldn't help being thoroughly puzzled.

But Brian wasn't about to let him take a long break—

According to that penny-pincher's logic, any delay in the delivery or unloading schedule would damage his genius inspiration, and an artist's inspiration was something no amount of money could buy.

While Damon had been digging around for cigarettes, Brian had already stood up, teacup in hand.

Afraid his commission would get docked, and assuming the little girl had gotten out on her own to use the bathroom or gone off to find the police when she couldn't wait any longer, Damon didn't dare linger. He dutifully went back to unloading the cargo.

...

And by the time he finished, and went back to the truck with a crumpled 4 US Dollar in hand, the little girl still hadn't reappeared.

Damon genuinely had no idea where she'd gone. He considered telling the police, but the watch on his wrist and that wallet felt like red-hot iron, reminding him what kind of trouble he'd be in if the cops found out.

After wavering repeatedly, Damon finally decided to just let it go. As long as he kept his mouth shut, no one would ever know.

Besides, the little girl had left of her own accord. She had nothing to do with him.