Chapter 840 - 9: Chevrolet

Carrying a stack of fresh newspapers as he left the store, Chen Zhou ate breakfast as he walked into a dead-end alley.

Crouching in the shadow at the corner of the wall, he tried his best to make himself less conspicuous, chewing on his bread as he observed the pedestrians on the street.

The shopkeeper's story had suddenly opened a door of hope.

Though what the shopkeeper said hadn't provided any clear clues or helped him identify any suspect, at least it gave him a general direction, and that was enough.

Even more coincidental, Chen Zhou happened to have a "friend" who had only met the missing person once, but was troubled by this very affair—

The missing little girl.

...

"I need to find the guy who drove me to the hotel yesterday as soon as possible."

After a few mouthfuls of bread, downing a bottle of soda, and gulping down a carton of milk, Chen Zhou thought silently.

As an outsider, whether in appearance, speech, or culture, he was markedly different from Americans in 1947, and this made everything much harder.

Especially when dealing with gangs or trying to get a gun—people saw him as some yellow-skinned nobody, dressed shabbily. Who knew, maybe they'd try to double-cross him on the spot.

Even if he was confident he wouldn't lose out in a fight, if things blew up, it'd be troublesome—especially if it drew unnecessary attention, which was strictly forbidden.

So, after weighing his options, Chen Zhou felt that helping that driver from last night look for his daughter might be a good choice.

Judging by the driver's clothes and manner, he was at least middle-class.

In this era, anyone who carried over four hundred US Dollars in cash must be someone successful.

Such successful people usually had excellent social skills and access to all kinds of channels ordinary folks couldn't touch; whether it was getting a legitimate identity or a few guns, either should be no trouble, after all, this was the United States.

Now, that driver happened to have run into something he couldn't manage on his own and needed help, and as luck would have it, Chen Zhou had helped him once. The two weren't close, but they'd had some contact.

Thinking carefully, there just wasn't a better helper than this driver.

...

With these thoughts in mind, Chen Zhou stood up and straightened his clothes, then headed straight for the place where the little girl disappeared yesterday.

He was certain that the driver would most likely show up early to ask around—going there now was the best chance to run into him.

...

Chen Zhou's guess was indeed correct, but he underestimated the anxiety of a father who'd lost his daughter, and he never imagined what kind of horror Ronald encountered after checking the toolshed.

Shaking off the boys who'd been chasing him, leaving the woods, Ronald, now all alone, instinctively wanted to find someone to help him.

Since coming to Prescott, he hadn't interacted with many people.

And most of those he'd met had left him with a bad impression—be it the police who shirked their duties and left early, the gangsters loitering on the streets, the drunks, or the shopkeepers who'd watched him get bullied but didn't utter a word…

These people all proved this place wasn't a lawful, orderly metropolis, but a remote Southern town where the law meant little and savagery smothered civility.

In a place like this, Ronald's knowledge and gentlemanly demeanor were worthless—even his advantage of money had been erased by the thief who stole his wallet.

He'd never imagined that one day he'd have to seek help from a vagrant, even if, on closer look, that vagrant didn't seem all that simple.

...

Sweeping his gaze left and right at the motel entrance, Ronald was afraid he'd see that drunk black guy from last night.

That black guy had seen his face before being knocked out. Coming alone, Ronald feared he'd be targeted for payback. The vagrant could handle him—Ronald could not.

After a night, there was almost no change in the cars parked out front of the motel.

With his head down, pretending to be a passerby as he crossed the street, Ronald "casually" glanced toward where the black guy had fallen last night. Seeing nobody lying there, he let out a sigh of relief.

He watched a while longer, making sure the black guy was gone, before straightening his clothes and walking into the motel.

As Chen Zhou's guarantor and friend, after explaining his business to the desk clerk, Ronald was allowed into Chen Zhou's room.

But what he didn't expect was that, after knocking for a long time, there was no response from inside.

When he, forgetting his manners, twisted the knob and opened the door, he was even more surprised to find the room completely empty—his vagrant friend was gone.

Through an unlatched window and the desk clerk's recollection, Ronald confirmed that the vagrant had probably left the motel early in the morning.

He didn't know whether the vagrant feared trouble with the black guy or was being watched by the police or FBI; all he knew was that, after losing his daughter, he'd lost another lifeline he could depend on.

Now, the already difficult road to finding his daughter was one he'd have to walk alone.

With no news of the vagrant, no clues to his daughter from the people who made wax figures—in fact, he'd only managed to anger them by being seen—there was little chance he'd get any answers now.

Walking out of the motel, Ronald leaned against the wall and slumped to the ground, filled with regret and frustration.

"Sigh, should I go to the police, or try the bank instead?

Feels like nothing I do is going to work out…"

Just as he was thinking this, Ronald suddenly heard a familiar roar from the highway in the distance.

Soon after, a beat-up Chevrolet rolled into the town from the outskirts—at the wheel were the same street punks who'd mugged him last night.

They'd cleared the broken side windows of the Chevrolet, somehow patched up the windshield damaged in the crash, and now, shouting and laughing, pulled up outside the motel with a flashy skid, parking among the rows of old cars before swaggering into the bar next door, arms thrown over each other's shoulders.