Chapter 19: Moonlight Home Brew

The next morning, Roger rose from his mat feeling refreshed and clear-headed.

Although he had only slept a few hours the night before, the absence of nightmares and the lack of other homeless men grinding their teeth or snoring in the garage meant his sleep was actually better than usual.

Only his mood was rather heavy, because if no murder had occurred last night, then the probability of one occurring tonight had risen significantly.

Walking out of the garage, he went to the rented car, where Juan was squatting on the grass feeding Jose sausages.

"You're up." Juan, seeing him, stood and said concisely: "Didn't see any suspicious guys last night."

Roger nodded: "Me neither. We'll just have to wait for tonight. But I'm only staying two days—if nothing happens, we leave."

His excuse for getting Juan involved was that Vanessa had provided information about the murders, hoping they could pick up some clues.

And if there were clues, the female reporter would pay to buy them.

Juan, however, didn't seem to care much about the reason, only saying: "You decide."

Afterwards, the two drove around the neighborhood.

The neighborhood in the early morning was unusually quiet, because most of the kids had gone off to school and the parents were all at work.

Even the gang members were sound asleep in bed at this hour.

So it actually looked safer than usual.

Finishing the patrol, Roger returned to the garage, just thinking about resting a while and playing with his phone, when the garage door was suddenly knocked on.

"Mrs. Fiona, what's wrong?"

Roger instinctively pulled open the door, only to find standing before him the mixed-blood girl with the striking features he'd seen yesterday.

"Hey! You're a reporter, right?"

Natasha was wearing a black spaghetti-strap top today, half a smooth shoulder exposed, and her two long legs beneath the hot pants were as straight as a compass.

She looked very lively and bright, and in her sneakers she leaned in curiously from the doorway as she spoke.

"I'm not a reporter." Roger didn't want to be misunderstood. He propped the door with one hand and leaned against the frame: "I'm just… an assistant investigator."

"Alright." Natasha sounded a little disappointed at the answer, puffing out her cheeks: "Then what's your name? What have you investigated?"

"Just call me Roger. And you?"

"Natasha."

"Alright, Natasha, have you ever seen a person compressed into a cube of garbage by a compactor?"

"Nope."

"Then you can see it now on the Seattle Times."

Natasha pulled out her phone at that, but just as she was about to turn on the screen she put it down again, shrugging: "I didn't download the app."

"No worries, take a look when you have time."

Roger paused, then asked: "Aren't you going to school today?"

"I have a morning off today, classes only in the afternoon."

"And Mrs. Fiona? Not home?"

"What are you trying to do?" Natasha suddenly looked at him warily.

"Uh, I mean she shouldn't be letting you go out, right?"

"How would you know?" Natasha looked puzzled.

Roger raised an eyebrow: "Because your neighborhood is really dangerous right now."

"Give me a break." Natasha circled his tent once, then plopped down on a chair, pulled out a butterfly knife and showed off a few fancy tricks in front of Roger.

She wrinkled her little nose and said fiercely: "If anyone dares to mess with me, I'll stick this knife into his lower half!"

Hiss!

Roger felt a sudden chill between his legs.

"Alright, your butterfly knife skills aren't bad, but what if the other guy has a gun?"

"So what if he has a gun? The gangs in the neighborhood all have guns, and so does my house."

"That's different." Seeing she didn't care at all, Roger could only advise: "A killer isn't going to fight you fair. He'll only sneak into your room late at night while you're asleep, and then come after you."

"Impossible. Fiona sleeps in the living room every night." Natasha was unconcerned.

"Fine." Roger was helpless. Seeing the girl had no intention of leaving, he could only turn his head to look at the street and suddenly said: "Hey, Mrs. Fiona's back."

"What?" The girl scrambled up in a panic and ran out of the garage.

But after she'd run a couple of steps, she realized there wasn't a single car on the street.

"You tricked me!" She ran back to the garage and shouted inside.

"Just stay home and behave. I'll tell Mrs. Fiona honestly that we met."

"Damn you, you cowardly man!"

Thinking about how her mother would definitely be angry when she got back, Natasha had no choice but to sneak back into the house.

No wonder Roger was so cautious—as a stranger, he was living under someone else's roof. If Mrs. Fiona came back and saw him chatting and laughing with her daughter, she'd definitely trust him even less.

She might demand he leave immediately.

Never underestimate the fighting power and vigilance of a Black woman.

If not for the backing of the female reporter Vanessa, and the unease over a serial killer, Mrs. Fiona would never have let him stay in the garage.

Roger was well aware of this.

So he simply sent Mrs. Fiona a text about Natasha's visit.

Not long after, Mrs. Fiona's reply came through.

"Thank you."

……

At 7:30 that evening, Roger in the garage saw Fiona return home.

From the woman's tired expression, it was clear she had more than one job.

Then, a female neighbor came by and brought a small portion of freshly baked apple pie.

Soon after, Roger heard the mother and daughter arguing, followed by a door slamming.

Probably because of my text message.

Roger shrugged, signaling his innocence, then took a bite of his hot dog and lay back in his chair, waiting for nightfall.

……

The next night arrived as scheduled.

Tonight's moon was unusually full; even the clouds avoided it, afraid to obscure its light.

In the basement of a house in the neighborhood, several men gathered around an old wooden bar.

They wore oil-stained work pants and work jackets; when the jackets were removed, their muscular builds and sweat-soaked sleeveless T-shirts were revealed.

"Try this—it's my latest brew. Doesn't it taste like whiskey?"

A bald white man placed three glasses in a row, then poured beer into each.

As foam spilled over the rims, the other two men eagerly took a sip.

"It really does taste like whiskey, Derek. What did you put in it?" asked the white man with short brown hair, surprised.

"Charcoal, Billy," Derek wiped his hands and took a sip.

"Damn, now I get why it tastes so familiar," said the man with glasses, downing his beer in one gulp.

"Hey, Jimi, don't drink so fast," Derek warned.

Jimi shook his head: "It's fine—I'm still sober. Even if I get drunk, I'll wait until after I've finished cursing my damn boss."

"Hahaha." The men laughed together.

After a few more beers, the three men finally began to vent.

"Derek, Billy, you know what? Our factory just hired another batch of niggers. Damn it, I have to work alongside them while enduring their stink—just because those Democrat bitches want 'diversity'! Now I'm surrounded by fucking mongrels!"

"And I show up every day, doing my job properly, while they just laugh and don't care about work at all!"

Jimi finished speaking, and Billy, face flushed, chimed in: "Exactly! To those damn politicians, we 'poor white trash' are invisible. Hey! We built Meilijian, but they don't respect us at all. They need a gun shoved in their faces to remember—Meilijian belongs to whites! Not to those fucking minorities!"

"We deserve a pay raise. We deserve free healthcare—not to be stuck relying on this damn painkiller every day!"

"Bang!" Billy slammed a large bottle of painkillers onto the table: "I feel like this stuff's losing its effect. Fuck, if things keep going like this, I'll have to buy enhancement agents."

After saying that, he took another big swig of wine.

At that moment, Jimi looked at Derek: "Did they pay you for your wife's illness?"

Derek sneered: "Paid? Do you know what those fucking insurance company bastards said?"

The other two turned their gazes to the bald man.

"They claimed my wife's illness only needed medicine—not surgery—and used that as an excuse to deny my claim! Motherfucker, they all deserve to get shot!"

"Shit!" The other two cursed along.

Derek grew angrier by the moment and reached into a cabinet, pulling out a small bag.

"Come on, let's add some spice!"

He scooped out three white crystals with a small spoon and placed them on the table.

Jimi and Billy exchanged a glance; their flushed, drunk faces held an unspoken understanding and smirks.

Then, the three eagerly grabbed the enhancement agents from the table and began to snort them.