You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 231 Five-Star General! (9k)

The next morning.

The Ford Explorer drove over the gravel on 11th Street and slowly came to a stop at the edge of the open space on 10th Street where the mosque was located.

Lyon knew that Danfoss's men were already positioned at the edge of the main road, and he didn't want to be checked by someone he knew and have his Ray Fong disguise exposed.

He pulled out the keys and got out of the car, zipped up his windbreaker to his chin, pulled down the brim of his baseball cap, and a black mask covered most of his face, revealing only a pair of steel-gray eyes.

As he rounded the side wall of the mosque, he first saw the patrol car belonging to Danfoss's men.

Miller was sitting in the driver's seat, the window rolled down halfway, drinking coffee from a disposable paper cup.

Seeing Leon turn in, Miller subconsciously glanced over, then continued to drink his coffee, the chaotic state he had displayed during his rookie days was no longer visible.

There were at least twice as many people in the open space near the food truck as when I last came.

Black people wrapped in dirty blankets huddled at the base of the mosque's east wall, several dazed white drug addicts squatted next to a fire hydrant eating hard bread they'd picked up from somewhere, and a few middle-aged men in tattered jackets lay directly on the ground, their heads resting on bulging garbage bags.

The air was filled with the smells of sweat, urine, and the greasy aroma of mutton soup; the three smells mixed together could still be smelled through a mask.

Over at the food truck, the large pot of lamb bone soup was still steaming.

Lei stood on the right side of the dining car, with five people standing next to him.

Strictly speaking, they were five homeless people.

The black man on the far left is very tall and stands fairly straight. Next to him is an elderly white man with gray hair but broad shoulders, who looks very strong.

In the middle stood a thin Latino man with sunken eyes, constantly licking his lips. To his right was a white man wearing a tattered beanie, his hands in his pockets, his eyes darting back and forth between Ray and the food cart.

On the far right is a mixed-race boy who looks only seventeen or eighteen years old. His face is covered with acne, his posture is slouching, and his sneakers have a hole in them, revealing his toes without socks.

As Leon walked over, Ray was pointing the kitchen knife toward the fire escape, his voice dry and leaving no room for negotiation.

"Starting today, you won't need to queue for meals."

Lei's gaze swept across the faces of the group.

"But you need to stand at these intersections. One at the fire escape entrance, one against the back wall of the warehouse on the east side, one at the toilet window on the west side, and two on the right side of the open space facing the alley."

"If you see someone who wants to fight, just yell at them. If you see someone who's about to die, move them aside. If you can't move them, come find me."

"Anyone who dares to steal from the food cart, I'll chop off their fingers."

The mixed-race boy swallowed hard.

The Latino licked his lips more frequently. He glanced at the cleaver in Ray's hand, then at the expression on Ray's face, and took a half step back.

The old white man didn't move; he simply nodded.

Leon stopped three steps away from Ray.

"Boss." Lei turned his face, the tip of the cleaver pointing downwards, with a small piece of bone still stuck to the blade.

"Just these few?"

"That's all for now."

Lei flicked his chin toward the edge of the open space.

"The others are either disabled or can't even stand steadily. One of them said he saw angels flying on the roof of the mosque. At least these few can understand the commands."

Lyon glanced at the white man in the tattered beanie, then at the mixed-race boy.

Are you scared?

The mixed-race boy glanced around, but didn't dare to speak.

The white man wearing a tattered woolen hat took his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them; his fingernails were full of black grime.

"He just said he was going to chop off someone's fingers."

"You only get chopped off for stealing."

Lyon's voice was flat, "If you don't steal, you won't chop it up."

The mixed-race boy nodded stiffly twice.

"OK.

Lyon gestured with his chin toward Ray.

"Have them get used to being in front of the dining car first, and teach them how to greet people. I'll go find Hassan."

Lei slammed the cleaver onto the cutting board, and the blade embedded itself in the wood.

"You'll stay with me in front of the dining car today, and then disperse tomorrow."

On the other side, there was a pool of dark yellow water at the base of the mosque's side wall, which flowed down the brickwork onto the sidewalk.

A line of words had been newly painted on the wall in black spray paint. The handwriting was messy and it was some kind of far-right slogan. Below it were two blobs of bird droppings that looked like they had been pasted on with leftover pancakes.

Hassan Imam was squatting by the side door, clutching a grayish towel, vigorously wiping the line of spray paint on the wall.

He wiped it a few times, and the towel was worn through by the brick surface, revealing his fingertips. He looked down at his fingers, then threw the towel into the bucket.

"Imam."

Hassan looked up, beads of sweat still clinging to his forehead. He glanced at Lyon for a second, then stood up and draped a soaking wet, tattered towel over the edge of the bucket.

"You've arrived."

"You look like you need help."

"I need more things."

Hassan rubbed his forehead with his sleeve, his voice sounding much more haggard than when they last met.

"The night before last, someone broke into the backyard and removed all the copper pipes from the old water heater in the kitchen."

"Yesterday afternoon, three more people who were queuing outside climbed over the wall to go in, saying they were looking for a toilet. As a result, they trampled the wool mats stored in the storage room until they were covered in mud."

He pointed towards the food truck.

"The line for making pancakes outside has stretched all the way to the alley entrance. The kitchen only makes about two hundred pancakes a morning, and they're all gone in less than half an hour."

"Some people took the cake and then went to the back of the line to rejoin, while others weren't even there to queue; they just squatted next to the line waiting for others to finish so they could grab it."

"Were there any other losses?"

"no."

Hassan took a deep breath and then exhaled it forcefully through his nose.

"I'm sorry, I lost my composure a bit. I haven't been getting enough sleep these past few days."

"I know most of them live a miserable life, and I want to help them. But for some, it's not just about being poor."

.

"I know."

Lyon put his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

"We can't keep distributing things like this. No matter how much we distribute, it won't be enough. People who really need it may not get it, and drug addicts and certain disruptive individuals will waste all the resources."

Hassan glanced at him.

"you're right."

Hassan's voice still sounded somewhat agitated.

"Zakat is my responsibility, but I'm not responsible for providing wool mats for people climbing over walls to remove water pipes. Do you have a solution?"

Lyon pulled an account book from his pocket, opened it to the first page, and then took out two ballpoint pens from his other pocket.

"Have Ray set up a folding table next to the food truck window. Everyone who comes to collect food must register first."

"Register for what?"

"Name, age, previous jobs, and one more question: if you were offered a job right now, would you take it?"

Hassan frowned. "Is this all there is to register?"

"right."

Lyon slammed the ledger in his hand. "We've divided it into three categories based on the entries."

"In the past, those with legitimate jobs and a willingness to work were the first category."

He paused for a moment, then looked at the people still pushing forward at the edge of the open space. "Those who used to have legitimate jobs but didn't do them, that's the second category."

"The rest are those who don't have any proper jobs, the third category."

Hassan looked down at the ledger.

"What happens after the hierarchy is established?"

Hassan had barely finished speaking, and before Lyon could respond, a commotion broke out in the food truck next to them.

New homeless people are still pouring in; some are carrying tattered backpacks, while others are only wrapped in a plastic sheet.

Some people pushed past others and squatted directly in front of the dining car window. Lei was maintaining the queue, and his voice was even louder than before.

"Don't push. I fucking said don't push."

A tall, thin Black man tried to cut in front of the line, but Ray stretched out his left arm across his chest and shoved him to the back.

"Look."

Hassan pointed in that direction, "No matter how much we have, it's not enough. It takes three hours to cook a pot of mutton bone soup, but they finish it in ten minutes."

"That's why I divided them into three categories." Leon looked in the direction Hassan was pointing.

"The first category guarantees that they will receive food every day."

Lyon lowered his voice, "The second category also gets meals. The third category won't get mutton soup. If there aren't even enough flatbreads left, the third category will have to wait for the next meal."

Hassan looked at the blank ledger again.

"This does not violate the doctrine. Good deeds should be given priority to those who need them most, and self-reliance should be encouraged."

"But are you sure anyone would be willing to fill that up? Just for a bowl of mutton soup?"

"You can leave if you don't want to fill it out."

The shirtless, burly man on the left side of the open space in Lyonchong, who was trying to squeeze into the line, raised his chin.

"The more people leave, the more worthy it is for those who remain to share the soup."

Hassan followed his gaze and glanced at him.

A shirtless, burly man was pushing the person in front of him aside with his shoulder. His ribs were clearly visible, and he carried no luggage. His eyes were unfocused.

It's the typical look in someone who's been ruined by drugs.

"OK."

Hassan handed the ledger back to Lyon.

"You'll be in charge of the process and the mutton soup, and I'll be in charge of distributing the bread. The food supplies in the mosque's kitchen can last for two more days. Abdullah's money has also arrived recently, so I can buy more later, just for the sake of spreading the faith."

"But I also have to take care of the Muslims under my command. You have to pay for the mutton, but I can negotiate with the suppliers. They are in my community, and I will try my best to get you the cost price."

"I brought the money."

Lyon patted the bulging pockets of his windbreaker. "Get this done first."

He walked to the food cart and circled around to a spot two steps behind Lei.

"thunder."

"Hmm." Lei turned his head.

"What exactly is the situation with these five people?"

"That white-haired old man over there by the wall worked in the Air Force logistics for twelve years before he was laid off."

Lyon glanced at him. "You've figured out everything about them."

"I asked them on the way here. I feel uncomfortable if I don't know the background of my subordinates."

Ray pulled out a cleaver and pointed it at the other two. "That Latino used to work in a slaughterhouse. He has all his fingers and can be used."

He pointed to the youngest mixed-race boy.

"That kid doesn't have much work experience. He grew up with his grandma, and after she died, he slept on the streets."

"But his hearing is good. I told him to keep an eye on the sounds coming from the side alley. He could hear footsteps coming from a great distance."

"Hiring people was a worthwhile investment."

Leon pulled the marker out of his pocket before speaking, "Alright, now set up a table."

"The table is under the food cart; there's a folding one."

Without wasting words, Lei bent down and pulled a folding table from under the car. The metal table legs creaked as they unfolded.

He moved the table to the right of the window and grabbed a few stacked plastic stools from the food cart and threw them aside.

Lyon spread the ledger out on the table, opened it, placed two ballpoint pens next to the ledger, and put a marker in the upper left corner.

The homeless people hadn't even realized what was happening.

The middle-aged man wearing glasses at the front of the line craned his neck to look this way, but dared not move his feet.

Listen.

Lyon picked up a plastic stool from the side, stood on it, and started shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Starting today, if you want to collect food, you must register first. Name, age, what you've done before, and if I offered you a job right now, would you take it?"

"You only need to fill out four questions to get food; if you don't, you won't get any. When it's your turn, if you can't think of the answers, move aside."

He jumped off the stool, dusted off his hands, and glanced at the temporary workers.

"You guys, keep an eye on both sides of the line. Anyone who cuts in line, go find them. Anyone who tries to take something without registering, drag them to the back."

The five people looked at each other.

Finally, the old white man made the first move. He walked to the right edge of the open space, stood with his arms crossed, and his white eyebrows furrowed together.

The Latino licked his lips and then stood by the fire hydrant.

The mixed-race boy was the slowest, his shoes with big holes clattering on the ground. He finally stopped by the wall, his back against it, trying to make a "I'm fierce" face.

Leon winked at Ray, who then pulled out a kitchen knife and walked over to him.

"People who come to register may fabricate resumes."

Lei frowned, puzzled. "So you're going to write all of that down?"

"I remember everything."

Lyon said calmly, "It would be best if you could see through it immediately, but if you can't see through it at a glance, there's no need to waste time."

After Leon finished speaking to Ray, he turned around and pointed at the bald, muscular man who had squeezed to the front.

"Get in line. You go first."

The bald, muscular man's jacket was almost completely torn under the armpits, revealing his filthy skin. He looked at the table in front of him, then at Lei standing beside it.

"I just want a bowl of soup, is it really necessary to go to all this trouble?"

"It's no trouble, just ask four questions."

"But I can't remember it."

"If you can't remember, just ask."

The bald, burly man stared at the blank ledger on the table, then glanced at Leon, and then at Ray's knife.

"Fuck." He rubbed his nose. "All I fucking want is a bowl—"

"If you're still dawdling after ten seconds, just move to the back of the line."

Lyon called out to the person behind him, then walked around to the side of the table without turning around.

Lei sat down at the folding table, placed the knife on it, picked up the ballpoint pen, opened the ledger, and removed the pen cap.

The bald, burly man scratched the back of his head for a while, mumbled "Fine" in his throat, and slammed his hand on the table.

"Tyrone. Thirty-five. Used to remove tires at a car repair shop. I don't care if I get work now. Can you drink now?"

"Auto repair shop, remove the tire. Got it."

Without looking up, Lei wrote down the words crookedly, then forcefully drew a checkmark.

"Go to the left and line up to get your soup."

The bald, muscular man, Tyrone, turned and left.

The line began to move slowly.

Lei raised his pen and pointed it at the next spot.

The second person was an old man wearing glasses who walked with a slight limp in his left leg, but his clothes were the cleanest of all the homeless people.

"Name."

"William Costello."

"age."

"Around sixty-five."

"What do you do?"

"I was a high school physics teacher, and I taught for 23 years. I was laid off after the school merged."

"The pension fund was bankrupted by an investment fund, and the house was repossessed by the bank."

Lei paused, then looked up at the old man.

The old man didn't move; he just stood there, a thin crack on his glasses.

"If you had a job, what would you do?" Ray asked.

The old man pursed his lips, nodded, and said, "If there really is a job, I'm willing."

Lei lowered his head and wrote "high school physics teacher" in the occupation column, then added a small note in the remarks column: "ill leg, but not serious."

"Go to the left and line up for soup. Next."

A third person strolled over. This person was wearing a camouflage military coat covered in dirt and a pair of old-fashioned green cloth shoes. As he approached, a mixture of urine and stale beer emanated from him.

"Name," Lei said.

"Douglas MacArthur".

Lei stared at him for two seconds.

"Say it again?"

"Douglas MacArthur! The General himself! The Supreme Commander of the Pacific Theater! You are all fucking my prisoners!"

Ray put the pen on the table and glanced at Leon.

Lyon stood there, his eyes, visible above his mask, expressionless.

Write it down.

Ray gritted his teeth and wrote "Douglas MacArthur" in the name column, his fingertips trembling slightly from gripping the pen too tightly.

"age."

"One hundred and forty-six!"

"Profession."

"A five-star general!"

"Fine." Lei gritted his teeth and continued writing.

"If you had a job, what would you do?"

The man suddenly leaned closer to the table and lowered his voice.

"I will consider accepting your surrender, provided that you immediately hand over all the meat and bones in that pot in the kitchen."

Lei didn't look up, but wrote down everything he said.

After writing the last word, Lei raised his left hand and waved his fingers.

The skinny black temporary worker grabbed General MacArthur's arm, dragged him to the base of the wall on the left side of the open space, and shoved a pancake into his hand.

"You stay here as general, don't move."

Lyon didn't laugh at this scene; he turned back to continue looking at the queue.

The fourth person was a woman, one of the few women in the group, about forty years old, with chapped and peeling lips.

"Catherine. I worked as a caregiver for eight years, but then that nursing home closed down. I'm willing to work, anything."

Lei noted it down, and then she left.

The fifth person was squatting in front of the table. He was a middle-aged man whose right index finger was missing a section. The cut was poorly healed, and the skin was wrinkled.

"Dwayne, fifty. He drove a forklift at the docks for twelve years. An import/export company paid my insurance for four years, then the company went bankrupt. And then I lost my workers' compensation."

He stared at the ledger, his lips trembling. He wanted to fill it out himself, but his fingers just couldn't hold the pen.

"I'm sorry, my hands aren't good."

"I'll write it for you."

Lei switched the pen to his own hand and quickly scribbled on the paper.

The sixth person ran away before even reaching the table.

A white man in a dark gray hoodie, who was originally in fifth place, took two steps back and turned pale when Ray asked him, "If I gave you a job right now, would you take it?"

"What job? You're fucking arranging a job for me?"

"No, I was just asking," Ray said. "This sentence needs to be filled in."

The person had already turned around and squeezed out of the queue, disappearing into the crowd.

The mixed-race temporary worker next to him hadn't even reacted yet, only seeing his back disappear into the pile of tents.

Lei tapped the ledger with the tip of his pen, skipping over that line.

The line continued to move forward.

"Profession."

"CIA agent."

Lei raised his eyes.

The white man in front of the table had his beard braided into a small braid as thick as a rat's tail, and his eyes were so serious that he didn't seem to be joking.

"CIA Field Operations Department. I've planted listening devices in Ulaanbaatar, switched license plates in the underground parking lot of the International Court of Justice in The Hague, and my direct superior is—"

"Can you write?" Lei pushed the ballpoint pen towards him.

"Of course I will write."

After writing a few letters in the name field, he looked up and added a sentence.

"But I've resigned now. Because Chief McClellan was monitoring the electrical activity in my cerebral cortex. Look at this hat I'm wearing."

He took off his baseball cap, which was half-rotten at the brim. Inside, there was a layer of kitchen foil, "pure aluminum foil to block quantum communication."

'

Lei's temples throbbed twice. He watched him finish writing without expression, took the ledger, drew an X next to it, and marked "Refuse to evaluate".

At this moment, Lyon walked to the folding table, picked up the marker, and drew a simple diagram on the inside of the ledger cover.

He drew a circle and labeled it "Category 1". He then drew another circle and labeled it "Category 2". He drew yet another circle and labeled it "Category 3". Next to the circle labeled "Category 3", he wrote four characters: "Only pancakes".

After finishing the drawing, he put the notebook back on the table so that everyone in line could see the picture.

Lei glanced at the diagram, said nothing, and continued registering.

But the moment when things got out of control came quickly.

The next person was a very thin middle-aged man with prominent bones, deep-set eyes, and a dirty bandage wrapped around his arm.

The blood that had seeped from the edge of the bandage had dried and turned dark brown, but he still protected his arm with his hand and walked carefully.

"Name," Lei said.

"Frank".

"What did you do before?"

"A porter. He carries bricks, cement, steel bars, and everything else on the construction site."

Lei looked up and glanced at his bandaged arm.

"If you had a job, what would you do?"

Frank was stunned.

He neither said "I won't do it" nor "I will do it".

He lowered his head, used his left hand to untie a corner of the bandage, and turned his arm over.

About an inch below the wrist, there was a swelling the size of a peach, with purplish and shiny skin, and you could clearly see the bone pressing against the flesh at an abnormal angle.

The edges of the wound on the right side have begun to turn black, and pus-filled fluid seeps out from time to time.

"It's been almost a week since it broke. I tried to put it back in place myself, but I didn't do it right. Now it hurts even to touch my finger. I can't do anything even if I want to."

Lei's ballpoint pen stopped on the paper.

He looked down at the arm for two seconds, then wrote "Construction worker," and added four words to the remarks column: "Broken arm, not yet healed."

"Line up on the left," Ray said in a low voice.

Leon stood to the side and could clearly see the empty expression on Frank's face.

Leon sighed and said nothing.

After Frank left, the next person to stand in front of the table was a little black boy.

When Lyon looked at him, he realized that he was not even up to Lyon's chest.

The boy's skin was dry, cracked, and pale; his lips were covered in dead skin; his shoes were hastily wrapped with tape and he had no socks; in fact, his pants were barely intact, with the fabric torn from the knees down, revealing ankles as thin as dry firewood.

"What's your name?"

Jimmy.

How old are you?

"Fourteen." He hesitated for a moment. "I'll be fourteen soon."

He actually looked only eleven years old, but he didn't reveal his real age because he knew some shelters wouldn't take in children.

"What kind of jobs did you do before?"

"I've never done any work. When my mom was alive, we lived in motels. After she passed away, I followed other people north, and then they all left."

Lei's pen stopped again. He tried to write twice but no ink came out. He shook the pen refill vigorously and continued writing.

"If you had a job, what would you do?"

The boy didn't understand, looked up at Lei, and asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"It's like asking if you'd be willing to do a job if there was one available for you right now."

"I don't know, but I can lift things and sweep the floor. Give me food and I'll do the work."

After Lei finished writing the sentence, he marked it in the category column.

After the boy took the pancake and left, another one came up.

The man was a tall white man, weighing over 200 pounds, with a faded Army five-pointed star tattooed on his arm.

He had a deep burn scar on his left cheek, stretching from his cheekbone to his chin. He was one of the few people, apart from the temporary workers they had just hired, who looked quite physically fit.

"Walter."

"age."

Thirty-eight.

"Profession."

"Army, tank mechanic. 3rd Armored Division, frontline maintenance company."

Lei paused for a moment and looked up at him.

"How did you end up here?"

"Arthritis, and I was fired. The Veterans Affairs Bureau said my condition doesn't qualify as a work-related injury that can be adequately proven during my service."

"I missed three months of mortgage payments, the bank kicked me out, and then my wife left."

As he spoke, he didn't look at anyone, but stared at the ledger on the table.

"Are you going to do the work or not?"

"Fine. I can do mechanical repairs, and I can troubleshoot electrical circuits. As long as I don't have to beg for food."

Leon remained silent throughout, simply standing there watching Ray make a heavy mark next to Walter's name with a ballpoint pen.

Then the next one.

Next one.

The morning rolled on and on in this absurd situation.

Some people mistook the register for a blacklist of harmful individuals set by the government, ran up to the table, cursed a few times, and then left.

Some people stood in front of the register for a full five minutes because their hands were shaking from alcohol withdrawal and they couldn't write anything, only making crooked ink marks on the paper.

Another old man recounted his carpentry experience in a very slow voice, and finally said that he hadn't eaten mutton for three years.

Lyon was watching the whole time.

In the afternoon, Lei closed the ledger.

The flatbreads and mutton soup on the table were almost all gone. Most of the people in the open space were squatting against the wall eating, while a few people who had just registered were sitting on the side waiting for the next pot of mutton soup.

That's all.

Ray handed the ledger to Lyon.

"Category 1: Thirty-four. Category 2: Seventeen. Category 3—"

He paused for a moment and pointed to a few marks he had drawn in the corner.

"Number 49, General Douglas MacArthur. Number 63, Galactic Special Observer. Number 103, Pioneer of Martian Colonization."

Lyon nodded and took out two bundles of cash that were tied up in envelopes from the pocket of his jacket.

"Here's twenty thousand. Give ten thousand directly to Hassan so he can buy groceries in the next couple of days. You can help count it; if it's not enough, just let me know."

Ray paused for a moment, sighed, and didn't ask Leon why he was so comfortable entrusting such a large sum of money to him. He simply took the money, stuffed it into the inner pocket of his work clothes, zipped it up, and then looked at Leon and the ledger.

"Didn't you find anyone particularly outrageous?"

"Wasn't that physics teacher and tank mechanic outrageous enough?"

"There are also carpenters, bridge welders, and truck drivers who have been driving for ten years."

Lei rubbed his temples. "There are at least twenty or thirty respectable professions registered today."

"Some people even said things like, 'I'll do anything as long as you give me food, I'll go with you today.'"

Lyon patted the cover of the ledger.

"When asked if they can work, people who truly have their own professional skills and can do a good job will first ask what they can do, then look at their palms, and hesitate for a moment. They won't just say they can do anything."

"Today we're just lining up those who want to stay; we'll continue the selection process tomorrow."

"What happens after the screening?"

Lyon glanced at him.

I'll tell you tomorrow.

He tucked the ledger under his arm and walked toward Hassan on the side of the dining car.

Hassan leaned against the wall, holding a cup of cold tea in his hand, the tea soup as dark as soy sauce.

He was looking at a group of homeless people squatting in the corner, their expressions weary.

"We discovered a problem during today's registration," Lyon said.

"What's the problem?"

"Many people who have actually done manual labor have broken hands, injured feet, or are too old to stand, but they are not lazy people who are unwilling to work."

"And children, unless they are very talkative, are generally classified into the third category."

Hassan stared at him.

"Which three categories do you want to change?"

"No changes. Funds are limited, and I can't arbitrarily add extra categories. I just hope these people can receive proper medical help as soon as possible."

Hassan remained silent for more than ten seconds.

"Do you believe that American healthcare can take care of these people?"

"Of course I don't believe it, so I'm saying I hope."

"Then let's continue to believe in that ledger," Hassan said, taking a sip of his cold tea. "Save those who can be saved first."

Leon turned around and found that Ray had taken out the cleaver again at some point and was standing in front of the cutting board again, starting to cut half a lamb.

The temporary workers were still standing in the same spots, and the mixed-race boy was leaning against the wall, holding half a pancake in his hand.

Several workers who were among the first to register that morning were squatting next to the fire hydrant, slowly eating their newly issued flatbreads dipped in mutton soup.

The crowd outside the mosque was still pushing in, and some people were shouting at the registration table in the direction of the queue, but the temporary workers sent by Lei had already learned how to block people.

It was 11 p.m. that night.

Lyon threw the ledger on the kitchen island, took off his raincoat and draped it over the back of a chair, and also removed his hat and mask.

He took a can of Coke from the refrigerator, pulled the tab, and took two gulps. The icy carbonation made his tongue tingle.

He took his phone out of his pocket and swiped to Mia's number.

-

It rang three times before being answered.

"Lyon?"

The background noise was very quiet, without the noisy phone calls and clattering on keyboards from the branch office area. Mia's voice was also much lighter than when she answered the phone before.

"Aren't you on vacation? People on vacation who call me usually want me to do some work."

"Since you've already guessed it, I'll skip the awkward small talk."

"You've exploited me so much that I can't even listen to polite words anymore. Do you know that's workplace abuse?"

The faint sound of a swivel chair wheel moving came from the other end of the phone, followed by two taps of fingers on a keyboard, as if saving some file.

"I just closed today's report. Now, tell me what you need to do."

2

"Help me look something up."

Lyon placed the Coke on the island counter and opened the ledger to the first page.

"I have a list of about fifty people."

"6

Mia paused for a second, then said, "You're not talking about one of those lists, are you?"

"Are you planning to line them up and shoot them? Why are you investigating so many people?"

"Sterling put me in charge of dealing with the increasingly out-of-control homeless situation on the streets."

"So you registered them and then prepared to line them up for execution?"

"No—I just need you to go through the police department's database of these people."

"Focus on prior convictions, violent felonies, fraud, sexual assault, and arson. Traffic violations and vagrancy offenses can be overlooked. As for theft—it depends on the circumstances."

Mia was silent for a moment, and then a few soft clicks of the mouse wheel came from the other end of the phone.

"Where's the list?"

"I took a picture with my phone and will send it to you right away," Leon said.

"I've also labeled the categories we compiled today. You only need to look up the first and second categories."

"What do you mean?"

"Those who can still be saved, as for the third category, there's no need to investigate."

Mia paused for a moment.

"What are your plans for dealing with those with serious criminal records?"

"No expulsion."

"what?"

"Moving people off the street will only send them to another street, then other communities will complain, and the police will bring them back next time. This back-and-forth only creates more conflict and does me no good."

"My ultimate goal is to solve the problem of homelessness in the West End, not just the problem of homelessness on a particular street."

"As for now, if we don't give them relief, they'll naturally go to other streets for the time being. If they cause trouble, the patrol officers will take care of them."

Lyon's tone was calm. "Police officers have a million ways to make life miserable for homeless people. Shining flashlights in their eyes, checking them every half hour—they have all sorts of dirty tricks."

"Every time they check you, they ask you to take out your driver's license, where you live, why you're here, and what you have in your pockets."

"We'll let you go after we've checked everything, but then someone else will come and do it again in half an hour. This goes on several times; even a normal person couldn't last a whole night like that."

"Moreover, this is completely legal. The police have the right to verify the identity and question suspicious persons at any time. As long as they don't take the person away, they don't need to write a report."

Mia was quiet for a while.

"When I was busy in the archives recently, an old police sergeant who worked in the archives told me a story."

"He said that when Danfoss was first promoted to sergeant, there was a white man in their precinct who had an exhibitionist habit and would go to the bus stop every few days to take off his pants in front of middle school students."

"He was arrested three times but was released by the judge each time. Later, Danfoss arranged for two groups of patrol officers to take turns guarding the street where the white people lived. As soon as the man went out, they would go up and question him."

"Check what he has with him, ask him where he's going, search his pockets for drugs, and have police dogs stand guard at the apartment entrance."

"Each interrogation lasted at least half an hour. By the early morning of the third day, the man had packed his bags and moved away, and was never seen in the West District Police Station's jurisdiction again."

"Looks like all old cops are cut from the same cloth," Lyon said.

"You've become a veteran police officer?"

Lyon didn't respond to that. "How long will it take you to investigate this person?"

"I can send it to you tonight. I'll highlight your criminal record in red."

"Okay, oh right, this isn't over yet, it's just the beginning. From now on, there might be people waiting for you to check every day."

"every day."

Mia repeated the word without complaining, only sighing.

"Okay, I'll inform my two henchmen when I get to work tomorrow."

Leon leaned against the edge of the island counter, glanced at the gray Seattle night sky outside the window, and hung up the phone.

He took several photos of the ledger, taking close-up shots of each to ensure the handwriting was clear, and then sent them to Mia.

A few seconds later, Mia responded with an OK sign.

Lyon tossed his phone onto the island counter and glanced at the ledger one last time.

Then, he went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water.

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