Law America, the Devil's Agent

Chapter 78 You killed someone? It's okay, the dead can't talk! (Two chapters combined)

South Philadelphia, Bella Vista, Greyhound Bar.

This bar is located in a bustling area of ​​Philadelphia's diverse minority neighborhood, Bella Vista.

The signboard is a hand-painted wooden board with a running greyhound painted on it; the paint has faded so much that the original color is no longer visible.

Every Friday and Saturday night, this place is packed with minority workers from nearby factories, truck drivers, and veterans.

The air was filled with the pungent smell of cheap whiskey, the greasy odor of fried food, and the lingering smell of smoke drifting from the pool table.

The jukebox was playing country rock music on a loop that nobody really listened to.

The chandeliers on the ceiling vibrated and hummed, but that didn't stop people from crowding in to drink, gamble, and watch arm wrestle.

At this moment, everyone's eyes were focused on the empty oak square table next to the bar.

The two men sat facing each other, their elbows resting on the table, their hands clasped tightly together.

The one on the left is a muscular black man with arms as thick as logs and veins bulging on his forehead, pressing his entire weight onto his wrists.

The one on the right is a large white man wearing a faded work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing two forearms covered in old scars. His light brown buzz cut is held in place by sweat and hair wax.

His hand was as steady as a steel plate welded to the table, and it didn't move an inch no matter how hard the other person tried.

  

Tomsky. School bus driver at Sacred Heart Elementary School.

In this bar, people didn't call him by his name; they just called him "Russian."

Every Friday night, he would show up at this spot on time, drink half a bottle of whiskey by himself, and then take down anyone willing to challenge him at the arm-wrestling table.

The burly black man's face turned bright red, and he let out a low growl as his wrist began to slowly tilt backward.

Tomsky's mouth parted into a slit, revealing a few teeth that were yellowed from years of smoking.

He gave the other person no chance to struggle, and with a sudden burst of force, he slammed the other person's arm hard onto the table, making a dull thud.

Nine consecutive wins!

The entire bar erupted in a deafening cheer.

Some people slammed their hands on the table, while others raised their beer glasses above their heads, spilling beer all over the floor.

Tomsky stuffed the winnings into his shirt pocket, wiped the sweat from his brow with his other hand, picked up the bourbon whiskey that had been waiting for him, and downed it in one gulp.

The thrill of winning money, the cheers of those around him, the burning sensation of alcohol in his veins—all of this enveloped his brain like a scalding film of oil.

This feeling was what he looked forward to most each week, much more interesting than driving those kids to church.

A heavy, cold snort rang out like a stone thrown into the noisy din.

At the far end of the bar, a burly Italian man leaned against the wall, his arms covered in faded gang tattoos.

He was embracing a blonde woman with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark red lips, clearly of Slavic descent.

The Italian slammed his beer glass onto the bar, the foam overflowing from the rim.

"What are you so proud of?"

idiot.

"Just because you knocked down a few bean sprouts doesn't mean you're someone special!"

The bar was silent for half a second, then everyone started making a drawn-out commotion.

The tavern owner, a bald, fat man, stood behind the bar wiping glasses and loudly introduced this burly Italian man as the undefeated arm-wrestling champion, whose title had been challenged by no one for a long time.

The Italian took off his coat and threw it on the bar, revealing two thick arms and a dark blue tattoo on his chest. He walked over and sat down opposite Tomski, resting his elbows on the table with his fingers spread.

"Come on, Russian. Let me see what else you're good for besides bullying weaklings."

Tomsky sat down again and took the other's hand.

This Italian man had a stronger grip than the burly black man from before, and his palms were as rough as sandpaper.

The two exerted force simultaneously, their arm muscles tensing at the same time, and their clasped hands began to tremble slightly in the center of the table.

But at that moment, he caught a glimpse of the woman out of the corner of his eye.

The blonde woman was leaning against the edge of the bar, looking at him with an undisguised gaze, a gaze that seemed to burn with something more intense than alcohol.

The Italian noticed his gaze, increased the pressure on his hand, and began hurling even more offensive words.

"What are you looking at? That's my woman."

"You think you're qualified to look up there just because you've uprooted a few bean sprouts in this wretched place?"

He slammed his wrist down with tremendous force, as if to smash down the lingering impact of the insult.

Tomsky's wrist was bent several degrees as the effects of the alcohol and adrenaline surged into his brain.

He stopped looking at the woman and focused all his attention back on his opponent.

The two forces remained locked in a stalemate in the center of the table for a long time.

The legs of the wooden table began to make a slight scraping sound on the floor, and everyone around held their breath.

Tomsky gritted his teeth, but just then, their eyes met.

The woman straightened up from the edge of the bar, took a step forward, and, where no one could see, silently mouthed the words to Tomsky in Russian:

BblnrpaǔyHero,τbnyuwnǔ!

(You're the best if you beat him!)

She then downed the red wine in her glass in one gulp, her manner indescribably alluring. "CykangTb!"

Tomsky's fingers tightened suddenly.

He let out a low growl, unleashing a final burst of devastating power from his wrist, slamming the Italian's hand hard into the oak board of the table.

The bar's ceiling was almost blown off by the cheers.

"Tomsky! Tomsky! Tomsky!"

Everyone was banging on the table, stomping their feet, and shouting his name.

The Italian stood up from his chair, rubbing his aching wrist, his face ashen.

He grabbed his coat from the bar and turned to walk towards the door.

"Wait a moment."

Tomsky rolled up his sleeves again and held out his palm: "Give me the money."

This is the bar's rule: if you lose, you have to pay!

The Italian reached into his pocket, rummaged around for a bit, and then opened his empty palm.

"FUCK! I didn't bring any cash. I'll give it to you next time."

"Don't sit at that table if you don't have any money."

Tomsky's voice didn't rise, but his posture remained unchanged, like a stone that wouldn't budge.

People nearby started whispering amongst themselves.

The blonde woman sighed and looked at the Italian with a look of disappointment bordering on disgust.

"A bet's a bet. If you don't even have that much class, don't ask me to come out and embarrass myself."

9

The Italian man's face twitched, and then without warning, he raised his hand and slapped the woman across the face.

The hand did not land on her face.

Tomsky stood up from the side with a speed that belied someone who had already drunk half a bottle of whiskey.

His hand gripped the Italian's wrist like an iron clamp, his knuckles digging into the bone beneath the skin with a soft cracking sound.

The Italian's face turned a deep purplish-red, and he uttered a string of incoherent curses, but he could do nothing under the grip of that hand.

A few seconds later, he broke free of his wrist, staggered back two steps, spat on the ground, turned around, pushed open the bar door, and disappeared into the night.

Tomsky stuffed the winnings into his pocket, walked to the bar, finished the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, and then headed for the door.

The night wind, carrying the rusty smell of the industrial area, swept over him, clearing his slightly tipsy head a little.

He took out his phone to call a designated driver, but as soon as he swiped the screen, he heard the sound of high heels on the broken brick pavement behind him.

The woman stood under the streetlight, her shoulders slightly hunched, her blonde hair disheveled by the wind.

"My name is Karina."

She said, her voice much softer than when she was in the bar: "That damn coward left me behind."

I don't want to go home like this. Can you give me a ride?

I can drive, but you've been drinking.

She pointed to Tomsky's old Chevrolet parked on the side of the road.

The engine started, and the Chevrolet drove out of the industrial area and through the sparse streetlights of North Philadelphia.

About ten minutes after the car drove off, Karina suddenly asked him why he had come to America.

Tomsky leaned back in the passenger seat, tilting his head toward the window, and remained silent for a while.

He said he came from the suburbs of Moscow, smuggled himself in 15 years ago, and spent five years getting legal status.

He said he used to drive troop carriers for the Russian army, but after retiring, he couldn't find a job. Later, a friend introduced him to a job as a school bus driver at a church, saying that the job was stable and the wages would not be delayed.

When he arrived, he discovered that while things were stable, the boarding students who rode in his car to church every Saturday and Sunday always carried a kind of silence that he didn't want to think about.

He said he was not religious and was just fulfilling a contract.

Karina didn't say anything, but simply slowed the car down a little.

Then she spoke.

She said she also came from the suburbs of Moscow, a place only half an hour's drive from the neighborhood where she grew up.

She said she came to the United States to get a green card, to have a legal status, so that she wouldn't be deported at any time.

She gave herself to that Italian man not because she loved him, but because he promised to help her get a green card, but it had been a long time coming, and every time she asked, he would just give her a perfunctory answer.

She said he was old enough to be her father, but she had no other choice—

In the United States, without legal status, you have nothing.

Tomsky turned his gaze from the car window to her profile, illuminated by the lights of the dashboard.

He hadn't heard that accent in many years—

The Russian accents with their Moscow suburban flavor, the word order and pauses that I had mentally spelled out in my native language before translating them into English.

It is something that cannot be deliberately imitated; it is something that can never be washed away from a person.

He did not hesitate any longer.

He reached out and took her hand, which was resting on the gear shift.

She glanced down at the hand, then looked up into his eyes.

What happened next was not described in any language.

Tomsky's voice was a little hoarse, and he told her not to drive too far, but to find a motel up ahead and stop.

The motel door slammed shut behind them.

Karina turned around, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him forcefully and urgently, as if she wanted to fulfill the radiance she had conveyed to him across half a bar counter with her body.

Her fingertips slid down the back of his neck, and his coat was pulled off and left on the porch floor.

Karina's nails dug into his back, and she let out a muffled groan as he tightened his grip on her arm.

A knock came at the door.

Quick, rough, three strikes.

Then came a low growl in Italian.

Karina broke free from Tomsky's embrace, the blush on her face fading completely in an instant.

She glanced at the door, then quickly put on the dress that had been tossed at the foot of the bed and went to the door.

The door opened a crack, then was kicked open from the outside.

The Italian man stood at the door, followed by two equally burly men with necks as thick as concrete piles, and the outlines of pistol grips were faintly visible beneath their sleeves.

More importantly, the Italian leader had a pistol pointed directly at Karina's head.

"Kneel down."

He said his voice was cold and steady, as if he were issuing an unquestionable command.

Tomsky and Karina were forced to kneel on the cold floor of the motel.

The Italian pointed a gun at Tomsky's forehead and cursed him from head to toe—

The smuggled Russian pig, the penniless bastard who cheated at the arm-wrestling table, and the fact that he touched his woman—that's enough to make him not want to leave this room alive tonight.

"You're a school bus driver, do you think you're American?"

You're just a poor guy on a temporary visa.

I'll kill you, and the police will come to collect your body tomorrow. No one will call the police for you.

"Those church officials who make you drive for them, they won't even publish your obituary when you die."

The gun barrel slowly moved closer and aimed at Tomsky's forehead.

Just as the gun was about to touch Tomsky's forehead, Karina let out a short scream.

As she was being pinned down, she bumped Tomsky's arm with her shoulder and then pointed towards her waist.

That look conveyed no extraneous information, only an instinctive will to survive that refused to give up even in the face of extreme fear.

There was a pistol tucked there, the butt pointing directly at him. Tomsky's pupils contracted sharply.

His body had already shifted to the side, reached out, gripped the handle, and pulled the trigger before his brain could make a decision.

A set of instinctive movements that had been repeatedly trained over the past fifteen years, the very movements that had saved his life in the ambush on the Chechen border, were now awakened from the deepest recesses of his muscle memory by alcohol, fear, and adrenaline.

A shot rang out.

A cloud of blood exploded from the Italian's chest.

He staggered back a step, his expression changing from cold to blank, then to fear, before crashing to the floor like a sandbag being toppled.

The fierce expressions on the faces of the two people next to them completely vanished. They were stunned for a while before they reacted and dragged their still convulsing companion, staggering out of the room.

Tomsky knelt on the cold floor, panting heavily.

He was still holding the pistol in his hand, and wisps of smoke were slowly rising from its muzzle.

Karina rushed to his side, touching him all over with her hands, asking if he was hurt.

He put the gun on the table, shook his head, and then pulled her into his arms.

Her lips were trembling, but her eyes remained focused.

"We have to leave quickly; that man is the leader of the Turin boys."

His gang has been operating in Bellavista for many years, and his men will be back soon.

Tomsky let out a low curse from deep in his throat.

He helped Karina up, and the two of them hurriedly gathered up the clothes and cash scattered on the ground.

Karina pulled her coat tighter around herself and holstered her gun. Tomsky grabbed the coat from beside the bed and stuffed the scattered banknotes into his pocket.

The knocking sounded again.

This time, the knocking was slow and deliberate; someone politely tapped the door three times with their knuckles.

Tomsky froze on the spot as if he had been electrocuted.

Almost instinctively, his right hand gripped the gun again. He pulled Karina behind him, walked to the door, held his breath, and looked out through the peephole.

Then he froze.

In the corridor, the Turin boys who had just fled in panic were being held down on the ground by several burly men in black, their arms twisted. Each of them was bound hand and foot like cargo, their mouths stuffed with rags, and their expressions were somewhere between fear and pleading.

Next to him lay the Italian man, whose chest was still bleeding. His breathing was heavy and disordered, but he was clearly not quite dead yet.

In the middle of this group, several black gang members respectfully made way for them.

A Chinese man in a well-fitting suit was standing there, holding nothing in his hands, looking as relaxed as if he were standing in his own living room.

Behind him was another, more muscular Black man, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and carrying a briefcase.

Everyone's stance clearly points to the same fact:

Everything here is under the control of this Chinese man.

Tomsky opened the door.

Link looked at Tomsky standing in the doorway, a faint smile appearing on his lips.

He took out a cigarette case from his pants pocket, and a black man immediately rushed forward to offer him a lighter. Link said calmly, "You killed someone, sir."

But don't panic, the dead can't talk!

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