13: Chapter 13 Clues about Mutants

December 22nd, 2:00 PM.

Old Jack sat behind the bar as usual. Today, he wasn't drinking coffee but had switched to a cup of hot cocoa. A ring of dried chocolate stains clung to the cup's rim, indicating that this drink had been refilled at least three times.

When Yan Zheng pushed the door open and walked in, Old Jack was pushing a pair of gold-rimmed glasses wrapped in newspaper and three neatly folded clothing bags onto the bar counter.

"Your things, got them from Old Tom. The glasses are display samples, nobody wanted them, so they're free. Two navy suits and one black one, ninety percent new, package price of one hundred twenty."

"Many thanks, Uncle Jack."

Yan Zheng unwrapped the newspaper, perched the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, and turned to glance at the beer mirror hanging behind the bar.

The person in the mirror was pale and gaunt, but as soon as the gold frames were on his face, his temperament instantly changed from "poor wretch who'd been beaten for three days" to "young Doctor who knows how to write prescriptions."

"Very good, that's more like it."

"Indeed, it looks much better than that miserable face you had before." Old Jack sipped his hot cocoa and looked him up and down. "But you're just a guy who sells fake antiques; who are you trying to impress by wearing a suit and gold-rimmed glasses?"

"For the clients."

"You have clients?"

"I will soon."

Yan Zheng sat down in front of the bar, took off the glasses, and wiped the lenses with the corner of his clothes, his movements slow and leisurely.

"Uncle Jack, I'm not buying information today, just chatting."

"Chatting doesn't cost money, but I don't guarantee I'll tell the truth." Old Jack leaned back against his chair, holding the hot cocoa cup with both hands to warm them. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Mutant."

Old Jack's hand trembled slightly, and a few drops of hot cocoa spilled from the cup.

"Is your brain really kicked in? Last time you asked where people die the most, the time before that you asked what the sewers smell like, and now you're asking about Mutant?"

"Pure curiosity." Yan Zheng put the glasses back on, pushed them up the bridge of his nose, his tone as gentle as if he were asking about the weather. "The television is arguing about the Mutant Registration Act every day, and I just wanted to know if there are any real Mutant active in a place like Hells Kitchen."

"Why are you asking this? If you encounter one, just stay far away; those people aren't ones that normal people can mess with."

"I don't want to mess with them; I want to understand them." Yan Zheng picked up the hot water Old Jack had poured for him and took a sip. "People in the Antique Shop business have a saying: 'Eye for value.' If you can't judge the object, you can't set a price. Whether Mutant are active in this area directly affects the safety rating of my little shop."

Old Jack snorted, but he was clearly struck by the pragmatic nerve of the "safety rating" argument.

"This Mutant business—talk too much about it and it'll cost you your life, you know that, right?"

"I know. That's why I'm only asking Uncle Jack, not anyone else."

"Stop buttering me up."

Old Jack complained, but his body had already honestly leaned forward half an inch, his voice dropping into his signature low whisper.

"There are definitely Mutant in Hells Kitchen, but you won't see them on the street. They either hide very deep, going to work and coming home like normal people, so you can't tell them apart; or they are controlled by someone, locked up in some place where the light doesn't reach."

"Controlled by someone?"

"Yeah." Old Jack's expression turned a bit ugly. "You know who runs the East District, right?"

"The map you drew marks it as the Chinese gang; what was the leader's name again..."

"Boss Gao, real name Gao Wenxiong." Old Jack gestured with one hand. "In his fifties, from Fujian, smuggled in during the nineties. He started as a dishwasher in Chinatown and worked his way up to become the underground boss of the entire East District. He's ruthless and doesn't talk much, and he keeps a gang of thugs he brought over from Southeast Asia."

"Is he connected to Mutant?"

Old Jack looked left and right; there were still only the two of them in the tavern.

"I'm going to tell you something, but keep it to yourself; you absolutely must not spread it."

"Go ahead, Uncle."

"At the intersection of 38th Street and Ninth Avenue in the East District, there's a car wash that acts as a front; the sign says 'Dechang Auto Beauty.' Anyone who has been hanging around this area for more than half a year knows that the Underground Room of that car wash connects to a venue."

"What kind of venue?"

"Underground fighting."

Old Jack set down the hot cocoa cup and used his index fingers to trace a square on the bar counter.

"Iron cage, ring, bets ranging from five hundred to fifty thousand. You've seen ordinary underground fighting; fighter versus fighter, breaking bones and knocking out teeth, but at least they are all human."

"And what about the not-so-ordinary ones?"

Old Jack's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"The last Saturday of every month is the venue's 'Special Night.' The ones getting into the ring aren't ordinary people."

Yan Zheng's hand holding the water cup froze in mid-air.

"Mutant?"

"Keep your voice down." Old Jack was speaking almost in a breathy whisper. "I don't know the details; I haven't seen it with my own eyes—it's too dangerous. But the foreman, Old Miller, has a nephew who hangs around the East District. The kid has a loose mouth; once, when he was drunk, he was bragging to me that he'd been to watch one."

"What did he say?"

"He said there was a young man in the iron cage whose hands could turn into iron, hard as a hammer, and with one punch, he collapsed the opponent's ribs. The young man had a chain around his neck, his eyes were like a dead fish's, and after the fight, he was dragged away."

Yan Zheng slowly put down the water cup, his fingers unconsciously tracing circles on the cup's rim.

"A chain around his neck. So, those Mutant aren't there voluntarily."

"Of course not. Who would willingly be locked in a cage for people to fight for fun?" Old Jack's voice carried a hint of suppressed anger. "I heard Boss Gao has people specifically for catching Mutant. Those wandering the streets, homeless, young Mutant that nobody cares about or asks after—they catch them, lock them up, drug them, and force them into the ring. If they win, they keep them locked up; if they lose..."

He didn't finish, but he pressed his palm downward.

"Disposed of?"

"What do you think? A crippled Mutant can't go into the ring to make money, and you have to spend money to keep them?" Old Jack sneered. "Throw them in the East River; the fish eat them clean, and you can't even find the bones."

Yan Zheng's expression didn't change at all; the eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were as calm as a frozen lake.

But his pupils constricted.

"Underground fighting." His voice lacked any emotional color, like he was reciting a news summary. "This kind of thing is truly inhumane."

"You say it so lightly." Old Jack glanced at him. "You aren't thinking of going, are you?"

"I'm just a guy selling fake antiques; why would I go to a place like that?" Yan Zheng stood up and tucked the three clothing bags and the gold-rimmed glasses inside his coat. "It's just that hearing you say that, I feel it's quite pitiful; those Mutant are people too, after all."

"You know, when you talk, your eyes and your mouth are never in sync."

"You're overthinking it, Uncle."

Yan Zheng walked toward the door, his hand resting on the doorknob, and paused.

"One last question."

"You've asked enough questions for today."

"One last one, really. That venue's 'Special Night,' the last Saturday of every month, right?"

"Right."

"What date is the last Saturday of this month?"

Old Jack thought for two seconds.

"The 28th."

Yan Zheng pushed the door open, and cold wind rushed in. He turned up the collar of his coat, his voice drifting back with the wind.

"Thanks, Uncle Jack. I'll treat you to a drink another day."

"I don't drink your alcohol; your alcohol is poisonous."

Yan Zheng's laughter disappeared outside the door, leaving only Old Jack sitting alone behind the bar, staring blankly at half a cup of cold hot cocoa.

"This kid is eighty percent likely to go." Old Jack muttered, picking up the cup and putting it back down. "Eighty percent likely to go."

Inside the Antique Shop, Yan Zheng stood before the mirror, put on the first navy suit, buttoned it up, and donned the gold-rimmed glasses.

The person in the mirror had completely changed.

"December 28th, Special Night."

He reached out to straighten his cuffs and spoke softly to himself in the mirror, his tone like he was confirming the schedule for an academic seminar.

"East District Underground Fighting Ring, Mutant underground fighting, dumping bodies in the East River."

"Boss Gao, you really are a good man."

"Raising the Mutant well for me, crippling them, and then thoughtfully helping me 'dispose' of them."

He turned and walked toward the Underground Room, the final sentence as light as a sigh.

"It's just that this time, those gentlemen who get 'disposed of' might have to change employers."