"Four boxes of ammunition, two hours of training time, fifty-eight dollars in total."
Jay pulled out several bills and handed them over. The range cashier took the money, tapped a few keys on the keyboard, and the machine whirred out a slightly blurry receipt.
"Thank you for your business. You've completed your enjoyable shooting training for today. Please come again."
Well, it was enjoyable enough, just a little painful on the wallet.
Although the Old Town market was lively, wandering around Gotham at night was definitely not a good idea.
Jay had forced Wilson to sell the propane tank, but Wilson managed to sweet-talk him into buying an electric heating plate, which meant Jay actually lost $20 on the deal.
Fortunately, they drove the car home safely.
A few nights ago, after returning home, he had noticed that his Firearms Proficiency task progress had changed to 20/1000. It seemed highly likely that only the two confirmed hits counted for 10 points each, and all the misses didn't count at all.
So, first thing this morning, he found a shooting range, habitually intending to see if he could find any skill bugs or glitches.
However, after an hour of testing, he found that all random, rapid-fire shots didn't count; continuous automatic fire didn't count even if he got lucky with a hit; and even shooting the target at point-blank range with the paper taped to the muzzle didn't count for the bullseye.
Only shots that were carefully aimed and hit the target within the reasonable effective range of the firearm added to the progress.
"Why does the progress only increase one point at a time at the range…"
Jay stared at the gun in his hand, his mouth drooping.
After two hours of messing around and trying every possible shooting method, his arms were sore and swollen. He had spent over fifty dollars and only gained thirty points of progress—a huge loss.
Although the precinct had its own range, expecting the department's finance office to reimburse practice ammo was out of the question. To improve his skill, he had to figure out a way himself.
He tucked the receipt into his pocket, shook out his hands, and walked out of the range, driving his newly purchased 'new' van straight to 15th Street.
Without the deterrent effect of flashing police lights, the G20 felt like an incongruous intruder. Moreover, it was much wider than a police cruiser.
As Jay parked the van at the mouth of the alley and walked in, shadowy figures constantly flitted about from the dilapidated, stained stairwells on both sides. They slowly gathered in front and behind him, whispering indistinctly, their eyes fixed on him.
Those pairs of malicious eyes, like wolves in the darkness, greedily sized him up.
But when he casually pulled back his trench coat to expose his badge and the grip of his gun, those restless figures instantly retreated like a tide, shrinking back into the shadows as if driven by a whip.
"Tsk, tsk, force is always more effective than reason," he thought.
He walked straight up to the second floor, stopped at a wooden door with peeling paint, and knocked firmly.
An ear-splitting stream of curses immediately came from inside. "Go open the door, you lazy freak! Hope it's a robber, so they can blow you away, you weirdo."
No one answered, but the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps echoed inside, and the door opened. A wall of flesh in a thin jacket, mixed with an indescribable smell of sweat and mildew, stood there, nearly filling the entire doorframe.
Jay took a step back, slightly lifted his head, and smiled. "Hello, Waylon."
The wall of flesh was silent for a few seconds, then let out a low rumble. "H… hello… Officer."
Jay reached out, tugged at his jacket, then glanced over Waylon's shoulder into the room. The burly aunt was peering out inquisitively. As soon as she met Jay's eyes, she recoiled as if electrocuted, slamming the bedroom door shut.
A muffled string of curses followed from inside.
"Did she take your money?" Jay withdrew his gaze, refocusing on Waylon's troubled, giant face, which still held a hint of childishness. He lowered his voice and asked.
"No, no." Waylon clumsily fumbled in his tight jacket pocket.
Then, as if pulling out a treasure, he carefully took out the green banknote and the crumpled business card. "They're all here." He lowered his head, his voice tinged with the panic of having caused trouble. "All… all here."
"Why haven't you bought some new clothes?"
Jay reached out and tugged at the old jacket Waylon was wearing, which was too thin for the low temperature. The fabric was stretched taut over his mountain of a body, and the sleeves were far too short.
"I… I can manage," Waylon looked helpless. "S… sorry, Officer."
"Nothing to apologize for." Jay patted his arm; it was still ice-cold to the touch. "Come on, follow me. I have something I want to talk to you about."
Waylon glanced back at the room. The bedroom door was still tightly closed, with no light showing through the crack. The aunt's cursing had temporarily stopped, leaving only a suffocating silence.
He thought for a moment, as if making a decision, then followed Jay with his head down to a sheltered corner at the end of the hallway.
Jay gestured for him to sit on the dusty concrete steps, watching him try to curl up and make himself look smaller. He got straight to the point: "Do you like your life right now?"
Waylon didn't speak, just quietly shook his head.
"Then would you like a change of environment?"
"A change?"
Waylon looked up at him, his eyes full of confusion. "No, no, sir," he shook his head again. "I have nowhere to go. I don't have any other relatives…"
"Not your relatives. I mean, how about being self-sufficient?" Jay cut him off. "Self-sufficient, supporting yourself, without having to answer to anyone."
"Self-sufficient?" Waylon chewed on the word, a faint light glowing in his eyes for the first time. "Are you going to give me a job? But…" He lowered his head again in frustration. "I'm afraid I'm too young…"
"Close enough. I'll be direct," Jay lowered his voice. "I have a friend who can connect you with an American football team—food and board included. Have you ever played football?"
"I… I played a little when I was a kid…" Waylon recalled, his huge fingers unconsciously twisting together. "But… that was a long time ago…"
"That's fine. The rules are the same anyway. The players' size is the only thing that's changed. And no one else is going to change as much as you." Jay punched his left palm with his right fist. "How about it? Interested?"
"But… Auntie…" Waylon looked toward the apartment, as if the tightly closed door might open at any moment.
"Why bother with her? Doesn't she want to kick you out all the time? You'll just be granting her wish."
Jay shrugged indifferently. "Just keep this a secret. When I've sorted out the team, I'll take you there directly. If you make the cut, the team will handle everything for you.
Think about those big shots; your aunt won't be able to fight them."
This talk was like a shot of adrenaline. Waylon suddenly lifted his head, and the fire in his eyes, which had been clouded by confusion and timidity, burned clearly for the first time.
He looked at Jay, his lips moving a few times, but in the end, he said nothing, just nodded heavily with all his might.
"It's settled then. You come with me when the deal is done." Jay pushed off Waylon's thick thigh to stand up, dusting the dirt off his pants. "Remember, keep it a secret. Act like nothing happened. If your aunt asks, just say I came for a follow-up visit to see if she was still abusing you. Understand?"
"Un… understood."
Seeing Waylon solemnly agree, Jay turned to leave, but after taking one step, he suddenly remembered something, stopped, and turned back. "By the way, have you had breakfast?"
"I… I did," Waylon answered evasively.
"Stop your bullsh*t. I can tell when you're lying instantly." Jay beckoned to him. "Come with me, let me show you something new."
The two men walked back through the alley, which was still steeped in hostility and surveillance, and arrived at the Chevrolet van.
Amidst a series of clanging and clattering sounds, Jay climbed into the back, lowered the side panel, and turned on the electric burner to heat up the cooking surface.
Next, he used a ladle to scoop a large spoonful of batter onto the sizzling-hot griddle. It made a sizzle as it hit the iron, and steam rose as he spread it in circles with a scraper.
"How about that? Have you ever seen this?"
Jay asked while single-handedly cracking an egg on the edge of the griddle, the egg liquid precisely spreading onto the solidifying batter.
With his other hand, he skillfully slid a spatula under the edge of the pancake.
With a flick, the entire large pancake performed a beautiful flip in the air, landing back on the hot plate with a satisfying sizzle, the golden, tempting side facing down.
"Maybe you haven't seen this, but you probably saw my partner last time," he glanced at Waylon, who was completely petrified below the van. "Yeah, it was that jerk's idea to turn it into this. Damn it, this is my car!"
His hands kept moving. He brushed a layer of brown sauce onto the pancake, grabbed a few pieces of lettuce, a piece of fried dough stick, and a piece of grilled, crispy meat patty, and stacked them on top.
He then asked Waylon, "Want some cheese and ketchup?"
"Uh… ah? Y-yes, okay…"
Waylon still hadn't recovered from the shock of the "police officer turned street food vendor" and nodded blankly amidst the heat waves washing over him.
Then, with a few crinkles and tears of wrapping paper, a warm item was placed in his hands.
"This is called Chinese Crepe… uh… Chinese Pancake Roll. Give it a try. You're my first customer for this burner, so it's on the house." Jay tossed the spatula onto the greasy countertop and ladled another spoonful of batter onto the griddle with a sizzle.
"Officer… I have enough… one is fine…"
Waylon looked down at the food in his hand, which emitted an unfamiliar, rich aroma. He looked up at Jay, who was skillfully operating in the rising steam, and instinctively tried to hand the paper bag back.
"One? What's one or two? I haven't even had breakfast myself." Jay didn't lift his head, fully concentrating on smoothing out the new batter.
Then, he skillfully cracked a few more eggs. "I'm eating a three-egg one, dammit!"