Half an hour later, Broken Dreams Cafe.
The three hired a rental carriage along the way. Since the subway massacre, Silvermist's public transportation system has been in disarray. The county council is seeking to reorganize the Floyd Carriage Rental Company with a new board of directors.
But until then, disorder will continue.
The driver stopped the car on the sidewalk: "One shilling and sixpence in total, sir."
"Nonsense," said Dylan, blowing his short beard, "it doesn't cost a shilling to get here from Mole Street! You're robbing."
"How dare I defraud you of your money? Father, this is all forced by life..." The coachman begged respectfully:
"Rents and road maintenance fees have almost doubled, and a new river subsidy tax has been levied. The Royal Society also wants to force the meter they invented to be installed on horse-drawn carriages... I have a family to support..."
"I won't give you a shilling or a penny more."
Dylan interrupted his ramblings coldly, took out a small silver coin with a pattern from his pocket, paid it to the driver, turned around and walked away.
Ed looked at Dylan's back, then at the coachman's bitter expression, and finally took out a sixpence copper plate from his trouser pocket and secretly stuffed it into the coachman's hand.
Then he quickly followed with his cane in hand, catching up with the two of them.
"Can't you see that it's a ploy to collect extra money? Little man, or is your compassion blinding you?" Dylan's expression did not change and he whispered:
"I don't mind paying more, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to be a fool. I've never heard of a 'river subsidy tax' at all."
"Then let me be the fool." Ed gently stretched his right shoulder and continued:
"I'm afraid that guy is really in trouble. The money the leasing company has lost these days will definitely be recouped from them and us."
"Heh... it's up to you." Dylan replied lukewarmly and hid the cuffs in his robe.
Quinn seems indifferent to this. As an official agent of the Bureau of Investigation, "morality" is not something she should consider:
"Are you sure the owner of this store knows Buck?"
"Not sure. But he seems to have quite a wide network of contacts, not to mention that we don't have any better way at the moment."
Ed turned his head 180° from left to right, turned around and answered.
After walking into the store, Little Melissa opened her eyes and scanned them with her bright yellow needle-like pupils, lying down next to the purple sorrel flower pot.
The owner, Downston, was busy at the bar. Judging from his expression, the sadness seemed to have begun to scab and heal. Seeing Ed, he happily stroked his fancy tendrils and greeted warmly:
"Hey, kid, what brought you here?"
Ed walked forward, leaned against the bar and asked softly:
"I want to ask you about someone."
"Okay. Of course."
Downston's smile faded a little, but he still kept his smile. He lowered his head and wiped the table of the bar, pointing to the seat in the corner:
"Go sit over there for a while. I'll be there soon."
"Yeah." Ed turned around and saw Quinn stroking Nymelissa's down in front of the cabinet. She seemed to be enjoying it.
"Boss, let us sit down for a while."
"When did you get such connections?" She smiled, seemingly curious.
"It has something to do with the cat you are touching. It's a long story, so go and sit down first." Ed glanced at Nymelissa and said.
So Quinn finally touched the top of Nymelissa's head to say goodbye. She raised her head and responded with a soft voice.
"It has something to do with cats? This is really weird... Ouch!"
Father Dylan casually reached out and scratched the down on Nymelissa's belly, but was bitten hard. He suddenly took his hand back and hid it in his robe, pretending that nothing happened.
Ed didn't speak, he just smiled at Father Dylan, turned around and walked towards the seat pointed by Downston.
A moment later, Leonard Downston came over, holding a silver coffeepot embossed with flowers, and brought brioche and marzipan.
"Have we ordered food?" Dylan put down the newspaper, his expression full of surprise.
"The store gives it away for free."
Boss Downston slowly and steadily filled the ceramic cup with coffee and said with a lowered brow.
"Let's get down to business, Mr. Downston." Ed said straight to the point, "We are looking for a painter, Buck. Have you heard of this name?"
"Buck?"
Downston's hand pouring coffee shook, and burgundy black coffee dripped onto the table.
"Buck without arms?"
"It seems you know him. Is he disabled?"
Ed picked up the coffee and took a sip. The familiar mellow taste nourished his nerves, which was a compensation for the cup of coffee in the morning.
"I just heard it from friends. He was a lunatic," Downston said, "and then a disabled person."
"He locked himself in a dark room and kept painting day after day, but refused to sell it. He couldn't even buy canvas and paint. Only when he was about to starve to death and was dying, he would take out the paintings. A work in exchange for bread, canvas and paint.”
"I think it's more like some kind of 'performance art'. You know, torturing yourself to create some buzz and make those pretentious works sell better."
Dylan forked off a piece of egg roll and put it in his mouth, with a look of disapproval on his face.
"My agent friend made a special trip to find him, but he drove him away with bad words. No one can tolerate his bad character, and even if they do, they only want to buy his paintings at the lowest price."
"How is his painting? Have you seen it?" Ed asked.
"It's a painting of the devil, as twisted as his arm. I guess someone will pay a lot of money for his work one day - after he dies."
"...If you are looking for him, No. 38, Bladesmith Street, remember to hurry up before he dies. I can only say this, please forgive me."
After that, Tangston turned and left.
"No. 38, Bladesmith Street, let's go."
Ed took out a notebook and ink-storage pen from the inner pocket of his coat and wrote this line on it. Then he grabbed a handful of almond biscuits and stuffed them into his mouth, drank it with coffee, and stood up.
I'm afraid this is the only thing I can eat for lunch today.
…
The Street of Bladesmiths and the Street of Mole were equally chaotic and miserable. The house number 38 is a huge and bloated building with shacks, rags and wooden supports everywhere. It looks like a fat, deformed and bloated man.
Looking at this pot-bellied building, Ed had some doubts that one day this crumbling fat man would sit down on the ground and crush everyone in its belly.
It was a "Twopenny Inn" where the rent was payable by the day and for twopence you could get a narrow bed and spend the night huddled close to other desperate people.
It was fairly empty during the day, and at least there was room for the three of them to stand. The person who runs this place is an old woman with missing teeth and a gaunt appearance that reminds her of Mr. George, but she is much stronger than George - at least that's what it looks like.
"Who are you looking for?"
She put down the broom and asked cautiously but cautiously, obviously not wanting to cause trouble. Even a fool can see that the three of them are out of place here.
"Do you know a painter named Buck?" Ed asked kindly.
"No, no, no, there is no such person here. You must have made a mistake." The old woman looked away, lowered her head and swayed as she muttered.
"You don't want to get into trouble, right?"
Quinn walked over and was almost in front of the old woman. Her deep voice was extremely intimidating, and she had already silenced the old woman without showing any proof——
"Uh..., yes, ah... I remembered that there was such a painter, but I really didn't know his name was Buck."
"Where is he?"
"In the cellar. He thought it was too noisy outside, so he only painted there during the day and crawled out to sleep at night."
"Take me to him."
The old woman took them to the backyard, which was so filled with feces from the toilet that it was covered with bricks to make a path so that people could cross the yard without getting their shoes wet.
Ed thought Miss Quinn's sensitive sense of smell would be intolerable to the stench, but she seemed unfazed. Father Dylan frowned, looking like he was about to faint:
"If I'm guilty, I want the Holy Spirit to judge me fairly and not subject me to this torture."
He carefully held onto his robe to prevent it from swinging in the wind and being swallowed by the sewage.
"Come on, you only come here once in a while." Quinn said disdainfully, "But they are used to living in the abyss."
Dwellers of the Abyss. Ed repeated, closing his eyes.
He finally trudged to the cellar. Fortunately, the terrain was quite high and was not swallowed up by the sewage.
When I opened the cellar door, I was greeted by a damp, moldy stench, as well as the smell of pickles and salted fish. But at least it tastes slightly better than what it tastes like on the ground.
"Buck, are you there?"
The voice coming from below was faint and weak, like the last words of the deceased before death:
"Ed, my old friend."
"It feels so good to see you again..."
