Just like Tuku, who had no choice but to team up with Rorschach to plug the holes in his books, Gus's mood at this moment was equally foul.
"I've already been doing everything I can, by legal means and otherwise, to get you what you want in New York. But so far, I haven't seen you or the people behind you show me any real sincerity."
"Sincerity? You think a few truckloads of second-rate product and a couple dozen kids are enough to buy your way into New York? Gus, you overestimate yourself and underestimate us."
"I've always treated you people with the utmost respect, but don't take me for an idiot. Do you have any idea how many kids I've had to snatch off the streets of Chicago just to meet your demands?!"
There was a brief silence on the other end, then the voice returned. "Send one last shipment. Once it arrives, I'll arrange for your people to enter New York."
Hearing this, a satisfied smile finally appeared on Gus's severe face.
After promising to deliver the last batch of children within three days, he hung up and let out a long breath.
The man on the other end of the line was a major figure in the New York underworld, but that alone was not what made Gus so deferential.
What he truly cared about was the man behind that gang—rumored not only to be a titan in the entertainment industry, but also deeply entangled with the upper echelons of Washington.
A man who straddled both the light and the dark so effortlessly was someone Gus could not afford to cross.
Fortunately, people in that circle all seemed to share the same twisted tastes.
To push his product into New York, the most prosperous city on the East Coast, Gus had been playing to those tastes for some time.
"Three days…"
He tapped his fingers lightly on the desk, thinking about how to move this next batch of kids.
The first two shipments had gone through because no one in Chicago had been paying real attention yet. With help from the dirty cops on his payroll, and at no small cost, he had managed to get them to New York.
But after a string of missing-child cases, the department was fully on alert. Trying the same methods again would be far riskier.
"Mike—"
He looked over at the older white man sitting by the door, head bowed like a statue.
"Get in touch with Rorschach. I'm ready to give him one more chance. Back when he was a detective, he helped the Coast Guard solve a homicide. They owe him. With his name on it, getting our shipments into New York will be a lot easier."
Old Mike did not answer right away. His cloudy eyes rested on Gus for a few moments before he could not help asking, "We've already sent two loads of innocent kids. Do we really have to…"
"Mike!"
Gus cut him off sharply. "Haven't you figured out where we stand yet? From the moment we sent the first batch, we were on the same boat as those New York people. If we don't want to sink, we have to lash ourselves to them even tighter."
He spoke each word slowly and clearly. "They're not some street‑corner gang. Behind them are heavy hitters in entertainment, on Wall Street, and even in Washington. You really think we'd live long if we pissed them off?"
"…F*ck."
It was rare for Mike to swear out loud.
The only reason he had agreed to work for Gus in the first place was that he knew he did not have much time left, and wanted to leave a big nest egg for the only family he had left—his granddaughter.
They had agreed he would help move drugs. Somehow that had turned into human trafficking.
He was a retired cop who had come to Chicago and spent years teaching himself the ins and outs of street‑level distribution and supply routes just to make a living.
And now he had somehow ended up changing careers again.
This was not even his line of work.
"I'll call Rorschach. But I'm telling you, he's not going to help," Mike sighed, taking his phone and walking out of the office.
Gus's face was also dark. The thought that Rorschach might refuse him again made his eyes drift, almost of their own accord, toward the safe bolted inside the closet.
Inside it were all the records of Rorschach's crimes before he enlisted. Almost all the victims had been vicious traffickers and gang members, but this country, at least on the surface, still pretended to care about the law…
All Gus had to do was leak those files, and Rorschach would be working as his cop from a prison cell instead.
No—once that kid went inside, he probably would not survive the night.
At Fox River Penitentiary, at least half the lifers had been put there by Rorschach himself.
——————————
Night.
Rorschach did not turn down Mike's invitation. He went alone to Gus's fried chicken joint once more.
He felt nothing for Gus, but he did have a little feeling left for the old man.
He remembered being thirteen, his mother dying in an accident. To give her a proper funeral, he had been forced to join Gus's drug operation.
Gus had given him two options as a recruit: peddle product on the streets and in schools, or assassinate rival dealers on other crews' turf.
He had not hesitated. He chose the second. And the man who had trained his shooting back then was Mike.
But tonight, the old man was clearly not the focus.
Rorschach idly picked up a ballpoint pen and doodled on a napkin, while opposite him sat Gus, who was nearing the end of his patience.
Yes—he had turned Gus down again. The Black dealer wanted him to help move another shipment of children, and he had refused.
Gus stared straight at him. He had given Rorschach chance after chance, but the kid seemed convinced his wings were strong enough now that he could slip out from under Gus's thumb.
"If that's all, I'm leaving."
Rorschach yawned and gave him a cool look as he stood. "I'm switching to nights soon. Gotta get my body clock sorted."
"Don't look at me like that." Gus's face stayed unreadable. "You've got no right to look down on me. If it weren't for me, your mother wouldn't even have had a decent funeral."
"Heh."
Rorschach kept scribbling on the napkin as he answered with a smile, "Gus, I've never once looked down on you."
Halfway through the sentence, he raised his head and met Gus's eyes, speaking slowly and evenly. "I'm just not afraid of you. Maybe that's what you're not used to."
"You like to call yourself a businessman. You dress sharp, you're polite. But underneath, you're still just a cheap little thug."
"Maybe you've killed so many people you started thinking it's natural to snap your fingers and have me come running, to expect me to bow my head like everyone else who's scared of you."
"But did it ever occur to you… that I've never been scared of you? Not once?"
Gus said nothing. Even Mike, sitting at the neighboring table, looked over at Rorschach in surprise.
In that moment, he finally understood how Rorschach truly saw Gus.
"You're dancing on thin f*cking ice," Gus snarled, shooting to his feet.
Before he could explode, though, his phone rang.
He gave Rorschach one last venomous glare, then answered it through gritted teeth. As he listened, his face went from dark to downright black.
"I don't care how many of them there are. Destroy the product. All of it. Do you hear me? Every last gram."
When he hung up, his expression was as stormy as it had ever been. He shot Rorschach a suspicious look, then stormed out of the restaurant without another word.
From the way he moved, it was obvious something serious had gone wrong.
Mike, still not sure what was happening, started to follow him. As he passed Rorschach, he hesitated, then could not help saying, "You shouldn't talk to Gus like that. Not when he's holding something that can ruin you."
Rorschach did not answer. He only glanced down at what he had been doodling on the napkin—a raging bull.
"There are only two kinds of cops in this world," he said, looking up at Mike. "Matadors and punching bags."
"Which one do you think I am?"
(End of Chapter)
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