Taoist priest goes to America

Lyndon Avenue, Mr. Rabbitface's estate.

The dark Ford Explorer drove through the manor's wrought-iron gates, its wheels crunching over the gravel driveway.

The car headlights illuminated the neatly trimmed bushes ahead and the towering oak trees on either side. The warm yellow light from the main manor house shone through the shadows of the trees, like half-closed eyes.

The person in the driver's seat had changed to Doyle, whose police cap was pulled low, the brim obscuring half his face. A yellow paper talisman folded into a triangle was pasted on the inside lining of the cap.

His hands were simply resting on the steering wheel, and his right foot was slowly pressing the accelerator under Ang Lee's control.

In the back seat, Ang Lee's hands were handcuffed behind his back with silver handcuffs, and he was wearing a black hood with ventilation holes for his mouth and nose, but no openings for his eyes.

He couldn't see anything, but his mental threads were connected to Doyle, and he used Doyle's eyes to observe his surroundings.

The car stopped in front of the first iron gate. A white man in a black suit came out of the guard post, his flashlight shining on the driver's side window.

Doyle rolled down the car window, and the man's flashlight shone on his face, revealing a police hat, badge, and that familiar face.

"Sheriff Doyle." The man switched off his flashlight and glanced into the carriage. There was a hooded man in the back seat with his hands cuffed. He didn't ask any questions, turned around and walked back to the guard post, where the iron gate slowly opened.

The car continued forward. It passed three checkpoints along the way, each one only glancing at Doyle's face before letting him through. After the third checkpoint, the road changed from gravel to asphalt, the streetlights became denser, and there were more buildings.

A white Victorian-style main building comes into view in the center of the field of vision. In front of the main building is a neatly manicured lawn with a fountain in the center. The statues in the fountain are covered with a cold light under the moonlight.

Doyle parked the car in the visitor parking space on the side of the main building, turned off the engine, unbuckled his seatbelt, got out of the driver's seat, and opened the rear door.

Doyle pulled Ang Lee out of the back seat, then stood behind him, put one hand on his shoulder and pushed him forward like a policeman escorting a prisoner.

They walked towards the main entrance of the building.

Two security guards in suits stood at the entrance, more formally dressed than those at the checkpoint. One of them nodded to Doyle, then fixed his gaze on Ang Lee.

Doyle didn't speak. He took a small notebook and a pen from his police uniform pocket, turned to a page, and wrote a line inside:

"The person has been found. Where is Mr. Rabbit Face?"

He held up the notebook for the security guard to see.

The security guard glanced at the words, then at the bandage around Doyle's neck. The bandage stretched from his chin down to his collarbone, covering half of his neck.

Seeing the security guard's gaze, Doyle mechanically turned a page, on which was written: "This guy hurt my throat, I can't speak."

"Mr. Rabbit Face is inside," the security guard said. "He just invited a bunch of people to the party, and they're having a great time."

Doyle nodded and put the notebook in his pocket. He pushed Li An's shoulder and walked into the main building.

The lobby was dimly lit, with warm tones, casting shadows on the dark wooden floors and ornate wainscoting. The entire building reeked of perfume, cigars, and alcohol. The music was a soft jazz tune, its notes flowing like raindrops from ceiling speakers, melancholic and slightly somber.

There were quite a few people in the hall. Thirty or forty people, the men were wearing suits or tuxedos, and the women were wearing evening gowns or even less.

A woman in a long red dress sat on the piano, the dress lifted to her waist, her legs coated with essential oil, reflecting the light.

A bald, middle-aged man squatted in front of her, holding a glass of whiskey, his eyes staring unabashedly at her naked lower body.

Next to the piano was a long table covered with a white tablecloth, on which were several rows of powder, cut into thin strips, and scattered around were rolled-up banknotes.

Two men were slumped over the table. One of them had just lifted his head from the pile of powder, his nostrils covered in white residue and a string of saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth.

In the central sofa area of ​​the hall, several people were entangled together, indistinguishable from one another. People were everywhere—on the sofas, the carpet, and the coffee table.

A woman was kneeling on a coffee table, while three men took turns holding her.

The person lying on the table turned to look at them, their expression not one of resistance, but rather one of cooperative play, as if participating in some kind of game.

On the other side of the sofa, a soaking wet man was holding an octopus, its tentacles wrapped around him. He lowered his head and touched the tip of one of the tentacles with his lips.

A waitress lay naked on the carpet, her eyes glazed over, drool dripping from the corner of her mouth, her head buried in her knees, her shoulders trembling violently.

A tourniquet was tied around her arm, and blood was still seeping from the needle marks.

On the coffee table next to it was a silver tray with several used syringes on it. Next to the syringes was a small blue vial labeled "Midazolun," a powerful sedative.

The two men next to her were shirtless, drinking two glasses of red beverage and chatting.

In the corner, a woman in an evening gown sat on the lap of an elderly man with a full head of white hair. The old man's hand reached under her armpits and hugged her tightly. He then smiled and placed a wine glass on her head; although it vibrated, the glass did not fall.

At the bar in the distance, a portly, Mediterranean-looking man chatted with the wealthy and powerful around him while embracing a petite waitress. His expression was completely natural, as if he were doing something he did every day.

They walked through the lobby and into the bar area, where the bar counters were piled high with bottles of whiskey, vodka, and tequila. Behind the bar stood a shirtless bartender, his muscles clearly defined, his tanned skin glistening with liquor.

He was mixing drinks for a lady in a mink coat. She sat on the bar with her legs draped over his shoulders, and her toenails were painted gold.

When the bartender saw Doyle approaching with Ang Lee, he immediately stopped mixing drinks, put the lady's feet down, and went up to greet Doyle.

"Hey Doyle, what brings you here? Come on, have a couple of drinks."

Doyle extended his right hand, waving it from side to side to dissuade him, then took out the small notebook and pointed to the wound on his neck.

"Oh? That's quite surprising." The bartender examined Doyle's neck wound closely. "It's quite a serious injury, Doyle, my friend."

"No wonder Mr. Rabbit Face specifically asked for this guy; this guy is really something else."

Doyle flipped to another page in the notebook, which read, "Stop talking nonsense and take us to Mr. Rabbit Face."

"Okay, okay, don't be angry." The bartender waved his hand. "Come with me."