Taoist priest goes to America

Qiguer, who was drinking cola, did not leave immediately.

The engine was still running, the front of the car was against the rack, and the headlights shone on the broken bricks and snacks scattered on the ground. His leather shoes crunched on the gravel.

The old man was trapped under the front of the car, with only his shoulders and above exposed. His eyes were still open and his mouth was agape, but he could no longer move. His right arm protruded from the rubble, his hand clenched tightly.

Qiguer squatted down, pried open the hand, and found the coin inside. He reached in and pulled out the silver coin.

The blurry eagle's face was facing upwards. He stuffed it into his pocket and stood up.

He walked back to the driver's seat and took a clear plastic box from the storage compartment under the steering wheel. Inside the box were dozens of coins, crammed together, of different sizes and colors.

One cent, five cents, twenty-five cents, Canadian cents, arcade tokens. Each one has its own story.

Chigur had made this kind of bet with countless people before. He would flip a coin to guess heads or tails. Some people who lost would be killed on the spot, while others who won would be taken away by him.

Of course, there are also situations like today.

In order to kill someone, he needs to kill these lucky gamblers who won the bet and steal their lucky coins to increase his own luck. He has already collected dozens of such lucky coins.

Having collected the lucky coins, Chigur got into the car, shifted into reverse, stepped on the gas, and pulled the black SUV out of the shop ruins, with broken bricks and dust falling off the front of the car with a "whoosh".

However, at that moment, Chigur heard the sound of liquid flowing, coming from under the front of the car, like someone urinating under the car.

He shifted into gear, got out of the car, and glanced down. Green coolant was gushing out from the puncture in the front of the car, spreading across the gravel ground and steaming.

He walked to the front of the car, squatted down, and took a look. A steel bar was protruding from the wall and inserted into the engine, piercing through the coolant reservoir.

The car is totaled; the coolant has all leaked out. If this car is driven any further, the engine will overheat and burn out.

It seems my luck isn't so good right now... Looking at the damaged car, Chigur regretted killing the shop owner, the lucky guy.

He stood up, didn't check the car again, and just left it there without driving it.

Chigur returned to the back door, opened it, and took the black leather bag from the back seat, slinging it over his shoulder. With the coin box tucked under his arm, he walked south along the road.

He walked for a long time.

The time before sunset was the hardest to endure. The sunlight came horizontally from the west, shining on his face as if someone was slowly moving an iron along his skin.

His lips were dry and hard from the sun, and he had to lick them every few steps, only to find them even drier afterward. The skin on his forehead first turned red, then a layer of white skin appeared.

The condition was more severe on his forehead, with patches of white skin sticking up. He walked under the scorching sun, clutching the coin box tightly to his armpits, the shoulder strap of his bag slung across his left shoulder to his right waist, jiggling upwards every few steps.

After the sun set, the temperature began to drop, and the wind blew from the east, blowing on his face. His sunburned skin felt like it was being scraped by a cold blade.

Just then, a blue Ford pickup truck drove past him, went about ten meters, and then stopped. Then its reverse lights came on, and it slowly reversed.

The driver's side window rolled down, revealing a round-faced, overweight driver in his fifties with gray hair, wearing a plaid shirt.

The fat driver leaned out and looked Qiguer up and down.

"Where are you going? I'll give you a ride." The driver's voice was loud, with a Texas accent. "It's not far from here. The nearest gas station is over ten miles away."

Chigur stopped, looked at the driver, his eyes sweeping across the driver's face before moving to the passenger seat of the pickup truck.

The passenger seat was empty, while the back was piled with several cardboard boxes and a bag of tools. He moved the coin box from under his arm to his left hand, walked around to the passenger seat, and opened the car door with his right hand.

"Thanks," Chigur said.

The driver waited for him to get in, shifted gears, and the pickup truck drove onto the highway. There was an iced Americano in the cup holder, and the car smelled of coffee and dog.

The driver glanced at the sunburn on Chigur's face, frowned slightly, but didn't ask anything. He picked up his coffee cup from the cup holder, took a sip, and put it down.

Where are you going?

"Flatbusch Avenue, Northland Hotel."

"That's not close." The driver picked up speed and overtook a semi-trailer truck.

"Why are you walking alone at night? What happened to your car?"

Chigur didn't answer. He placed the black bag on the back seat and rested his hand on the road ahead.

The streetlights cast patches of light on his face, illuminating the white skin on his forehead and the dry, cracked scabs on his lips.

The driver glanced at him again, this time his gaze lingered on his waist, where a bulge was hidden by his shirt, but its outline was vaguely discernible. The driver tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

The car was quiet for about a minute. The pickup truck passed an intersection; the streetlight was green. The driver didn't slow down; he cleared his throat.

"Your injuries need some treatment. I have a first-aid kit in my car. Do you want it—"

"No need," Chigur's voice interrupted him, and the driver shut his mouth.

After driving a short distance, Qiguer glanced out the car window. There were no other cars on the road, and dark fields stretched out on both sides.

He pulled a high-pressure air gun from his black bag. It had a silver air canister with a thin tube attached to the top, and a pointed nozzle at the end of the tube.

He held the gas canister in his left hand and the nozzle in his right, without looking at the man.

"Pull over."

The driver, looking confused, turned around and asked, "What's wrong? The hostel is still quite far from here..."

"Pull over," Chigur repeated expressionlessly.

The driver pulled the pickup truck over onto the shoulder, and the tires made a rustling sound as they rolled over the road.

"Sir, are you getting off here...?"

The driver stopped speaking. Chigur pressed the nozzle of the high-pressure air gun against the driver's neck. The driver felt the coldness of the metal. His words caught in his throat. His hands were still on the steering wheel, and his eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

"Get out of the car," Chigur said.

The driver's teeth chattered, making a rattling sound. His eyes darted from left to right, then from right to left. There was nothing on either side of the road, only darkness and the occasional flash of lights in the distance.

"I said I was getting off." Chigur pushed the nozzle forward and pressed it against the driver's throat.

The driver unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the car door, and got out. His legs were shaking, and he could barely stand on the gravel road; he had to hold onto the car door to avoid falling.

Chigur stepped from the passenger seat to the driver's seat, placed the black bag on the passenger side, and put the coin box next to it. Then he looked down at the driver through the open car door.

The driver stood on the curb, his hands raised above his head, his face covered in sweat, which shone brightly in the headlights.

"You're very unlucky to have met someone like me," Chigur said, closing the car door, shifting gears, and stepping on the gas.

The pickup truck drove onto the highway. In the rearview mirror, the driver stood alone on the shoulder of the road, getting smaller and smaller until he became a gray dot and disappeared into the night.

The pickup truck drove along Flatbush Boulevard for about forty minutes. Around 7 p.m., the neon lights of the Costern Hotel came into view.

He parked the pickup truck in front of the hotel, turned off the engine, and stuffed the high-pressure air gun and the coin box into his black bag.

He slung his black bag over his shoulder and pushed open the glass door of the hotel.

The receptionist was the same middle-aged man in the gray polo shirt, scrolling through his phone. Hearing the door open, he looked up and saw the person in the doorway.

He wore a black shirt and black pants, with a black leather bag slung over his shoulder and a transparent plastic box tucked under his arm. His face was covered in red and white patches from sunburn, and the skin on his forehead was peeling up like an unfinished wallpaper.

"One room, I've booked it," Chigur said, showing no signs of fatigue.

The receptionist took a key from the drawer and placed it on the counter. A diamond-shaped plastic tag with "405" written on it was attached to the key.

Qiguer didn't take the key; instead, he pulled out a hundred-yuan bill, placed it on the counter, and pushed it toward the middle-aged man.

"Which rooms have the guests stayed in the last few days?" Chigur asked. He wouldn't ask questions like, "Has a Chinese person stayed in recently?" He wanted to enjoy the hunt.

The middle-aged man frowned in confusion. "What?"

Which rooms have the guests who checked in the last few days stayed in?

The middle-aged man's gaze shifted from Qiguer's face to the hundred-yuan bill. He took the bill from the counter and placed it in the cash register.

"There are people on the third floor, rooms 301 through 306. They all came the night before last."

Chigur nodded, picked up the key, and went upstairs.