Chapter 3: Bill Seriously Injured

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The car stopped outside a bar, its neon lights outlining a playful bunny girl. The name of the place was the 'Bunny Girl Bar.'

As they entered, Hardy noticed it was far livelier than the tavern he had worked at back in Orange County. The dim lighting, smooth jazz music, scantily clad women, the hum of conversation, and the faint smell of marijuana created a charged atmosphere.

The women were all dressed as bunny girls, their tight bikinis accentuating their curves. Their long legs were clad in stockings, and they wore high bunny ears along with a fluffy tail on their backsides, adding a cute touch.

A beautiful bunny girl approached them. "Bill, what can I get for you?"

"Two beers to start," Bill replied, grinning as he playfully patted the bunny girl's rear. After exchanging a few more words, they settled into a booth.

The bunny girl soon brought their beers. Hardy and Bill clinked glasses and took long sips before chatting about their time in the army and their current lives.

"You joined a gang?" Hardy asked, surprised.

Bill shrugged. "When I left the army, I only got a few hundred dollars in retirement pay. I've got a family—kids, parents, and five younger siblings. That money wasn't nearly enough."

"I tried working hard, taking jobs in factories, stores, car washes, and as a transport driver, but my income barely covered the basics. Prices are soaring, but wages are dropping thanks to those damned capitalists."

"They say the war is over, so there are more workers than needed. They're not worried about finding people to work. The newspapers claim the country is flourishing, but they conveniently ignore the rising unemployment rates."

"A friend of mine, who's part of a gang, invited me to join. It's been better than working a regular job. I'm earning a lot more now," Bill said with a smile.

"What kind of work do you do?" Hardy asked.

"Delivering alcohol, collecting debts, maintaining order. Gangs run underground casinos and loan companies, all of which need collectors. They also have smuggling operations, supplying drinks to local bars and nightclubs. This club here is my responsibility," Bill explained.

No wonder the people here knew him so well.

Bill raised his glass and looked at Hardy. "Tom, you should join me. With your brains and skills, you could definitely make a name for yourself."

Hardy shook his head. He didn't want to get involved with a gang.

In his previous life, Hardy had achieved success in business but had been framed and fallen from grace. Now, with his memories of the past, he had decades of insight into this world. He believed that with the right approach, he could make a fortune without resorting to the criminal underworld.

"I'm looking for a stable job," Hardy replied.

Bill shrugged and didn't press the issue. "Alright, you can stay with me for now."

Bill then pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to Hardy—hundreds of dollars. "You'll need a good suit for job hunting. It's getting cold, so you should also get yourself a nice wool coat. Go shopping tomorrow."

Hardy, who was almost broke with just a few dollars to his name, didn't refuse Bill's generosity. He took the money and put it in his pocket.

Bill was pleased to see that Hardy accepted the money. They continued drinking and chatting until late at night before finally heading home. The weather had turned chilly, and they drove back to Bill's apartment.

After parking in the courtyard, Bill showed Hardy to a room, told him where the bathroom was, and Hardy took a long shower.

When he came out, Bill called him over and lifted the living room sofa, revealing a stash underneath.

"Tom, here are two guns and a few magazines. If you need them, feel free to take them."

Hardy noticed the two guns were Colt M1911s, the same type of gun he used during his military service. He was very familiar with them.

Hardy smiled. "I'm trying to get a decent job, so I don't need a gun."

Bill shrugged. "Who knows?"

Bill poured another glass of wine for the two of them, and they continued to chat in the living room until the middle of the night.

The next morning, Bill left for work after a brief chat, and Hardy went out to look for a job.

He bought a new suit and a wool coat on the commercial street, looking more energetic and handsome. He also bought a newspaper to check the job listings: factory workers, accountants, drivers, hotel attendants, porters...

After searching for a while, Hardy found that the salaries were either too low or the job positions weren't suitable.

In the afternoon, he visited several potential employers, but as Bill had mentioned, the economy, while seemingly prosperous, had too many people seeking work. Most places just asked Hardy to fill out a resume, with no immediate opportunities available.

That evening, Hardy returned to Bill's apartment. Bill asked how the job search went, and Hardy replied, "It's not going well. There are too many people looking for work. I don't have any formal qualifications or professional skills, so it's hard to find something suitable."

"It's just the beginning; don't worry," Bill reassured him.

Over the next few days, Bill continued his work while Hardy searched for jobs but found nothing promising. He didn't want to take on repetitive factory work that offered no room for growth, but jobs with potential were hard to come by.

One morning, as Bill prepared to leave, he smiled at Hardy and said, "I'm going to collect a $5,000 debt today. It's a huge sum. If I manage to get it all, I can give you a cut—maybe 10 percent. We'll go out for a big meal afterward."

Ten percent was $500, which was more than two months' salary for most people at that time.

Bill left, and Hardy continued his job search.

By noon, Hardy had bought a hot dog and a cup of tea from a street vendor. He sat down to eat and then resumed his search, but still found nothing.

Dragging his exhausted body back to Bill's apartment in the evening, Hardy immediately sensed something was off. The moment he stepped inside, the door suddenly slammed shut, and a pistol was pointed at his head.

Two men in suits were in the room, one in front of him and the other behind.

The man in front held a revolver aimed directly at Hardy's head, just a couple of meters away. The other man stood at the bedroom door, about four or five meters away, with his hand inside his pocket, ready to draw his gun at any moment.

"Don't move!" the man with the revolver ordered.

Numerous thoughts flashed through Hardy's mind.

Thieves? A robbery? Or maybe Bill's enemies?

"Who are you?" Hardy demanded.

The man with the revolver took a step closer, his gun now only half a meter from Hardy's head, nearly touching him.

Hardy suddenly moved.

He dodged to the side, avoiding the gun's barrel, and swiftly stepped forward, grabbing the revolver with both hands.

The man was caught off guard.

Before he could react, Hardy wrenched the revolver from his grasp.

The other man at the bedroom door quickly reached for his gun, but Hardy moved faster. With a sharp turn, he locked the first man's neck in his left arm and pressed the revolver against his temple.

"Don't move, or I'll blow his head off!"

The man in Hardy's grip trembled with fear, too scared to move.

The second man hesitated, his gun still pointed at Hardy. The tension between them was palpable.

"Why did you come to my house? What do you want?" Hardy demanded.

The man in his grip was startled.

"Your house? Isn't this Bill's place?"

"I'm staying here," Hardy replied.

Realizing there might have been a misunderstanding, the man quickly explained, "We might've gotten this wrong. We're Bill's companions. He mentioned he had a friend named Hardy staying with him."

Hardy started to piece things together but didn't let his guard down. "Then why are you searching the house?"

The man in his grasp replied quickly, "We were just getting some clothes for Bill."

"Why didn't Bill come himself?" Hardy asked.

"Bill's injured—very badly," the man revealed.

...