Chapter 2601: Whistling Down (Fifty)

Martin was a dark-skinned young man, gaunt in frame, with intensely thick black hair but almost no eyebrows. His brows arched delicately, framing the large eyes and long eyelashes that are common among Latinos.

As Shiller approached, he immediately stood up from his chair and greeted him with an enthusiastic smile, inviting him to look at the so-called Mexican souvenirs he had brought from his hometown.

To Shiller's surprise, Martin barely had that sort of weary gaze typical of the Gotham underclass, which seems fatigued no matter what they're looking at, nor did he have that inherent caution deeply ingrained in his bones. His eyes could almost be described as clear, and his smile was frank and warm.

No wonder he's getting by, Shiller thought, but he also felt that this man was probably not simple. Without some special skills, it was impossible to get along so well at the bottom rung of Gotham.

Shiller activated his Spirit Vision and, sure enough, the pile of items Martin claimed were ancestral artifacts were all just useless trinkets, except for the crystal ball he had been holding while reading the newspaper earlier, which contained mana.

Even though Shiller saw through it, he didn't say much; Gotham was full of eccentrics, and he wasn't the worst.

Shiller started chatting with him with a smile. It was clear that Martin followed a rule that all Gothamites from the underclass abide by, which is to not bother those who seem mild-mannered.

Shiller wore a grey wool overcoat and a checked scarf. As he was not in formal attire and had skipped the hair gel, his hair was simply combed, turned bronze grey by the morning sun, and was slightly curled, giving it a fluffy appearance.

Apart from the glasses he wore, the poise exuded in his every move revealed he was not a manual laborer but more like an office worker used to being seated indoors—given his age, perhaps some sort of professor.

But then again, an average professor wouldn't come here to shop. America has a pretty rigid class segregation; people stay within their own circles. You wouldn't see someone from an elite middle-class neighborhood in a slum, nor someone from the lower class in a middle-class supermarket.

So his presence here was quite intriguing. From Martin's experience, those hypocritical, genteel upper-class individuals who venture here are often looking for victims.

Killing a pauper is so much easier than killing a rich person. The poor often walk out alone to most places, regardless of how many dangerous neighborhoods they have to traverse, and their paths are not well-monitored, some even desolate and abandoned.

Poor people don't have a dense network of social relations, and even if they do, they don't always keep it up to date. Everyone is not particularly aware of each other's whereabouts, nor do they have the energy to care that much.

If someone suddenly disappears, their importance to anyone is based on affection rather than interest, which makes it hard to exert any significant pressure on the police. Therefore, solving such cases becomes difficult.

"...I fear I must ask, sir, what brings you here? Perhaps I could introduce you to the layout of the stores," Martin said, as enthusiastic as ever but with far more caution than usual, though his expression betrayed none of it.

"I'm looking to buy some garden soil. My butler is away on a trip, and it's been a long time since I last visited the market; it's quite lively here," said Shiller as he turned to gaze into the distance, squinting in the sunlight.

"Oh, yes," Martin replied with a smile. "The gardening supplies are quite substantial. You'll need to head to Area J for that. It's approximately a diagonal distance from here. If your car is parked in the nearby parking lot, it's better to drive there. Just take this road around."

Martin pointed out the way to Shiller, hoping to get rid of this big nuisance quickly, but Shiller's gaze fell on the crystal ball on the chair and he asked, "Is that for sale?"

Turning to see the crystal ball, Martin shook his head and said, "No, sir, it's not for sale. That's a keepsake from my mother."

Shiller stared at him.

"All right, I might as well be honest with you," Martin said with a smile upon sensing that his cover was blown. "This is not a blessed object but one of curse power. It can bring misfortune to ordinary people; I certainly couldn't sell it to you."

"My luck hasn't been too good recently."

"Then I can introduce you to a lucky charm statue," Martin replied, immediately launching into a spiel about the small items behind him.

Shiller actually took a liking to a small statue, styled in the fashion of the Aztec civilization, made of dark wood with hand-drawn gold lines, a stark contrast to mass-produced factory goods.

"How much for that one?" Shiller asked, pointing at the statue that caught his eye.

"Good heavens, you have such great taste. That truly is one I brought from back home," Martin hastily said as he took down the small statue.

"Where is your hometown?"

"My hometown? Of course, it's Mexico."

"I know, but are you from the south or the north? Or perhaps you're from Guadalajara?"

This really stumped Martin as he replied, "You can actually distinguish between different Mexican states? That's rare. Most Americans think the United States occupies the entire Americas, whether it's Canada or Mexico; to them, they're just small islands in the sea."

Shiller laughed and said, "I'm not that ignorant. I have a few friends working in Guazhou. If you can tell me the name of your village, I might have heard of it."

Martin hesitated for a moment but still uttered a Spanish word. It sounded somewhat familiar to Shiller, "Is it on the west side of the Flad Mountains? There's a village near Fernando, with a large field to the south, which used to be poppy plantations."

"Oh my God, you've actually been to my hometown, dear Lord," Martin said in rapid Spanish.

Shiller hardly spoke Spanish but could understand some words, "They don't grow poppies there anymore, do they? I heard it has been switched to spring wheat?"

This completely stunned Martin.

He opened his mouth, squeezed the statue in his hand, and sized up Shiller again.

In fact, Shiller was just catching at a topic to chat with him; after all, you can't just start off by pressing someone like a spy for information—it's not how ordinary people socialize.

But it seemed Martin might have misunderstood — or perhaps he hadn't misunderstood at all.

Martin immediately put on a smile again and said, "You're truly well-traveled, sir. To be honest, it's precisely because things have improved back home that I didn't need to take care of my disabled mother and overworked brother, which allowed me to come to America to try my luck."

"When did you come? In recent years?"

"About two years ago, right when the first wave of the music festival's promotion hit. I made quite a bit of money taking advantage of that opportunity."

Martin's eyes shifted subtly from side to side, then said, "Sir, if you like this statue, I can give you a discount, plus we offer home delivery service. You can give me an address, and I'll bring it to you tonight."

Shiller immediately realized he was hinting at something, so he pulled out a business card from his pocket. When Martin saw Shiller's name and surname, especially the surname Rodriguez, a common Spanish last name, he understood.

"There's something else I want to ask you," Shiller said. "I heard from a newsstand over there that you're very well connected among the Mexicans here. I'm looking to enquire about someone."

Hearing about the newsstand, Martin understood, his eyes moving slightly as he said, "How influential can I be at this young age? I haven't been here long, just getting on my feet. But I am familiar with the locals, who are you looking for?"

"I don't have an exact name, but I know he has a tattoo on his back." Shiller drew a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Martin.

Martin was not too surprised. Many here identified people by tattoos or appearances, remnants of the gangster era customs, where each gang region had distinct tattoo features, revealing a person's background.

But the moment he saw the pattern, Martin's pupils constricted sharply.

"Sorry, sir, but I feel this isn't a local tattoo—I've never seen such a mob tattoo. Tell you what, I'll ask around this afternoon, and if there's news, I'll let you know tonight when I deliver the goods."

Shiller nodded, understanding that Martin might not want to talk about it there, "Thank you, then. How much for the statue?"

"Don't rush." Martin quickly wrapped the statue, then took a large stride to where his lounge chair was and also wrapped up the crystal ball that Shiller had taken a liking to, which was hidden beneath the newspapers.

He packed the slightly larger woodcarving into a box and placed it at the back, but handed the crystal ball in a carrier bag to Shiller, saying, "If you really fancy it, of course, I can sell it to you, but it's best not to open the packaging lightly, just place it in the corner of a room."

This piqued Shiller's interest, and he flashed an intrigued smile, "Isn't it supposed to bring bad luck? Are you trying to curse me?"

"It's not seen that way, sir," Martin said smoothly. "The energy in every sacred object changes with a person's energy. In different auras, it will show different aspects. Some things may bring misfortune in one person's hands, but bring luck to others."

"You think this crystal ball's aura syncs with mine?"

"Of course, you are its unique owner, but sometimes energies can influence each other, so it's better not to open its packaging. Just wait quietly for the luck it will bring you."

Shiller picked up the bag and left without a word. After paying, he turned and walked down the path Martin had just indicated.

Martin watched his retreating figure, the smile slowly fading from his face. He walked back to his lounge chair and picked up the newspaper he had been reading. It was all in Spanish, the front-page headline read in bold letters—"Anti-government Army in Guazajara on the decline, domestic situation stabilizing and improving."

Martin's expression turned solemn.