Interesting.
Hearing the news brought by Detective Captain Cop Thornton, Locke was slightly surprised internally.
After all...
In this day and age, for surveillance cameras to actually function perfectly during an incident was nothing short of a miracle.
Could the other party possess some high-tech method that allowed them to seamlessly alter surveillance footage without worrying about anyone noticing?
Locke raised an eyebrow.
Playing such tricks right in front of him—someone who had maximized his hacking skills to a high expert level—wasn't that just a textbook example of showing off to a master?
The next moment.
Cop spoke up, "But it definitely won't get sent over today. Have you two booked a place to stay?"
It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon.
Closing time had arrived.
Locke replied, "Yes, we booked a room at the nearby Hilton."
Cop was slightly startled, looking at Locke. "It seems George was right. You really are a wealthy young man."
Locke smiled subtly. "Just fought a few lawsuits, that's all."
In this era, could regular wages ever compare to the rapid wealth generated by fighting lawsuits?
Furthermore, winning lawsuits brought perfectly legitimate money.
It was just a bit tedious.
But that was how the world worked. To earn money, if you didn't let others offend you first, how could you sue them in court?
Deliberately staging scams?
That was far too low-class.
Locke intended to make money, and he wanted to make it cleanly and honorably.
Checking his wristwatch, Cop extended an invitation to Locke, "Shall we grab dinner together?"
Locke smiled, "Of course."
Naturally.
Locke picked up the tab for this meal.
Although Locke and George had always been at odds, when traveling away from home—especially under the banner of George's future son-in-law—no matter how much he disliked George, he still had to protect George's reputation.
To put it plainly, interacting with George's friends essentially meant representing George himself.
However...
Outside the hotel entrance.
After Carrie and Locke stepped out of the vehicle, they watched Cop drive away in a battered, dilapidated car. Carrie looked toward Locke with curiosity.
"Is the salary of a detective captain in the New Orleans Police Department really that low?"
Locke chuckled, turning with Carrie toward the hotel behind them. "The annual salary for a detective captain here is roughly seventy thousand dollars."
Carrie looked astonished, "That's not low at all."
Locke smiled subtly.
While Locke casually tossed around talk of tens of millions in savings, that money was earned by putting his life on the line.
Had anyone else been targeted by Nick Fury, they would likely have ceased to exist long ago.
Or if they were targeted by Agent 46, they probably wouldn't even know how they died.
Furthermore...
George was currently a senior inspector in the New York Police Department, and his annual salary was only around a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and that was in New York.
This was New Orleans, a city where a five-hundred-square-meter, fully furnished villa only cost a bit over two hundred thousand dollars.
"Good evening, sir."
"Broughton, Locke Broughton!"
Locke retrieved his credit card.
Very quickly, the young and beautiful hotel receptionist handed Locke the key cards to a luxury suite costing two thousand dollars a night.
"Mr. Broughton, I wish you a pleasant stay."
"I intend to."
Locke offered a polite word and a smile to the beautiful receptionist before heading toward the elevators with Carrie. Behind them, two bellhops clad in white uniforms carried their luggage.
Once inside the elevator, Carrie expressed her disbelief, "His suit jacket was an old style from five years ago, his wallet looked as worn out as it could possibly be, and his car..."
No matter how one looked at it, this did not match the configuration of a successful detective.
Frankly speaking, had she gone there entirely on her own, she would heavily suspect whether Cop was merely a vagrant impersonating a police officer.
Living in New York for nearly a year and being close friends with Betty, who stood at the forefront of fashion, Carrie had absorbed Betty's fashion sensibilities during this time. No longer introverted, Carrie could assess Locke's net worth with a single glance.
The suit Locke wore was custom handmade in Italy, costing at least fifty thousand dollars.
Yet that wasn't the most expensive item on him.
The costliest piece on Locke was the pair of structurally square, magnificent cufflinks on his white dress shirt. The center of each square resembled a tiny patch of a brilliant starry sky, gleaming with shimmering points of light.
Carrie recognized these cufflinks because she and Betty had spotted them in a magazine the previous year; they retailed for six hundred and eighty thousand dollars.
To say nothing of Locke's tie and leather shoes.
Therefore...
Following a year of immersion, Carrie had completely transformed from a rural country girl into an urban young woman with a sharp New York eye.
But precisely because of this, Carrie found the situation quite baffling.
Was it truly necessary for a detective earning seventy thousand dollars a year to make his life look so miserable?
Could he be saving up?
Carrie mused silently.
Locke waited for the two bellhops to bring the luggage inside, handed them a two-hundred-dollar tip, and once the bellhops closed the door, he walked over toward the hotel's mini-bar.
"Do you know what method can make a man's money vanish the fastest?"
Carrie was slightly taken aback.
Standing before the mini-bar, Locke selected a beverage, speaking without turning around, "There are countless ways to make a woman spend money—cosmetics, clothes, designer bags..."
He paused.
Locke's eyes lit up as he opened the cabinet, retrieved a bottle of bourbon, and walked toward the room's bar counter.
"But there are only three ways to make a man's wallet deflate rapidly."
Saying this.
Locke raised three fingers.
"First, women. Without a doubt, a man will spend every single cent on the woman he loves, and he's even willing to overdraw his future earnings."
"...He doesn't look like that."
"Oh?"
"From the moment we met Cop, he didn't receive a single personal call, even during dinner. On the contrary, there was a female detective back at the precinct whose gaze toward him seemed somewhat unusual."
"Then the second method: unbridled substance abuse!"
"That doesn't fit either. You absolutely despise those substances; otherwise, you wouldn't have pushed for the drug clearance initiative inside the school. Furthermore, George despises that as well. If Cop were involved in that, he wouldn't be George's friend."
Locke smiled.
His push to completely eliminate drugs at Midtown High was an absolute necessity. Previously, when he didn't hold a position of authority, it hadn't mattered to him. But once he became the student council president, his domain could tolerate a gambling ring, but it could absolutely never tolerate a drug trade!
In fact, several dealers who had plotted to distribute substances within Midtown High had already been missing for nearly four months.
Locke nodded, looking at Carrie as she walked over, and set out two glasses.
Carrie waved her hand, "I'll have juice."
Saying this.
Carrie extended her right hand toward the side. The refrigerator not far away automatically swung open, and with a swift whoosh, a bottle of juice flew directly into her palm.
Telekinesis.
Locke could do it too.
But Locke preferred not to use it.
Locke smiled, poured himself a glass of bourbon, took a sip, and looked at Carrie, "Then that leaves only the final one: gambling!"
Carrie was slightly startled.
"Gambling?"
"Yes. The destructiveness of gambling and drugs is identical. From a certain perspective, compulsive gamblers and drug addicts are equally unworthy of forgiveness or sympathy."
"...Don't you gamble as well? And your friend Dylan, doesn't he gamble too?"
"Dylan and I go to make money, not to gamble."
Locke drained the alcohol in his glass, educating Carrie on the distinction between making money and gambling.
"Furthermore, Dylan and I aren't addicted. Even if we don't touch a betting table for an entire year, our hands won't itch for it."
Locke refilled his glass. Speaking of Dylan, his fire-fighting business had been booming over the past year. Locke estimated it wouldn't be long before he would be attending the wedding for Dylan and Maggie.
Carrie nodded, "Then it must be gambling. How did you figure it out?"
Locke explained, "Look at the corners of his eyes and his fingers. Most gamblers who stay up all night at the tables share the exact same telltale traits."
Carrie nodded in contemplation.
From the moment Locke shook hands with Cop, he had realized that Cop was a gambler deeply immersed in betting.
But...
That had nothing to do with Locke.
Besides, Cop seemed entirely capable of keeping himself under control. After all, a gambler who had completely lost themselves to the vice wouldn't be able to care for their professional duties; their entire mind would be occupied solely by wins and losses.
Carrie frowned, a rather unpleasant sensation washing over her. "I have a bad feeling about this."
She couldn't shaking the feeling that tomorrow wouldn't proceed smoothly.
Locke chuckled, sipping his bourbon. "Adapt to the ordinary, don't grow accustomed to it. We are supernatural entities. However, I have always preferred to exhaust peaceful diplomacy before resorting to force!"
I traveled from a great distance to play by your rules, yet you refuse to abide by them.
What else is there left to say?
Since you choose not to follow the rules, then do not blame me for summoning Peerless Assassin, the Witch Locke, or the Vampire Caine—or at the absolute worst, bringing out Zero of the Void to flip the table entirely alongside you.
Deep in the dead of night!
Inside a noisy underground casino filled with foul, stagnant air.
With a loud slap.
His suit jacket unbuttoned and his professional appearance utterly discarded, Cop sat with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He violently slammed his hand of cards onto the table once more, directing his gaze toward the dealer, "Deal again."
The dealer remained entirely unmoved.
Cop's eyes were slightly bloodshot as he looked up at the dealer.
A man responsible for security walked over to Cop's side.
"Detective Captain Thornton, our boss has requested your presence."
Cop cast a glance at the unmoving dealer, then looked at the security guard whose phrasing said "requested" but whose posture dictated otherwise. Letting out a cold chuckle, he stood up.
Inside an office that was equally filled with smoke and polluted air.
A man sporting a handlebar mustache looked at the entering Cop, his face lighting up with pleasant surprise. He stood up, waving his hands to signal his subordinates to exit.
"Detective Captain Thornton, it's been a while. How is your luck today?"
Cop's expression darkened instantly.
How was his luck? He ran a casino; wouldn't the loan providers know exactly how his luck fared?
The man with the handlebar mustache laughed heartily, lightly slapping his own mouth.
"Detective Captain Thornton, my apologies, I spoke out of turn. Still, poor luck is one thing, but that two-hundred-thousand-dollar debt..."
Cop spoke in a deep voice, "I will find a way—"
Before his words could finish.
The man with the handlebar mustache cut in, "Actually, I could choose to completely waive that two-hundred-thousand-dollar debt."
Cop frowned, "..."
***
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