The lights in the dock management office were still on, and one unlucky guy was working overtime.
The manager told him that before 9:30 a.m., he had to have this document finished on his desk.
But the manager could swear to anyone that he never asked anyone to work overtime voluntarily. This was all the employees’ own initiative.
And the reason the employee worked overtime on his own was because during normal hours he didn’t work hard enough and didn’t finish what he was supposed to.
“Why is it only your work unfinished during working hours, but everyone else can finish?”
“Is that your problem or mine?”
When the manager said the third thing—”If you doubt your ability in this job or think I’m targeting you, I can transfer your position”—the unlucky overtime worker chose to give in.
After all, it wasn’t every day he had to stay late, just occasionally.
And as the manager said, he didn’t require him to finish it during overtime, only that he wanted to see the completed document before 9:30 a.m.
He stretched lazily. It was only about seven o’clock. There were still many workers at the dock. Thinking of those workers still working overtime in the hot night, he suddenly felt less irritated.
They had to labor and work late in the scorching heat, while he just sat in the office. He was at least ahead of 99% of overtime workers.
With that self-encouragement, overtime didn’t seem like a big deal. Instead, it gave him a sense of superiority.
He had written most of the document; at most, in half an hour, he could go home.
After brewing a cup of low-quality coffee, he returned to his desk, ready to continue working on the documents.
Just as he held coffee in one hand and a pen in the other, the pen tip ready to write some numbers, his mind thinking about alcohol and naked girls, suddenly came a loud, fierce knock on the door that made him flinch.
The pen tip drew a long curved line with sharp edges on the document, and coffee spilled from the tilted cup.
The still-warm coffee spilled on his body, legs, and his groin. As a human being, his hand moved bigger and faster, instinctively putting the cup back on the desk.
Now, the document had not only a naturally-looking curved line but also a big coffee stain. He screamed and hurried to wipe it off, but… the ink got wet again from the coffee, and as he wiped, the overtime work was ruined!
He angrily looked toward the door, then stomped over, yanking the door open hard. He didn’t care who was outside or what they wanted, shouting loudly:
“Look at what you’ve done?!”
But in the next second, a big hand grabbed his head and pushed him inside the office.
In an instant, he calmed down.
He couldn’t see who it was—the big palm blocked his view. He tried to grab the wrist but couldn’t break free.
“Who are you?” was the first sentence.
“Let me go!” was the second.
“Or I’ll…” The third sentence was cut off as he got a blow to the stomach. He stopped talking.
The intruder released his head, and only then did he feel the pain from being squeezed hard.
A tall, muscular man stood in front of him. Behind him was another guy, who looked like a dumb fool, constantly shaking his hair.
“I want Hammer’s files.”
The unlucky guy quickly scanned their faces. There were too many people at the dock; he didn’t know who they were, nor who Hammer was.
“I don’t know who this Hammer you’re talking about is.”
The big man pulled a dagger from his waist and stabbed it into the table with a thud.
Watching the dagger tremble, the unlucky guy swallowed hard.
“I think I have some impression now…”
Things like this were happening all over the dock.
Two dock workers sat on the edge of the shore steps, shoes off, feet in the seawater, chatting casually.
Suddenly someone disturbed them, asking if they knew a man called Hammer, and where he was now.
Someone was eating cheap ground beef and potatoes at home when suddenly someone pounded hard on the door, asking if they knew where Hammer was.
There were so many dock workers that not everyone knew Hammer, and even fewer knew where he was.
But someone always knew.
People gathered outside the hospital reported clues to Lance. Suddenly, Ennio ran over.
“Someone said they saw him and his colleague go to the Red Harbor Bar.”
Lance gave a few instructions to Allen, then got in the car. The person who knew the location sat in Lance’s passenger seat to guide him.
Four cars with nineteen people raced on the road. About seven or eight minutes later, the cars stopped outside the Red Harbor Bar.
The Red Harbor Bar was one of the more well-known bars near Pier One. It had a long history but later fell behind due to more bars opening in the port area.
Though not the hottest bar, it was definitely not the emptiest.
Four cars stopped outside. The pink neon light on the sign flickered with two tubes flashing, giving a rundown feeling.
Two burly men smoking at the door turned around instinctively when they saw the four cars stop.
Lance was the first to get out, looked around, and walked toward the bar’s entrance. Others followed closely.
The burly men felt their scalps tingle seeing these people coming, but since the boss paid their salaries every month, one stepped forward and raised his hand to block Lance.
“Sorry, we’re not serving guests right now.”
“I’m here for someone. Heard he’s here.”
The guard sized Lance up and down.
“This has nothing to do with me.”
Lance patiently said, “My friend got beaten. The person who hit him is here.”
The guard still had that attitude, even a bit impatient.
“I said this has nothing to do with me…”
The next second, a gun was pressed to his head, tilting it slightly, then the guard raised his hands.
Another guard was about to put his hands in his pockets, but two more guns aimed at him. He slowly took his hands out and raised them too.
Hiram took out their guns and handed them to people behind.
The guard in front of Lance still looked defiant. He stared at Lance as if imprinting his face in memory and stating his identity:
“We’re from the Red Dog Gang.”
Lance took the cigarette from the guard’s raised hand and pressed the burning tip on the guard’s cheek.
“So?”
The muscles on the burly man’s face twitched, his features became lively. When the cigarette stopped sizzling, he asked,
“May I know your name, sir?”
“Lance.” Lance glanced at the cigarette butt and dropped it on the ground.
“Can I go in now to find someone?”
The guard met Lance’s gaze.
“We’re closed now, Mr. Lance. Prohibition—you know.”
“Then take me to where you’re open.” Lance looked at the other guard.
“You have two people here, but I only need one to show me the way.”
The guards’ faces changed. They studied Lance carefully.
Maybe realizing this wasn’t a joke, the first guard spoke, making a concession.
“I understand. Come with me.”
Lance left two men to watch outside.
“Keep an eye on him. If he causes trouble, shoot him dead.”
The guide gave his companion a helpless look, then led them around the main street, entering through a side alley.
Almost all underground bars were hidden in basements, because it was more secretive. Ordinary people wouldn’t come to the back of buildings unless they had to pee.
But even to pee, they wouldn’t come to the basement door to look or sniff around.
“I hope you don’t cause trouble, Mr. Lance. The Red Dog Gang is not to be messed with,” the guard said finally.
The scar on his face from the cigarette still hurt; it might blister tomorrow. He hated it but was scared.
Lance remained calm.
“I only want to find someone. If you don’t do anything unnecessary, I promise nothing bad will happen today.”
“But if you and your friends don’t want us to have a good day, I guarantee your families will cry tomorrow.”
The guard had no choice and knocked on the basement door.
The peephole opened, saw the big guy and his group, then slammed shut again. Soon the door opened.
A wave of sealed bar smell rushed out!
Alcohol, sweat, fishy smell, and other strange odors mixed together, horribly stinking.
Lance looked at the dark entrance and smiled.
“I seem to have a fate with basements!”
Except for a few, no one knew what he meant, but the doorman inside already sensed something wrong.
He glared at the guard.
“What do you want?”
Obviously, he was smarter. Most gatekeepers were smarter; they had to figure out if the visitors were cops, agents, spies, or traders.
“I want someone called Hammer. Someone saw him here.”
The doorman looked at Lance and his group.
“You can bring him out, but don’t cause a scene in the bar.”
Lance smiled.
“See? We have no disagreement there!”
He signaled for Ethan and Hiram to stay.
Looking at the two, the others followed Lance into the bar.
Through the dark stairs, a noisy scene appeared before them.
A girl was wildly shaking her hips on stage, surrounded by drunks holding drinks, shouting excitedly, some even tossing coins onto the stage.
The whole bar had no seats, just steel poles—a pole connecting floor and ceiling, with a small platform around it about 30 to 40 centimeters in diameter, just enough to place a drink on.
Everyone was standing, and despite the horrible environment, it was lively!
People didn’t care about the new group; they were chatting with those next to them.
Lance squeezed to the bar and put two bucks on it.
“Who’s Hammer?”