Half an hour later, the Crazy Dream Cafe.

The three hired a rental carriage along the way. Since the subway massacre, the public transportation system in Silverfog has been in chaos. The county council is seeking to reorganize Floyd Carriage Rental and establish a new board of directors.

But until then, disorder will continue.

The coachman parked the car on the sidewalk: "It's a shilling and six pence in total, lord."

"Nonsense," Dylan said, blew the short whiskers on his lips, "I can't even use a shilling from Mole Street to here! You're robbing."

"How dare I cheat your money? Master, this is all due to life..." The coachman begged respectfully:

"The rent and travel expenses have almost doubled, and a new river transportation subsidy tax has been imposed. The Royal Society also wants to force the taximeter they invented to the carriage... I have family to support..."

"I won't give you one shilling or one more cent."

Dylan interrupted his longing coldly, took out a small silver coin with a pattern from his pocket and paid it to the coachman, turned around and left.

Ed looked at Dylan's back, then looked at the coachman's bitter face, and finally took out a sixpence copper plate from his trouser pocket and secretly stuffed it into the coachman's palm.

Then he followed quickly with his cane and caught up with the two of them.

"Can't you see that it's a trick of extra money? Or is it that sympathy blinded your eyes?" Dylan said in a low voice without changing his expression:

"I don't mind paying more, but it doesn't mean I'm willing to be a fool. I haven't heard of any 'River Subsidy Tax' at all."

"Then let me be a fool." Ed stretched his right shoulder gently and continued:

"That guy is probably really difficult. The money the rental company has lost so far will definitely double the money from them and us."

"Ha...it's up to you." Dylan replied lukewarmly, hiding his cuffs into his robe.

Quinn seemed indifferent to this. As a formal agent of the Shenshu Bureau, "morality" is not something she should consider:

"Are you sure the owner of this store knows Buck?"

"Not sure. But his connections seem to be quite wide, not to mention that we don't have a better way at the moment."

Ed swung his head 180° from left to right, and turned around and replied.

Walking into the store, Xiaona Melissa, who was resting next to the purple-leaf slurry grass flower pot, opened her eyes and glanced at them with her bright yellow needle-shaped pupils.

The owner, Downston, was busy at the bar. Judging from his expression, the sadness seemed to have begun to heal. Seeing Ed, he happily stroked the fancy tendrils and greeted him warmly:

"Yeah, little kid, what wind has blown you over?"

Ed walked in and leaned against the bar and asked in a low voice:

"I want to ask you for someone."

"Okay. Of course."

Downston's smile faded, but he still kept smiling. He lowered his head and wiped the tabletop of the bar, pointing one hand at the seat in the corner:

"Go there and sit for a while, I'll arrive soon."

"Yeah." Ed turned around and saw Quinn stroking Namelissa's fluff in front of the cabinet. It looked very enjoyable.

"Boss, let's sit for a while."

"When did you have such connections?" she smiled, as if she was a little curious.

"It has something to do with the cat you are touching. It's a long story, so go and sit down first." Ed glanced at Namelissa and said.

So Quinn finally touched Na Melissa's head and said goodbye. It raised its head and responded with a soft voice.

"It's related to cats? This is really strange...Oh!"

Father Dylan casually reached out and grabbed the fluff on Namelissa's stomach, but was bitten hard. He pulled his hand back and hid it in his robe, pretending that nothing happened.

Ed didn't speak, but just smiled at Father Dylan, turned around and walked towards the seat that Downston pointed.

A moment later, Renard Downston walked over with a silver coffee pot with floral reliefs, and brought brioches and marzipans.

"Did we order food?" Dylan put down the newspaper, looking full of surprise.

“Free gift from the shop.”

Boss Downston slowly and steadily filled the coffee with the ceramic cup, and said with his brows down.

"Get back to the point, Mr. Downston," Ed said straight to the point, "we are looking for a painter, Buck, have you heard of this name?"

"Buck?"

Townston's hands pouring coffee shook, and the burgundy black coffee dripped onto the table.

"Buck without arms?"

"It seems you know him. He is a disabled person?"

Ed picked up the coffee and took a sip. The familiar sweetness nourished his nerves, which was a compensation for the morning cup of coffee.

"I just heard from my friend. He's a lunatic," said Downston, "and then he's a disabled person."

"He locked himself in a dark room, painting day after day, but refused to sell it, and could not afford canvas and paints. Only when he was about to starve and dying, would he take out a work for bread, canvas and paints."

"I think it's more like some kind of 'performance art'. You know, torture yourself to create topics and make those pretentious works sell better."

Dylan put a piece of egg roll in his mouth, his face disagreed.

"My agent friend came to find him specially, but he was driven away by harsh words. No one could tolerate his bad character. Even if he had it, he just wanted to buy his paintings at the lowest price."

"How did he draw? Have you seen it?" Ed asked.

"That's a devil's painting, just as twisted as his arm. I guess one day someone will pay a lot of money to buy his work - provided that after his death."

"...If you want to find him, No. 38 Daojian Street, remember to rush before he dies. I can only say this, I am sorry for losing my companion."

After saying that, Townston turned around and left.

"No. 38 Daojian Street, let's go."

Ed pulled out his notebook and ink-storage pen from his coat bag and wrote the line on it. Then he grabbed a handful of almond biscuits and stuffed them into his mouth, rinsed them with coffee, and stood up.

This is probably the only one I can eat at noon today.

...

The Knife Street and the Mole Street are both in chaos and tragic. The one with the No. 38 sign is a huge and bloated building with shacks, rags, and wooden support frames everywhere, like a deformed and bloated fat man.

Looking at the big belly building, Ed was a little suspicious that one day this shaky fat man would sit on the ground and crush everyone in his belly to death.

This is a "two-pence hotel". The rent can be paid daily, and two-pence can get a narrow bed, and spend a night together with other desperate people.

The day was quite empty, and at least three people had a place to stand. The one who runs here was an old woman with a toothless appearance, and she reminded him of Mr. George, but she was far stronger than George - at least she looked so.

"Who are you looking for?"

She put down the broom, asked with some vigilance but carefulness, obviously not wanting to cause trouble. Even the fool could tell that the three of them were incompatible with the place.

"Do you know a painter named Buck?" Ed asked kindly.

"No, no, no, you must have made a mistake without this person." The old woman moved her gaze away, lowered her head and muttered.

"You certainly don't want to get into trouble, right?"

Quinn walked over and almost stuck to the old woman. Her low voice was extremely intimidating, and without any proof, it had already made the old woman silent-

"Uh..., yes... I remembered that there was such a painter, but I really didn't know his name was Buck."

"Where is he?"

"In the cellar, he thought it was too noisy outside, so he only painted there during the day, and crawled out to sleep at night."

"Take me to see him."

The old woman brought them to the backyard, which was filled with feces that spilled out of the toilet, so that bricks were covered with paths so that people could pass through the yard without wetting their shoes.

Ed thought Miss Quinn could not bear the stench of this stinking, but she seemed to be indifferent to it. Father Dylan frowned and looked like he was about to faint:

“If I am sinful, I hope the Holy Spirit will judge me fairly, and not let me suffer this torture.”

He carefully grabbed the robe so that it would not be swallowed by sewage when swinged with the wind.

"Come on, you just come here once a while." Quinn said disdainfully, "but they are used to living in the abyss."

The inhabitants of the abyss. Ed closed his eyes and repeated.

He finally trekked to the cellar, but fortunately the terrain is quite high and not swallowed by sewage.

When I opened the cellar door, a foul smell of moistness and mold came to my face, and there was also the smell of pickled vegetables and salted fish. But at least it was slightly better than the one on the ground.

"Buck, are you here?"

The voices coming from below are dull and meager, just like the sound of the dead before his death:

"Ed, my old friend."

“It feels so good to see you again…”
Chapter completed!