The phone is off!, Paul said disappointedly.

"Dear Jenny, the information you need, FedEx gives it to you, please pay attention to check! ”

With a "ding" sound, the mobile phone message was sent away.

Half an hour later, a message was flashing.

Paul swiped his phone, "Thank you!" and a picture of a flying kiss and a hug.

Paul walked into the kitchen, opened the door to the refrigerator, and pulled out a 500-milliliter can of Randall's stout.

With a "bang", a pale yellow beer foam came out and flowed down the outer wall, and he raised his head and took a big sip, and a cool breath rushed down his throat.

He stripped naked, went into the bathroom, and stood under the shower, swirling the hot water to its maximum, a stream of heat running from the ends of his hair to his heels.

Until the hot water cooled, he picked up a dry towel, dried himself, put on his pajamas and slippers, walked to the bedroom, and lay on the bed, still shocked and frightened, unable to believe what he had done.

For the next few days, Paul was in a trance, uneasy.

Paul was admiring the picture Jenny had sent a few days ago, dreaming of going on vacation, when his phone rang.

"It must have been Jenny's call!" Paul said happily, "Jenny, are you done with your report?"

A gruff voice came and startled Paul, "Hey, buddy, Jenny is in our hands and wants to talk to you." ”

"Who are you, what's wrong with Jenny?" asked Paul, surprised.

"Who am I? little darling, you don't need to know. Jenny is fine, in our hands. The other party laughed, "I warn you not to call the police, or Jenny will soon become dead!"

"Please, don't hurt Jenny, please, how much do you want?" Paul pleaded.

"We don't want money, we just need to cooperate, and we need you to work with us obediently, little darling!" the other man continued, "Tonight at nine o'clock at Reading Bar on Grant Street, Queens." I hope you'll be on time, otherwise, you understand, huh!"

After saying that, the other party turned off the phone.

Paul stood there, overwhelmed, his mind blank, chills, as if he had fallen into a bottomless abyss.

He hoped it was a prank, and reason told itself that it wasn't.

Paul grabbed his phone, pressed "911", and immediately put it down. Doing so would hurt Jenny.

He needs to be calm.

Paul quickly went downstairs, started the engine, and drove home.

I took out a cigarette and held it in my mouth, and blue flames came out of the lighter. He frowned and fell into thought.

Reality is even more absurd than drama, and he is a protagonist without a script.

Choose to escape, that's a coward. Paul took notice.

Paul slipped on a loose white silk shirt, corseted gray jeans, and a pair of stretchy casual shoes. He pressed his legs, stretched his waist, and moved his muscles.

Then, Paul went into the bedroom, opened the drawer of the bedside table, rummaged to the lowest level, found a Colt automatic pistol, and slipped it into his trouser pocket.

By the time the Dodge drove out of the underground garage, it was dark and the street lights were dark.

Paul was about five miles away when he saw a sign on -----the side of the street that read "Grant Avenue."

Paul's heart was pounding, he breathed deeply, and his palms were soaked with sweat.

He slowed down and drove down Grant Street. The road follows the foot of the mountain, sometimes upward, sometimes down, winding and forth until it enters the remote suburbs.

On the edge of Queens, he saw the billboard for the Reading Bar, next to a run-down, abandoned factory.

It was an old three-story building, with parts of the exterior walls peeling off, several holes in the window panes, and a musty smell everywhere. Paul had never been to such a cheap bar.

Paul pulled over to the shoulder, felt for the pistol in his trouser pocket, got out of the car, and walked down the sidewalk to the Reading Bar.