Chapter 102

Mr. White looked at Lans, unsure how to address him, and Lans solved the dilemma for him: “Just call me Lans.”

He walked into the courtyard, pulled out a cigarette, “Want one?”

Mr. White stared at the elegant packaging and nodded slightly, “Of course…” He glanced at Lans, cautiously, “Lans?”

Lans felt neither fondness nor dislike toward Mr. White; if goodwill were quantified, he had earned a passing grade.

Because Mr. White had approved Lans’s maneuver to obtain a Federal identity, and not everyone could accept someone replacing their child’s identity to live in this world.

For those deeply emotional people, this was utterly unacceptable—even if they were poor!

Because doing so meant, in their minds, their living child had died completely, and that was hard to accept.

Until they saw their child’s corpse, almost all parents would not, and did not want to, admit their child was dead.

They believed their child was simply living elsewhere, still alive somewhere in the same world.

So Mr. White earned at least a passing grade.

“Yes, that’s good.” He walked beside Mr. White, took out two cigarettes himself, and handed him the rest, “Officer Braden said you were looking for me.”

Mr. White took a cigarette, pulled one out, and stuffed the rest into his pocket, “I didn’t have your contact info, so I had to reach you through Officer Braden.”

Lans tapped his head, “I forgot about that. Do you have paper and pen?”

“Yes.”

Lans wrote down a phone number for him; since they were moving to a new house, the old number was no longer in use, and he also gave him the phone numbers of both companies.

“If you can’t reach me, have them pass a message along—I’ll know.”

“Then… you…” He looked at Mr. White, signaling him to state his purpose for seeking him out.

Mr. White took a moment to respond, “I’m a bit embarrassed to say it, but I need to borrow some money, Lans.”

“Borrow money?”

Mr. White glanced back at the dark window, “My wife is ill. I need money for her treatment.”

Lans didn’t ask whether the two hundred dollars he’d given before were gone; he inquired about Mrs. White’s condition instead: “What’s wrong with her?”

Mr. White looked calm, “She slipped in the basement, fell, suffered multiple fractures, and is barely clinging to life.”

“I’ve used up nearly all the money you gave me. The doctor said if I can’t pay the remaining balance, they might stop treatment.”

Lans frowned, “Don’t you have insurance?”

Mr. White shook his head slightly, “She doesn’t.”

That was indeed a problem. “Is she in the hospital now?”

“How much do you need?” Lans inhaled his cigarette and walked toward the back of the house; this was the front facing the street, and though the sun was no longer as intense as two months ago,

it still felt hot and uncomfortable on the skin. Behind the house lay a small grove of trees and several low shrubs, where the shade was far cooler.

What struck Lans as odd was that the front lawn and shrubs were neatly trimmed, but the backyard was messy.

Leaves littered the ground, some already rotting, and no one had cleaned them up.

Fortunately, the grass here wasn’t thick, or there’d be no place to step.

The coolness drifting from the shade felt pleasant, even though he hadn’t stepped into it yet.

“Wait!” As Lans headed toward the backyard, Mr. White suddenly called out. Lans stopped and turned, glancing at him curiously. Mr. White hesitated, “I mean… we could go inside and sit and talk.”

Lans glanced at the dark house, frowned slightly, and stayed where he was beside the side wall—there was still a patch of shade here.

“No, I have other things to do. Just tell me how much money you need.”

“About three hundred. Sorry—I’ll pay you back.”

Lans took a deep drag on his cigarette, “Listen, Mr. White. I’ll send someone to visit Mrs. White in the hospital. This money is for her treatment.”

“If you’re lying to me, you’ll get yourself in trouble. I hate being cheated or blackmailed. Do you understand?”

Mr. White nodded, looking slightly frightened, “Of course. I promise.”

Lans stared into his eyes for a moment, then signed a check for three hundred and fifty dollars and handed it over, “Use the rest to buy her something good—fruit, beef. Tell her that once I’ve settled this current matter, I’ll come visit her.”

Ignoring Mr. White’s profuse thanks, Lans returned to his car.

He watched Mr. White’s back as he entered the house, and a strange feeling crept over him.

A shadow flickered past the second-floor window. When Lans looked again, there was nothing. He rubbed his eyes—perhaps the sun had been too bright.

He didn’t dwell on it, and sent Mo Lisi to check whether Mr. White had lied.

If he had lied and planned to blackmail Lans over his identity, then the experts would keep wondering why the water level of Angel Lake had kept rising this year.

He ate a simple lunch at the office, then summoned Xiao En and had him draft a notice posted at the company entrance: all undocumented workers registered at Wanli Labor Services must wear uniform attire.

Of course, the uniform was free—but only for the first set.

If they lost the clothing, they had to buy a new set themselves to continue working—at one dollar per set.

The price wasn’t high, but it wasn’t cheap either; compared to the clothes stolen from who-knew-where and sold for twenty or thirty cents a piece at the alleyways near the harbor entrance, one dollar per set was expensive.

There, one dollar could buy at least three pieces of clothing!

Still, considering the free first set, some people who saw the notice were pleased. The policy would take effect in mid-November.

Lans briefly explained his idea to others; due to their blind trust in him, they all thought it was fine.

After lunch and a short nap, at two in the afternoon, Lans arrived at Mr. Jobe’s office.

This time, the old man looked even more worn out.

Though his appearance hadn’t changed visibly, he radiated a heavier aura of decay, and had grown somewhat… defeated.

“Lans, please sit.” Mr. Jobe used the word “please.” He turned to his assistant, “Pour us some wine.”

The assistant went to the bar. Lans sat on the sofa opposite Mr. Jobe. “You look unwell. Has something bad happened?”

Mr. Jobe sighed heavily, “Bad? It’s worse than that.”

The assistant brought two glasses of wine. Both said, “Thank you.” Mr. Jobe lifted his glass, sipped a small amount, “I’ve run into a major problem. I may lose a large sum of money.”

“But money is trivial. What truly crushed me is the Federal attitude.”

“I don’t know who to trust, or who can help me. After thinking it over, I came to you.”

He looked at Lans, who maintained a reserved smile, “If even someone like you can’t solve it, how could someone like me possibly manage?”

Mr. Jobe said nothing, sipped more wine, “Let me explain my problem first.”

“Please.”

He outlined the situation: “The storm was too heavy. They only delayed briefly on the road, and the wine was taken.”

“Lans, only four people know about this—including you. I hope…”

Lans immediately assured him, “No one else will know.” His eyes flickered with thought—he hadn’t realized the wine was Arthur’s, mortgaged to Mr. Jobe.

He almost laughed, but it wasn’t the right moment—he held it back. “So your problem is: they want the wine, but you can’t deliver it?”

Mr. Jobe nodded firmly, drained his glass, and looked at his assistant, “Another glass.”

The assistant hesitated, “That’s your fourth glass this afternoon.”

“Pour it.” His tone was unusually sharp. Imperial people prized decorum—perhaps that was why he lost to the Federals: the Federals had no shame.

The assistant had no choice but to pour again—only a small amount, barely enough.

Lans leaned back on the sofa, legs crossed, thinking. No one rushed him, but clearly, as time passed, Mr. Jobe grew increasingly disappointed.

Then again, how could a young man like Lans solve such a problem?

Just as he prepared to say, “Thank you for coming. Even though you couldn’t help, I appreciate you keeping me company—it made me feel better,” and end the conversation, Lans suddenly spoke: “Actually, from my perspective, this is simple to resolve.”

“Since the wine never existed to begin with, let it continue to disappear.”

Mr. Jobe’s spirits lifted instantly. “Could you explain in detail?”

He looked at Lans’s smile and said instinctively, “I’ll pay you a price for this.”

Lans had intended to offer the idea for free—after all, he’d already received 460,000; technically, Mr. Jobe had already paid for it.

But now the man offered voluntarily—how could Lans refuse?

That would seem unreasonable.

Still, he didn’t ask how much. More was welcome, less was acceptable—but Mr. Jobe wouldn’t give little.

“Mr. Jobe, thank you for your generosity.”

“Since they irresponsibly transferred an empty warehouse to you, you can irresponsibly transfer an empty warehouse back to them.”

Seeing Mr. Jobe’s puzzled look, Lans lowered his voice slightly, “After transferring ownership, set it on fire…”

“You know, wine is flammable. You only need to provide some empty bottles.”

Mr. Jobe’s expression shifted from confusion to horror in less than two seconds.

The assistant stared at Lans in shock, as if saying, “You must be insane…”