Chapter 107: Mr. Lans Buys Everyone a Drink

If you were to rank the smartest people in the bar, the bartender would be first.

The bartender looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, wearing a white shirt and black vest; he glanced at the two dollars on the table, then sized up Lans, and under Lans’s gaze, picked up the money and slipped it into his pocket.

He looked toward the stage, “That guy in blue jeans and a dark green cowboy hat is Hammer.”

The bartender turned back to Lans, “Don’t cause trouble in here.”

Lans gave a slight nod and walked to the edge of the stage.

Hammer was in a bad mood today—it was his second drink.

After he reported the illegal immigrants to the union, the union ignored his complaints; he was furious, his daily labor left him exhausted, and he still earned little, blaming all of it on the illegal immigrants and migrants.

Though the anti-immigrant movement didn’t last long, it gave many Federals who couldn’t find reasons for their own failures a way to vent.

They believed their failures were caused by immigrants.

In reality, even without immigrants, they still wouldn’t succeed—but now they could comfortably convince themselves and found a shared target for hatred.

He should’ve left after his first drink; maybe the kid he punched at the dock had triggered some unknown shift in his mood, so he ordered another.

No choice—his friend ordered one too.

Beer mixed with whiskey looked low in alcohol, but water went to the bladder while alcohol entered the bloodstream; its kick might be mild, but it wasn’t negligible.

By now, both men were drunk, cursing at the dancers on stage to face them.

The dancers were used to this free-riding behavior and simply kept performing for those who’d dropped coins.

“These fucking bitches are so snobby—since they’re showing off for everyone anyway, why not give us a longer look!” Hammer continued his specialty: complaining and whining.

“Fuck!”

He took another big gulp; the cold beer and just-right alcohol level made him feel completely relaxed.

He wiped the foam from his lips, then burst into sudden, inexplicable laughter.

At that moment, several men arrived behind him; one even wrapped his arm around Hammer’s left shoulder, “Hammer?”

Hammer turned to look at the men beside him—they were all young, strangers to him.

Almost instinctively, he raised his left arm and spun, forcing the man’s grip to release, “Who the fuck are you?”

His coworker stood up too; both were strong dock laborers, physically imposing and radiating menace.

Deruixi (Hiram’s friend), pushed away, felt his pride wounded: “We need to talk. Come outside with us.”

Hammer blinked, then shoved him hard in the chest, “You say go, I go—”

Lans, standing nearby, grabbed Hammer’s large beer mug from the counter and smashed it hard against his head!

Blood gushed from the gash on his forehead, instantly staining half his face red.

Shattered glass and half-empty beer sprayed everywhere; the dancer stepped back quickly but didn’t scream.

Hammer’s head took a heavy blow—he lost balance, clutched the counter, then collapsed onto the floor.

His coworker tried to help, but a gun pressed against his skull, forcing him to step back and stand still.

Deruixi and the others immediately kicked Hammer’s head with their polished shoes; alcohol and the trauma made it impossible for him to rise.

He tried to crawl up, but fell hard again, earning more kicks to his head and face.

Brawls among drunks were common in dockside bars; these workers had little formal education, and a few harsh words could spark a fight after a few drinks.

The crowd didn’t feel fear—they grew excited; someone even shouted, “Beat him to death!”

Just a bunch of people who loved chaos!

The bartender called someone to watch the counter, then walked over to stand beside Lans, “You said you wouldn’t cause trouble.” His expression was grim.

Lans glanced at him, then gripped the shoulder of the man beside him and leapt onto the stage, “I’ll buy everyone a drink.”

Those still watching—or preparing to leave—turned to Lans with surprise and delight; they raised their glasses, whistled, cheered loudly, waving arms in enthusiasm.

Lans jumped down from the counter, pulled out a wad of cash—didn’t count it, but at least seventy or eighty dollars—and shoved it into the bartender’s pocket, “If it’s not enough, I’ll send someone tomorrow to make up the difference. If it’s enough, the rest is on me—buy your staff a round.”

The bartender paused, stunned, then gave Lans a long, meaningful look, “Get him out of here fast,” and returned to the bar, where a crowd now waited for their free drinks.

What about Hammer?

Who the fuck cares? Better he gets beaten to death!

Several men grabbed Hammer’s hair and dragged his bloody face out of the basement; in less than ten minutes, everyone was drenched in sweat.

His coworker was dragged out too; Lans glanced at him, counted out five two-dollar bills, pinched them between thumb and forefinger, and slipped them into his pocket, “Go home, take a bath, sleep well. Nothing happened.”

“You never saw Hammer. You don’t know what happened.”

“I found him. I can find you too, right?”

After all, he was just a common worker—even if he could fight, when facing a group clearly beyond his station, he had no choice but to back down.

And there was ten dollars.

“I… uh… wasn’t really that close to him,” he said helplessly, but it was true.

Lans patted his shoulder, “Don’t be stupid. Go.”

The man took a few steps, then looked back; took a few more, looked back again; when he reached the alley’s mouth, he bolted away!

The security guard and doorkeeper watched Hammer being dragged out by his hair—just looking made them wince.

At this time, most people’s shoe soles were studded with nails, mainly to protect the leather.

It sounds ridiculous, but it was the truth.

Most people’s first act after buying new leather shoes was to nail iron studs into the heels, to reduce wear.

People weren’t wealthy enough to buy shoes casually; to make one pair last longer, they added studs.

Of course, it also made their steps clack loudly—some liked the sound, and this was common among the lower and working classes.

Lans’s crew were all from society’s bottom; the first thing they did with new leather shoes was nail them.

Imagine—though the studs were mostly flat with slight ridges, kicking someone in the face with them was still terrifying.

Hammer’s face and head were covered in wounds, like a bleeding gourd.

Lans had his car brought over, then took the two seized pistols, removed the magazines, and returned them to the guard whose face had a blistered wound.

“We can be strangers, friends, or enemies—the choice is yours.”

“Remember my name: Lans.”

He patted the doorkeeper’s chest in silent thanks for his calmness, then, when the car arrived, threw Hammer inside and drove off.

The doorkeeper looked at the guard, “Lans?”

The guard had a headache; though Lans took the magazines, magazines were worthless—in other words, they’d lost nothing.

“I’ll go check downstairs.”

The guard entered the bar; there was no panic, no fear—instead, it was even livelier than usual.

He squeezed through to the bartender’s side, watching him and two apprentices drenched in sweat, confused, “What just happened?”

“He bought everyone a drink—including us.”

The bartender wouldn’t serve everyone whiskey—still the forty-cent “bomb”: a large beer plus an ounce of cheap whiskey.

Total cost under fifty dollars; the rest was pure profit.

The bartender pulled out a bottle of Copper Label Naples whiskey—mid-range for a low-end bar.

He poured a large glass and handed it to the guard.

The guard scratched his head; this was messy.

Even if he reported to the gang bosses that the bar lost nothing and actually profited, the owner wouldn’t care, and the patrons wouldn’t care.

The only one hurt was him—but to start a gang war over a minor facial wound that might not even scar?

The big boss might just dump him in the trash—gang wars cost money.

How the hell should he handle this?

He couldn’t figure it out!

On the other side, in the car, the chilly night wind woke Hammer up; he was terrified, clutching his head and moaning, “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

No one answered; he quickly changed tone, “If I did something wrong, I apologize. I hope you’ll forgive me—I sometimes act without thinking—”

Ethan beside him swung his fist and began pounding him; Lans, driving behind, saw the car jolting and knew Ethan was beating him.

The car finally stopped in an alley beside the hospital; Lans entered the ward while Allen and another young man waited outside chatting.

They stood when they saw Lans and quickly explained the situation.

Lans gave them four packs of cigarettes and twenty dollars, “Stay up tonight,” and walked into the room.

Elvin had woken up; his expression was grim.

“We found him. Do you want to handle him yourself, or shall I?”

Elvin perked up instantly, “I’ll handle him myself!”

Lans walked to the door and told Allen, “Get a wheelchair.”

Soon, Lans wheeled Elvin outside; when the now-subdued Hammer saw Elvin, he knew exactly what this was about.