Chapter 120: Collecting People, Dinner, Discussion, and a Whip

Today, Mr. William (Patricia’s father) is returning from the state government, and Patricia said her mother suggested we all have dinner together tonight.

Lans had no objection to this, and he also had some thoughts he wanted to discuss with Lawrence.

So he declined Vaughn’s suggestion that the Chair of the Special Council wanted to meet him tonight, and drove directly to the train station.

And at 6:40, he arrived and waited for Mr. Lawrence.

Lans honked his horn by the roadside; Lawrence immediately noticed the situation and saw Lans stepping out of the car.

“Did they send you to pick me up?” William said, handing his luggage to Lans while wiping dust off his body with a towel.

The train station was full of dust; fine gray particles clung to his dark woolen clothes, making the dull specks especially visible against the dark fabric.

After placing the luggage in the trunk, Lans opened the car door for him. “Patricia never asks me for anything, so when she spoke up—even if the President himself wanted to see me—I told him to wait until tomorrow morning.”

William, far from being rigid, laughed. “I hope the President will forgive me.”

They got into the car and drove off; William brought up Barbara’s birthday party. “Did they give you trouble?”

Lans was puzzled. “It seems everyone assumes they’ll give me trouble.”

William shrugged. “Our family is unusual. In such a large household, everyone wants to be the most impressive member.”

“And… my grandfather had seven children, so often it’s not just about ourselves—it’s about our parents too.”

“They care more about their status within the family. People get like that when they grow old.”

Lans was curious. “Why do you and Mrs. Lawrence have only… Patricia as a child?”

This topic made William burst out laughing. “Because I was done with it!”

“Back then, we had over twenty siblings on a farm—it was a disaster!”

“I didn’t want my child to go through what I did, even if it was lively, it was suffocating.”

“Besides, she’s one child in our home, but among the whole family, she still has plenty of cousins—she’s never lonely.”

They chatted casually and soon arrived at the neighborhood where the Lawrence family lived. The security guard at the gate recognized Lans; though he felt he wasn’t inferior to Lans—just less handsome, less energetic, less young, with no car and no money—he still had the same positive heart, and a more mature age!

He was working hard to become head of the security team; he wasn’t the kind of man without ambition.

Unfortunately, he had forever lost the chance to pursue the beautiful Miss Patricia.

“Good evening, Mr. Lawrence, Mr. White.”

Lans had registered with the community service company, so the guard knew his name; as an unfamiliar outsider, he didn’t call Lans by his first name but used his surname.

“Good evening!”

Lans took a pack of cigarettes—ninety-nine cents a pack—from his briefcase and offered it over. “I’m trying to quit smoking. Maybe you’d do me a small favor.”

The guard paused, then broke into a wide smile. “Of course… I mean, I’d be delighted to help you, Mr. White. Thank you for your generosity—I’ll open it right away.”

He sprinted over, slammed the button, and the barrier rose; he even removed his cap. “Have a pleasant evening.”

Lans raised a hand, smiled, and pressed the accelerator away.

William studied Lans with interest. “Sometimes you don’t act like a young man at all.”

“How should a young man act?”

“Impulsive, flashy, reckless, foolish, always making dumb mistakes—you’re different from them.”

Lans pulled the car over, yanked the handbrake. “If you’ve suffered enough, you’ll mature faster than others. Honestly, I envy my peers—they haven’t endured nearly as much.”

William blinked, then his eyes filled with admiration. “A wise conclusion.”

They got out of the car; Lans carried the luggage. As they reached the door, it opened.

Mrs. Lawrence and Patricia stood inside. “Welcome home, dear. We’ve prepared a lavish dinner.”

“I hope it’s something I like!” William kissed his wife, then hugged his daughter.

Lans climbed the steps with the suitcase; Mrs. Lawrence gave him a brief hug. “Thank you for going to pick them up. Come in quickly—we can eat now.”

Lans thanked her, then winked at Patricia; the girl rolled her eyes and followed Mrs. Lawrence back inside.

The table was filled with a lavish dinner: two-centimeter-thick beef cubes were the main dish, slow-cooked with small potatoes and cherry tomatoes, seasoned with spices.

There was also a fish Lans didn’t recognize—likely a sea fish; Federals rarely ate freshwater fish, as they had too many bones.

There were also grilled lamb chops, vegetable salad, soup, some macaroni, and bread rolls.

In short, it was abundant.

No serious topics were discussed at dinner; William spoke of his observations in the state capital.

Though intercity and interstate transport was common now, people still didn’t travel far often; what seemed ordinary to locals became fascinating in William’s recounting, delighting Mrs. Lawrence and Patricia.

After dinner, Mrs. Lawrence informed William that Lans wished to speak with him; William promptly took Lans to the study.

Mrs. Lawrence brought in black tea and three plates of pastries before leaving; she was undeniably skilled in cooking and baking.

William picked up a small cookie and gestured for Lans to try. “These have meat filling—you’ve never had anything like them.”

He hadn’t. Lans took one; the cookie was thicker than usual, with visible oil seeping from within.

William devoured it in a few bites, slapped his hands to shake off crumbs. “She meant to make a meat pie, but her first attempt, under unknown interference, turned into a giant meat cookie.”

“We tasted it and thought it was decent, gave some suggestions, so here’s its evolved version.”

“Everyone in the neighborhood loves these meat cookies—but not just anyone can make them well!”

Lans tasted it. The flavor was excellent. “Delicious.”

“So…” William leaned back in his chair. “Emily said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

Emily was Mrs. Lawrence’s first name; in the Federation, women adopt their husband’s surname after marriage.

Her full name was now Emily Lawrence.

“Yes.”

Lans nodded, pulled out a cigarette, offered one to William. William took it with a wry smile. “You said you were quitting smoking.”

Lans shrugged. “I failed.”

Both men chuckled. When the smoke began to curl, Lans spoke. “I currently hold about three thousand seven hundred work cards.”

“These cards represent seven thousand four hundred jobs—and at least three thousand seven hundred illegal immigrants working for me.”

“I plan to expand this number.”

Neither Lans nor William mentioned the Immigration Bureau; both knew the Federation could not function without these cheap illegal laborers.

In a sense, illegal immigrants had no rights—like the cotton-pickers of the past—they were an indispensable part of economic growth.

If one or two were reported, the Bureau might act; but when thousands gathered, they dared not intervene.

William moved the ashtray to the center of the table, urging him to continue. “These illegal immigrants’ social status is a problem. The President promised to resolve their legal ambiguity, but now he seems unwilling to mention it.”

William understood his meaning. “You want to help them become legal residents?”

“I’m not certain. So far, the Presidential Office hasn’t released any further information.”

“You know—in the run-up to elections, any promise the President makes might just be for votes.”

“Now he’s been re-elected; he may not fulfill those promises. And the anti-immigration protests were only recently. Acting now would put him in a weak position.”

“Even if this policy were to be implemented, it wouldn’t happen within the next one or two years.”

“They’ll drag it out. Maybe in the final two years they’ll resolve it—but not now.”

“They made a deal with the Free Party—perhaps this was part of it.”

The Free Party’s core supporters were landowners, farm owners, even former slaveholders.

They would naturally favor policies benefiting the large landowners and farm owners.

And powerless illegal immigrants clearly helped these groups—they could use them just as they once used slaves.

To maintain this support, they’d ensure illegal immigrants remained exactly as they are.

They’ve done this before. History shows several attempts to grant illegal immigrants legal status—only to force them to build railroads, dig tunnels, lay roads.

Once the work was nearly done, the immigrants vanished; then a few “reliable” ones were chosen to become legal Federals, and the cycle began again.

“Is there absolutely no way?” Lans asked.

William shook his head. “None at all—unless some… political movement forces the state government to pass local laws granting them legal status.”

“Such cases are rare. Given today’s social climate, it’s virtually impossible. Even if it happened, it might not truly solve anything.”

“And even then, the status would be valid only within the state—once they leave, they’re still illegal under federal law.”

“But that’s not necessarily true. Perhaps the President, bound by his promises, might make some policy shifts.”

“Still…” William tapped ash into the tray. “Having such a large force under your control is never a bad thing. It might come in handy someday.”

At that moment, William had a faint idea forming: if Lans’s people ever became voting Federals…

Then his run for a legislative seat might not be a joke.

Meanwhile, a middle-aged man in his thirties stormed out of a basement, cursing. He’d lost two more dollars.

He’d worked a week of temporary jobs to earn four dollars and fifty cents—and lost it all in one night!

Gambling was killing him!

He stared at his hands, wishing he could chop them off with a knife!

Every time he lost, he swore—if he gambled again, he’d be a son of a whore.

But as soon as he got paid, he skipped home and went straight to the nearest casino.

He’d won before—not often, but he had.

His biggest win was eleven dollars; he splurged for two days, then lost it all back to the casino. But at least he’d won.

That convinced him his losses were just bad luck—he could win when luck turned.

So he’d gamble as soon as he had money, lose it all, regret it, then do it again when he got paid.

He cursed himself, cursed the table, cursed the casino—and somehow, the anger faded.

Just as he neared the alley’s exit, two men suddenly blocked the entrance.

He froze, spun around—but the exit was blocked too.

A man with pale skin and an intellectual demeanor walked toward him. “Do you know Kent?”

The gambler swallowed hard. “I know him, sir, but I haven’t seen Kent in a long time.”

Will stood about a meter away. “I heard you used to play at his casino. What happened there in late September and early October?”

The gambler was frightened, and so much time had passed he couldn’t remember. “I don’t know, sir.”

Will stared into his eyes. “No, you do know. Think carefully.”

The gambler nearly cried. “I really don’t know, sir! I’m just a nobody—let me go!”

Will watched him for a moment, then signaled he could leave. The gambler couldn’t believe it was real. As he turned away, trembling, Will picked up a wooden board from beside the alley wall and swung it at the gambler’s head!

The board shattered instantly, wood splinters flying everywhere. The gambler was knocked to the ground, half his face numb and swollen, utterly senseless.

He shrank back into the corner. Will tore at his collar. “Remember now?”

“If you still can’t recall, we have all night—to help you remember…”

After more than ten minutes, Will rebuttoned his torn collar, straightened his clothes, and entered a car by the roadside.

After being severely injured, the gambler finally remembered what had happened during that time—

“Sir, I remember now. Someone was lending money at Kent’s casino, and then… there was a minor conflict. A few people were detained by Kent. I don’t know what happened after that.”

He gave Will the name of someone he knew: Enio, an imperial immigrant.

At eight-thirty p.m., Enio’s father trudged wearily back to the apartment building.

Another day with nothing sold. He didn’t understand why his coworkers could easily sell those goods—even making several sales a day.

But for him, he could barely sell two or three items a month. Sometimes, to keep his base salary, he had to buy the goods himself.

He’d read dozens of motivational books on how salesmen became CEOs of listed companies, and bought many more on sales techniques or how to become a successful salesman.

He could recite every one of those books, every sales tactic—but still, he had not succeeded.

Instead, buying those books had drained all his savings.

He wanted to be a winner in life, to realize his Lianbang dream—to make everyone who looked down on him open their eyes and see how he became a successful man!

But every day, the cruelty of reality pained him. He didn’t understand why success was so merciless toward him.

The building’s ground-floor manager glanced at him dismissively and looked away. He used to greet Enio’s father when they first moved in.

Back then, he dressed like a white-collar elite: shirt, tie, slacks, leather shoes.

Now, the manager had seen his true face—he was just a failure.

He took the shaky elevator to his floor, picked up the cardboard boxes on the ground—inside were the goods he had to sell, his Lianbang dream.

At his door, he reached for his keys—but found the door slightly ajar. Instantly, rage boiled up inside him.

Enio—this little brat must have come back!

A wave of destructive emotion brewed, surged, and exploded within him.

His entire demeanor changed. He pushed open the door and dropped the items on the cabinet by the entrance.

The room was dark—he didn’t care. He knew it too well; he could walk through it blindfolded.

He took down the leather whip hanging by the door. He would make Enio understand once and for all who his father was.

Around the corner, he saw someone sitting in the dark, back to him—definitely that little bastard. The angrier he became, the calmer he grew. He walked forward, whip in hand, and swung hard—

The scream was not Enio’s—Enio was currently enjoying a meal, laughing happily with his companions.

The scream came from Will. He’d turned off the lights to avoid scaring the target away—but he never imagined that before he even did anything, this man had already lashed him with a whip…