Chapter 15

In the morning, after mixing the recipe, Fatty Boss left—he rarely left in the morning, as it was a peak sales time.

The streets outside were filthy and chaotic; customers buying bread said all the city’s sanitation workers had gone on strike—

That was the polite version; in reality, street cleaning in Jincheng was mostly done by illegal immigrants.

They demanded very low pay—twenty-five credits a day to sweep the streets twice.

Hiring locals cost at least thirty-five credits; ten credits might seem insignificant, but when multiplied across enough workers, it became a staggering sum.

There were two types of city sanitation workers: one employed and managed by the City Administration, working for the Lianbangzheng Prefecture.

They received government-standard salaries, social insurance, medical insurance, welfare benefits, more vacation days, and shorter working hours.

The other type was private: cleaning companies contracted street cleaning duties from City Hall at lower prices.

They hired illegal immigrants, paid them barely anything, and pocketed the difference as profit.

When City Hall realized the cost of directly employing cleaners far exceeded outsourcing to private firms, they held meetings and outsourced these public services.

The goal of cutting costs wasn’t to better serve society—it was simply to stuff more money into their pockets.

Tensions between locals and illegal immigrants in the city were escalating; even some local cleaners dared not work alone.

Forced strikes emerged—though perhaps this was also another form of political demand, a way to tell citizens to calm down.

Just one night and one morning without cleaning made the streets look far dirtier; horse and donkey dung along the roads emitted a constant stench under the heat.

Hopefully it won’t rain today—if it does, the rain mixing with animal waste will turn the entire street, the whole city, reeking.

The morning sales peak ended quickly; people arrived early, bought what they needed, and left—few lingered to chat.

Around eleven, the car Fodisi had driven last time pulled up outside the shop.

He sat inside, watching Lans through the window, and honked, “Kid, get in!”

Lans took off his apron, handed it to Fatty Boss’s daughter, casually asked for leave, and got in the car.

“The Boss wants to see you,” Fodisi started the car, trying to avoid the animal dung.

It wouldn’t damage the car, but once crushed into the tire treads, cleaning it was a nightmare.

But the whole road was covered in it—no avoiding it.

“About what?” Lans already had an idea, but asked anyway.

Fodisi shook his head. “Cigarettes are in the drawer. You’ll know when you get there.”

On the way, Fodisi stayed silent, driving carefully. Along both sides of the road, protesters were everywhere; in some alleys, groups were beating up minorities.

Lans even saw police on duty—they merely tied a few rioters who had attacked Black immigrants to streetlight poles, then left.

Fodisi glanced over, as if explaining to Lans: “The police station is full of these people—no more room. Can’t send them to prison, so the mayor signed the ‘On-Site Detention Order’ this morning.”

“These offenders will be chained to nearby light poles for twenty-four hours.”

Lans found the cigarettes, lit one. “It’s gotten bad?”

He smirked. “Lots of outsiders are flooding in—you know how big it is.”

Crowds gathering for spectacle had always been a favorite pastime for Lianbang citizens, but some were professionals—paid to organize events. The Lianbang had no shortage of such groups.

No matter when, where, or how large a protest you wanted, if you paid enough, they could make it happen.

Here, luxury cars still had privileges—they drove straight into the alley behind the financial firm, their parking lot, packed with high-end vehicles.

Two burly men sat outside the back door, drinking coffee and boasting. They greeted Fodisi, then stared curiously at Lans.

“This is Howard. His brother, Little Howard. Their dad was drunk when filling out the birth certificate.”

The older brother, Howard, raised a hand in a shooing motion. “Don’t you fucking mention that!”

Fodisi shrugged, guiding Lans’s arm through the back door.

Inside was a large room, like a lounge: sofas, chairs, small round tables, dartboards, pinball machines, and pool tables.

Many people sat here—probably because they spent all day here—the floor creaked underfoot.

They greeted Fodisi, who returned their nods; most eyes, however, lingered on Lans.

Many feared these men, but Lans’s experience told him: before their “switch” was flipped, they weren’t scary at all—quite easy to get along with.

He smiled and greeted others like Fodisi, while passing around Fodisi’s cigarettes.

“Is this the company’s new guy?” an old man, clearly fond of Lans, couldn’t help asking.

First impressions mattered. Lans was likable—young, handsome, clean, with a smile and demeanor that invited no criticism. No reason not to like him.

Fodisi snatched the nearly finished cigarette from Lans’s hand. “The Boss wants to see him.”

Everyone fell silent, offering only silent wishes for his luck.

Entering the financial firm through the side door, the pretty receptionist was fixing her makeup in the mirror. She glanced over at the sound; Fodisi repeated, “The Boss wants to see him.”

She turned back, resuming her face-painting.

At the end of the hall, left turn. Fodisi opened the office door but didn’t enter. “Good luck, Lans.”

He liked Lans too—but all he could offer now was good luck.

The Boss was watching the news; on screen, the police chief repeatedly warned citizens not to commit crimes, showcasing today’s arrests and crime prevention stats.

He listed how many arrests, how many crimes stopped—but said nothing about when the city would stabilize.

“You watch the news?” he asked, without turning, gesturing vaguely for Lans to sit. “Help yourself to the bar. I’ll finish this segment. I remember you smoke—cigarettes are in the box.”

Lans took a cigarette, lit it, leaned against the desk, and watched the news too.

At the end, the chief promised to restore order in Jincheng as quickly as possible. To Lans’s surprise, he spotted the cop who’d come to Fatty Boss for protection money—standing right behind the chief.

“Who’s that guy?” Lans pointed.

The Boss looked surprised, then explained: “His name is John. Don’t think it’s common—he has a nickname here: ‘Vulture.’”

“Now he’s assistant chief at the precinct. Not a good man, by any measure.”

Who took bribes and who didn’t wasn’t a secret in this circle.

But for a loan shark to call a corrupt cop “not a good man” had a strange, dark humor to it.

When the news ended, the Boss turned, gestured for Lans to sit. “Last time I forgot to introduce myself—I’m Alberto Cotti. You can call me Alberto or Mr. Cotti.”

Lans nodded, acknowledging.

Alberto touched his lips. “I’ve been watching the news these days. Yesterday, there was a major clash at the port. I heard your people are no longer allowed to work there?”

“Temporarily!” Lans explained.

The creditor naturally had more power to demand explanations—and Lans owed this Mr. Cotti some assurance.

¤￠o

He chuckled twice, without explaining why, then sighed. “These outsiders have turned the city into a mess. We’re short on manpower.”

“You gave me a promise before—if I needed help, you’d work for me. Is that promise still valid?”

Lans felt surprised, yet not entirely. “Of course, Mr. Cotti. My promise stands at all times.”

“But… you know, things outside are complicated. We might have trouble doing certain things.”

Alberto raised his hand to stop Lans. “I’m not an idiot. I know what kind of job to give you.”

“I have two debts. These two guys are trying to run. Can you collect what they owe me?”

“If you handle these two cases, your debt to me is wiped clean.”

Lans didn’t answer immediately. “How much do they owe you?”

Alberto pulled two loan contracts from his drawer and tossed them on the desk.

Lans picked them up—very formal contracts. They’d clearly consulted lawyers.

One loan: one thousand credits. Now, principal plus interest: three thousand five hundred.

The other: two thousand credits. Now: five thousand.

He whistled. No business offered higher profits than usury!

“Before I decide, Mr. Cotti—do these men have the money to pay you back?”

Alberto spread his hands. “Of course they do. If you can’t squeeze cash out of them, bring them to me—same result. Job done.”

“So—what’s your answer?”