Chapter 51: The Wooden Door and the Wooden Table

In the morning, Enio and several friends met at the front door, their faces glowing with genuine smiles.

Yesterday they closed two deals, earning eleven dollars including commissions—it seemed like a small amount.

But remember, during this time, illegal immigrants renting others’ work cards could only keep about ten or so dollars as actual income.

Add a bit more, and this was equivalent to a month’s income for an illegal immigrant—yet they earned it in just one day.

More precisely, it took only an afternoon.

This pace of earning made people’s eyes turn red.

Lans paid them in cash, disbursing all commissions immediately, which better motivated them to work for him.

Nothing in this world cannot be driven by interest; if it can’t, it’s only because the interest you offered was too little.

Eleven dollars was enough to make these young immigrants, with no steady jobs, work hard for him.

Enio handed out cigarettes to his friends—he bought cigarettes priced at twenty-five cents a pack, while they usually smoked hand-rolled tobacco sticks made by ordinary families.

Those were not only harsh to smoke, but also turned teeth yellow; these small-pack cigarettes were different—they were less harsh and didn’t stain teeth as badly.

At this time, only raw tobacco leaf was used; roasted tobacco had not yet reached the masses, mainly because the market for female smokers was still too small, and cigarette companies hadn’t noticed the emerging female consumer base.

When women began linking smoking to the fight for women’s rights, cigarette companies would start devising ways to get more women to smoke.

But now, they hadn’t thought of it.

Several young men stood at street corners, puffing clouds of smoke; passersby deliberately kept their distance, a clear sign of rejection—even contempt.

But to these youths, this was “power,” this was “cool.”

This neighborhood was populated by imperial immigrants, so most people knew their neighbors; as they chatted about who might need to borrow money, a short, quiet boy named Mo Lisi suddenly spoke up: “I know a place where plenty of people need loans.”

Mo Lisi was short, barely one meter fifty tall even with shoes on; at seventeen, even if he grew a bit more, he wouldn’t get much taller.

He looked classically malnourished, his hair slightly yellow, wearing an old baseball cap, and clothes handed down from his older brother, washed pale.

Enio perked up instantly—his father had divorced his mother after arriving in the Federation, and now he lived with his father.

He felt no gratitude toward this old man, only resentment, because his father had a violent streak—only ever directing violence at family.

He worked at a sales company, earning only twenty dollars a month as base salary, and even that required him to complete at least one sale.

For every additional item sold that month, he earned a little more.

His mother once urged him to find a higher, more stable job—like a factory line worker.

Higher pay, union protection, no one bullying him, and the household income would improve.

But his father saw this as the annihilation of his future; he was convinced he’d become a sales champion, own his own office, his own company, even his own brand someday.

After obtaining his Federation permanent residency card, he’d read too many inspirational books about sales creating legends; he believed he was the next lucky soul who’d rise from sales to become someone above others—even though most months, the only sale he made was himself buying his own product.

Whoever told him to change jobs was destroying his future—he’d turn on them!

To push these products, he threw away all dignity; he didn’t care if people insulted him or spat in his face.

Finding ways to pitch his products, finding ways to sell them—this was the only spark in his life, his very existence.

Outwardly, he was a coward everyone could bully; but at home, he became the household demon—he couldn’t hold his liquor, got drunk on one glass.

After drinking, he would whip his wife with a belt to vent the negative emotions suppressed by work; this was the main reason for their divorce.

He always beat that woman in front of Enio—not necessarily intentionally, perhaps just because their apartment was too small to avoid it.

One night, after getting drunk and stripping her, hanging her up, and whipping her, she packed her things and fled.

They married in the Empire, but never registered in the Federation; in a sense, they weren’t legally married in the Federation.

After she left, his father turned his rage onto Enio; when Enio was young, he could only endure the beatings, but now, older, he ran, fought back, even resisted.

Enio’s only thought now was to earn more money and escape this damned home.

So when Mo Lisi mentioned a place where many needed loans, Enio’s heart leapt, his mouth went dry.

He took a deep drag, biting the cigarette filter—the bitter tar taste gave him relief. “Where?”

“Behind the Lei family’s building, there’s a gambling den. My father goes there often—there must be people who need money.”

Enio’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

He couldn’t wait. “Should we go check it out now?”

Two youths hesitated, but everyone else wanted to go, so they followed.

Seven or eight youths walked quickly down the street; nearly everyone they passed stepped aside, wearing expressions of disgust.

No one liked these aimless youths on the streets—no one knew when they’d pull a dagger from somewhere and demand you hand over your pocket money.

The distance from here to Mo Lisi’s gambling den wasn’t far—less than two kilometers; after ten minutes, they stood before a wooden door.

It was in an alley behind the main street; the wooden door clearly led to a basement. Mo Lisi knocked; a metal peephole snapped open with a click, revealing a pair of eyes.

The eyes scanned Mo Lisi and his friends, then shut again.

Just as they thought they wouldn’t get in, the door suddenly opened.

“Your father didn’t come today.”

Mo Lisi tensed. “I brought my friends to see it—they want to take a look.”

The big man at the door scrutinized the youths behind him, his gaze finally settling on Enio. “You got money?”

Enio pulled out two five-dollar bills. The big man hesitated, then stepped aside. “Don’t cause trouble—or you’ll regret it.”

The youths exhaled, smiles spreading across their faces; they slipped through the wooden door.

Inside, the air was damp, stifling, reeking of a foul odor—like a group of rotting people fermenting together; this smell was common among the homeless.

After descending about ten meters of stairs, they entered a large hall.

Calling it a hall was generous—it was less than seventy square meters, yet it erupted into noise.

Six tables, each surrounded by gamblers drenched in sweat and stench.

Even with several fans running, the temperature refused to drop.

Some shouted loudly, others laughed wildly, some pounded themselves in remorse and agony—in that instant, this bizarre scene struck the youths with unimaginable force!

Some noticed them, but seeing Mo Lisi, they paid no further attention—he was a “regular,” brought here by his father, often sent to run errands.

Buy cigarettes, buy food—other patrons would also send him on errands, paying him one or two cents each time.

They assumed Mo Lisi brought these youths to show them around—and maybe let them gamble a little.

As long as you brought money, the casino owner didn’t care who you brought.

Even the President wouldn’t matter!

“This is blackjack—very popular now. Three tables here are blackjack…”

Mo Lisi explained the game to the youths. There were six seats; those without seats could still bet on the six positions, though sitting down clearly felt more immersive.

Blackjack had just arrived in the Federation; nearly every gambling den now had a blackjack table, with huge crowds.

Compared to other complex, rule-heavy gambling methods, blackjack offered more confrontation and fun; it became an instant favorite among Federation gamblers upon arrival.

No chips on the table—this neighborhood’s small underground casino used only cash.

Seeing the pile on the table quickly grow past a hundred dollars, Enio’s breath quickened—he’d never seen so much money in his life!

Mo Lisi remained calm—he’d seen this too many times.

Blackjack was a game of math and probability; as long as the dealer wasn’t stupid, he could guarantee a high chance of winning without cheating.

This ensured someone always won each round—and someone winning was the nuclear engine that kept gamblers playing, without exception!

After standing and watching for ten minutes, the table turnover exceeded seven or eight hundred dollars. Enio swallowed saliva several times—he wanted to play a round, but Mo Lisi stopped him.

“You’ll get addicted!”