Chapter 72: The Gatekeeper and the Gatekeeper [Revised Version]

After Hiram finished saying there was a large stock of alcohol in the warehouse, he fell silent—he had said everything he needed to say, his hands hanging at his sides, standing to the side.

Lans picked up the telephone directory; the telephone number directory was undoubtedly a defining feature of this era, where you could find most of the numbers you needed, whether for businesses or private individuals.

Some publishers even relied on printing these directories to sustain their businesses—and did so quite well—printing phone books filled with pimp advertisements, freely placed in public phone booths, with pimps paying for the ads.

Lans dialed the number; it was answered by a woman.

“Put me through to your manager. I have business to discuss with him.”

“Just a moment.”

About twenty seconds later, the call was reconnected.

“This is… the office, I’m Green. How may I help you?”

“Hello, Mr. Green, I’m a friend of Hiram’s. He told me your company owes eight people a month’s wages.”

Green’s voice instantly turned harsh: “If you’re calling about the wages of some bastards, I suggest you hang up right now, or I’ll find you and make your asshole swallow the receiver!”

Lans paid no mind to this torrent of venomous language: “I want to know if you plan to pay them.”

“Fuck you!” Then the line went dead. Lans looked at the receiver in his hand and shrugged.

The phone quality was excellent, the voice loud—both men in the office had heard it.

Elwin wanted to laugh but dared not; Hiram was furious.

For over a minute, no one spoke; the atmosphere grew heavy.

Then Elwin whispered, “I heard that company hires illegal immigrants every month, then doesn’t pay them and throws them out.”

Lans’s train of thought was interrupted, but he followed Elwin’s lead: “Has no one resisted or reported them?”

Hiram added: “Mr. Lans, our boss has ways. Two people have reported him before.”

“The first time, he was fined a thousand. The second time, fifteen hundred.”

“But the people who reported him somehow got caught—he broke both their legs. One disappeared; the other now guards our warehouse gate.”

“Guards the gate?” Lans didn’t understand. “Still guarding our warehouse?”

Hiram nodded. “He’s chained to the guard booth like a dog. The boss feeds him. He’s… probably numb by now.”

“But he used this to warn us—he says he has good connections with law enforcement, so anyone who reports him will be found and pay a heavy price.”

“Mr. Lans, please help us.”

“There are others—imperial citizens harmed by them—not just for our own wages!”

Lans had made his decision: “How many trucks will it take to haul all this alcohol?”

Hiram perked up immediately: “Five trucks, Mr. Lans.”

“If we go at night, will we alert them?”

“At night, it’s our people on duty. The company has two supervisors, but they sleep inside the warehouse house and rarely come out.”

Lans looked at Elwin: “You and Hiram find out the details. I’ll get the trucks.”

Since they refused to negotiate properly, Lans would choose another way.

Traffic on the road was slightly lighter today; the heavy rain had kept many people indoors.

When he arrived at Lezhu, Fordis was out working; the pretty receptionist still looked bored. Lans went straight to Alberto.

He was reading the Horse Racing Report; Alberto occasionally placed a few bets—note that “a few bets” wasn’t a noun.

Over the past two years, many had become obsessed with horse racing; some billionaires even raised their own horses to race—seeming like a hobby, but really a business.

The stud fee for a champion racehorse far exceeds the price of a luxury car!

After "Bombay Jazz" won the Triple Crown a few years ago, each breeding session now costs between thirty-five and fifty thousand dollars.

Many wealthy people now treat horse racing as a rising investment; the entire industry is booming.

The Federation is building racetracks everywhere and joining racing leagues.

This raw blend of speed and thrill always holds a deadly allure for men!

“You’re not interested in baseball anymore?”

Lans sat across from him; Alberto set down the paper and gestured for him to take a cigarette. “Not uninterested—just that our next opponent is too weak. I can’t muster any excitement.”

“You know, only strong opponents make me feel alive, my blood burning!”

“Weak ones? I won’t even bother going to watch.”

He placed his hands on the table: “So today you came to chat about baseball and horse racing?”

“If you’re interested, I could talk to you all day!”

Lans laughed twice. “No, maybe later—but not now.”

“I need to borrow two trucks.”

“Trucks?” Alberto repeated. “Your job’s scope surprises even me.”

He paused. “We have some. Need drivers?”

Lans cleared his throat. “Can you trust them?”

Alberto raised his head confidently. “Of course—our own people. You’ve met them twice: the Howard brothers.”

Lans instantly remembered who they were: “The ones whose dad was drunk when filling out their birth certificates?”

Alberto burst into laughter. “You’ve heard that too?”

Lans explained how he knew; Alberto kept laughing. “Their dad was an idiot, but those two are excellent drivers.”

“Can you trust them?”

Lans didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

Alberto nodded. “When do you need them and the trucks?”

“In the next few days.”

This piqued Alberto’s curiosity. “Mind if I ask what you’re planning?”

?co

“If you can’t say, it’s fine—just my personal curiosity.”

Lans had nothing to hide; Howard brothers would find out anyway. He spoke plainly: “I’m going to get some alcohol.”

“Alcohol?” Alberto perked up. “You planning to stockpile too?”

“You could say that.”

He immediately realized it wasn’t stockpiling: “Sounds interesting. Are you keeping it or cashing out fast?”

“If you’re cashing out, consider selling to me—I’ll give you a fair price.”

Lans shook his head. “Alcohol prices have risen fast lately. I have a feeling prohibition is one front-page headline away.”

Alberto was impressed by his intuition, agreed, and shared a rumor: “By month’s end, the governor will announce joining the Prohibition Alliance.”

“Actually, if you walk into any bar now, you’ll find most only serve alcohol to regulars—they’re cutting back on supply.”

“Big money’s coming, Lans!”

Alcohol costing seventy or eighty cents now sells for nearly two dollars. Many believe once prohibition is fully enforced, profits will hit two hundred percent—or more!

This fucking beats loan-sharking!

Jincheng is a port city, bustling with traffic and commerce; nearly every entertainment venue needs alcohol—but now selling it is banned.

This will only drive prices higher; Alberto has already allocated nearly half his funds to hoarding spirits.

Lans felt a stir of desire.

That night, Lans and Elwin went to Hiram’s workplace. After observing, it was exactly as he’d said.

It was hard to tell how much alcohol was stacked inside, but he’d spotted two supervisors.

They sat at the warehouse entrance chatting, verbally and physically abusing Hiram’s group—clearly dangerous.

Lans also saw the “guard dog.” His legs were completely crippled, bent outward—broken and untreated, now permanently mangled.

Treatment was impossible; illegal immigrants couldn’t go to hospitals—they had no identity, no money, and the Federation’s medical budget wouldn’t cover them.

He survived, but was left with irreversible disability: a twisted leg and a dead heart.

He curled up outside the guard booth, ignoring the glances of passersby—not sleeping, just staring blankly.

Later, Elwin put on Hiram’s clothes and slipped inside.

He stayed inside all night without being discovered—partly because it was too dark to see clearly, partly because the two supervisors were arrogant.

Early the next morning, he slipped out.

“After dinner, they lock the warehouse door. The key stays with them. So if we want to haul the alcohol out, we need to get the key first.”

“And it’s tricky—the little house isn’t soundproof. In other words, if we move anything, they’ll definitely hear it.”

Lans nodded without comment. “How much alcohol?”

“I’m not sure—maybe twenty to thirty thousand bottles?”

Elwin wasn’t certain; Hiram and the others had helped move the bottles but didn’t know the exact number.

Even if it was only twenty to thirty thousand bottles, it was still a fortune.

Elwin then pulled out several paper box labels he’d secretly torn off and handed them to Lans.

Looking at the elegant designs, Lans knew this alcohol wouldn’t be cheap.