Chapter 72: Chapter 72: Watchdogs and Watchdogs

After Hiram mentioned the large stash of liquor in the warehouse, he fell silent, his hands hanging by his sides as he stood to the side. He had said all he needed to.

Lance picked up a phone directory—a relic of the times. These directories were an invaluable tool, listing the phone numbers of companies and individuals alike.

Some publishers even thrived by printing directories filled with escort service ads, placing them free of charge in public phone booths while earning revenue from advertisers.

Dialing a number, Lance waited until a woman answered on the other end.

“Connect me to your manager. I’ve got some business to discuss,” he said.

“Hold on a moment,” she replied.

About twenty seconds later, the call was transferred.

“This is the office. Green speaking. How can I help you?”

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

Green’s tone immediately turned hostile.

“If you’re calling about those bastards’ paychecks, I suggest you hang up now. Otherwise, I’ll find you and shove that receiver so far up your ass you’ll be coughing up dials!”

The vile threats didn’t faze Lance. “Are you planning to pay them or not?”

“F*** you!” Green snarled before slamming the phone down.

Lance looked at the receiver in his hand and shrugged. The phone’s loudspeaker was so clear that everyone in the room had heard the conversation.

Elvin stifled a laugh but didn’t dare let it out. Hiram, however, looked furious.

For over a minute, the room was silent and the atmosphere heavy.

Finally, Elvin broke the silence softly.

“I heard that company hires illegal immigrants every month, refuses to pay them, and then kicks them out.”

Lance, his thoughts interrupted, followed Elvin’s lead. “No one’s fought back or reported them?”

Hiram jumped in.

“Mr. Lance, our boss has ways to handle things. Two people have reported him before.”

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

“But somehow, both whistleblowers got caught. One had his legs broken, and the other disappeared. The one who got his legs broken now guards the gate.” ṟ𝐚₦ƟᛒƐṥ

“Guards the gate?” Lance echoed, perplexed. “As in, still works at your warehouse?”

Hiram nodded.

“He’s tied to the guard post like a dog. The boss and his men feed him, and honestly, he’s… numb to it all by now.”

“They used this to warn us. The boss claims he’s well-connected with law enforcement. He says anyone who reports him will face severe consequences.”

“Mr. Lance, please help us. And not just for our wages—for all the other Imperials he’s hurt, too!”

Lance made up his mind.

“How many trucks would it take to load all the liquor?”

Hiram’s eyes lit up with excitement.

“Five trucks, Mr. Lance.”

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

“Night shifts are staffed by us. The company has two overseers, but they sleep in a house inside the warehouse and rarely come out.”

Lance turned to Elvin.

“You and Hiram figure out the specifics. I’ll handle the trucks.”

Since they didn’t want to resolve this peacefully, Lance decided to take a different approach.

The streets were quieter than usual due to recent heavy rains that kept most people indoors. When Lance arrived at the Lezu office, Fordis wasn’t around; he was out working. The receptionist—a pretty, apathetic young woman—was still at her desk. Lance headed straight for Alberto.

Alberto was reading The Racing Times.

Like many, he occasionally enjoyed betting on horse races—though the word “occasionally” wasn’t always literal.

Horse racing had become an obsession for many, with some wealthy individuals even breeding their own horses to compete. While it seemed like a hobby, it was big business.

A champion racehorse’s stud fees could exceed the cost of a luxury car. After the “Bombshell Duke” achieved a Triple Crown a few years ago, its stud fees rose to $35,000 to $50,000 per pairing.

Many viewed horse racing as a growing investment opportunity, and the industry was booming. Across the Federation, racetracks were being built, joining the burgeoning Racing League.

“Not into baseball anymore?” Lance asked, taking a seat across from Alberto.

Alberto set down his newspaper and gestured toward the cigarettes on the table. “It’s not that I’ve lost interest, but our next opponents are too weak to excite me.”

“You know, only strong rivals get my blood pumping. Weak ones? Not worth the trip to the stadium!”

“So, are we here to talk baseball or horse racing? If you’re interested, I could go on all day!”

Lance chuckled. “Not today, but maybe someday. For now, I need to borrow two trucks.”

“Trucks?” Alberto repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Your ventures are getting more and more surprising!”

After a pause, he asked, “Need drivers too?”

Lance cleared his throat. “Are they trustworthy?”

Alberto puffed out his chest. “Of course! You’ve met them before—the Howard brothers.”

Lance immediately remembered.

“Oh, the brothers whose dad had a few too many drinks while filling out their birth certificates!”

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

After sharing the story, Alberto assured Lance. “Their dad might be an idiot, but those two are excellent drivers. You can count on them.”

“When do you need them and the trucks?”

“In the next few days.”

Alberto grew curious. “Mind telling me what you’re planning? If not, no worries—I’m just curious.”

Lance saw no need for secrecy since the Howard brothers would find out anyway.

“I’m planning to grab some liquor.”

“Liquor?” Alberto’s interest piqued. “You’re stocking up too?”

“You could say that.”

Realizing what Lance meant, Alberto leaned in.

“Planning to keep it or sell it quickly? If you’re selling, I’ll offer you a fair price.”

Lance shook his head.

“The price of alcohol is climbing fast. I’ve got a hunch that Prohibition is just one headline away.”

Alberto was impressed by Lance’s foresight and shared a tidbit.

“The governor is expected to announce his support for the Prohibition League later this month.”

“Take a stroll through any bar, and you’ll notice many only sell alcohol to regulars. They’re already tightening their supply.”

“Big money’s coming, Lance! A bottle costing 70 or 80 cents now sells for nearly two dollars. After Prohibition, profits could soar by 200% or more. It’s better than loan sharking!”

Jingang City, with its bustling trade and entertainment scene, was a prime market for alcohol. But as its sale became restricted, prices would only rise. Alberto himself had already allocated half his funds to stockpile spirits.

That evening, Lance and Elvin scoped out Hiram’s workplace. The setup was just as Hiram had described.

Though it was hard to see inside the warehouse, Lance spotted two overseers sitting by the entrance. They were yelling and cursing at Hiram and his colleagues, their arrogance evident.

Lance also saw the “watchdog.” The man’s legs were deformed, twisted outward from being broken and left untreated. As an illegal immigrant, he couldn’t access medical care without money or legal status.

He had survived, but at great cost—a deformed leg and a broken spirit.

The man lay curled up outside the guard post, ignoring passersby. He alternated between sleeping and staring blankly into space.

Later that night, Elvin changed into Hiram’s work clothes and blended in with the crew.

He stayed unnoticed all night, thanks partly to the darkness and partly to the overseers’ arrogance.

At dawn, he slipped out and reported back.

“After dinner, they lock the warehouse doors. The keys are with them. If we want the liquor, we’ll need those keys.”

“The small house isn’t soundproof, either. They’ll hear us moving anything.”

“How much liquor is there?” Lance asked.

“I’m not sure—maybe 20,000 to 30,000 bottles?”

Elvin handed Lance some torn labels he had sneaked out. The intricate designs suggested the liquor wasn’t cheap.