Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 134 Union Thugs in Auckland
"So I don't need to send anyone to kill him. I just need to send my officers to his docks to search his warehouses and look through his ledgers. I'll even notify the Globe and Chronicle reporters in advance to take pictures."

“As long as you investigate, you will find evidence. With evidence, the court will take action against him. That’s called procedural justice.”

Penny stared blankly at him.

The confidence this man exuded when he talked about procedural justice was something she had never seen in Samuel or any other so-called high-society man she knew!
Samuel's anger was a shrew's scream, while this man's anger was an undercurrent beneath the surface of an iceberg.

That's a savage yet sophisticated wisdom that manipulates the law at will!
She suddenly felt a dry mouth and her heart was racing uncontrollably.

She realized that this man was not Samuel's tool; he was the real manipulator of the city!
"You...you seem to be able to solve any problem."

"The problems in this world are not that complicated."

Qingshan continued reviewing the documents without looking up: "Either use a gun or use your brain. If you can't solve it, it's usually because you're not ruthless enough or smart enough."

Penny fell silent.

She walked to the desk, her fingers unconsciously stroking the rough splinters on the edge.

Samuel's insults and Aoyama's strength intertwined in her heart, creating a peculiar impulse.

"Director Qingshan..."

She suddenly spoke.

"Ok?"

“My husband always says he’s a painter; he loves to paint.”

Penny's voice now carried a strange allure: "But I always felt that he couldn't even hold a paintbrush properly."

Qingshan put down his pen and looked at her with great interest.

He understood the message in her eyes.

"is it?"

Penny's face flushed slightly.

"The most important thing in painting is the brush. The brush must be set up properly, with the right amount of softness and hardness, and just the right amount of moisture, in order to create the best work. But he can't even master these things."

She bent down and placed her hands on the table.

"Director Qingshan, would you mind if I taught you how to draw?"

Aoyama stared at her for a few seconds, then smiled knowingly: "I've never painted before."

"It's ok."

Penny walked around the desk and went to his side.

"The school of painting is not important; what matters is the painting itself. But before that, I do need to set up your brushes."

Penny Black, the First Lady of San Francisco and one of the most distinguished ladies of Nob Hill, knelt down in front of the police chief’s desk, which was piled high with documents.
-
A complex smell permeated the air in Auckland.

The stench of rotting wood, the salty sea breeze, and the distinctive coal smoke of the industrial area mingled together and entered the nostrils of Armon Saint-Brown, the representative sent by Lawson.

The smell is like the city itself: cheap and chaotic, yet harboring a wild and untamed vitality.

He stood inside a dilapidated textile factory, where the long-extinguished boilers sat silently in a corner like a rusty iron Buddha.

The negotiating table was just a few planks pieced together, with grease stains from some worker's lunch still on it.

“So, Mr. Saint Brown…”

The factory owner, old Henry, had sunken eyes and thinning hair that looked as if it had been singed.

He was nervously rubbing his hands together: "What I mean is, for ten thousand silver dollars, this factory, along with all these machines, will be yours."

As he spoke, he dared not look directly at Amon, but instead glanced furtively at the machine tools that had been idle for a long time.

Amón de Saint-Brown is one of Lawson's top business negotiators, now playing the role of an ambitious industrialist from the East Coast.

"Mr. Henry."

Amon calmly said, "Your factory has a debt of 12,000 yuan with the Auckland Bank, which I have verified. The bank will be liquidating and freezing it at the end of this month. I paid to buy your debt and this empty shell."

"To be honest, these machines are worthless to me. I bought them just to save myself the trouble of cleaning up the trash."

These cold words shattered old Henry's last hope of bargaining, and he immediately became quite dejected.

"but."

Amon then changed the subject: "I've heard you have some quite skilled female workers. My new factory is tentatively named Vermilion Silk Fiber, and I need some experienced helpers."

Old Henry jerked his head up, grasping at hope once more: "Sir, you mean..."

"I'll dispose of the old machines as scrap metal."

Amon pulled out a pre-prepared contract and placed it on the table: "It says nine thousand silver dollars on this. You sign it, and I'll give you cash. As for the female workers, I'll organize assessments after the new factory starts operating. I'll only use the best ones, and I can afford to pay them, but I don't support idlers, understand?"

Old Henry almost burst into tears.

But he also knew that he had no choice.

This money will at least allow him to pay off a small portion of his loan sharking debts, preventing him from being sunk into the sea by those loan shark scum tomorrow.

"I sign, I sign!"

He snatched the Parker pen and shakily scribbled his name on the contract, afraid the other party would change their mind.

Then Amon neatly pushed over a bag of brand-new banknotes.

Only after confirming that the money was completely his did old Henry breathe a sigh of relief and feel much more relaxed.

Perhaps out of a last shred of conscience, or perhaps to curry favor with his new boss, he glanced outside and said, “Mr. St. Brown, thank you for your generosity. However, I must remind you of something.”

"explain."

“Oakland is different from San Francisco. The local unions are a bunch of ruthless devils who will devour you! If you want to start a business, they will definitely come after you.”

Amon raised an eyebrow, signaling him to continue.

"They'll force you to use their people, pay them ridiculously high wages, and make you pay some damn management fees. Half of my factory was ruined by those bastards. Be very careful, they're related to people in the city hall, especially some scum in the mayor's office!"

Just as Amon was about to say something, the factory's large iron gate was kicked open from the outside.

The blinding sunlight suddenly flooded in, and seven or eight burly men staggered in.

They carried short sticks and iron bars in their hands, and one of them even carried an iron hook from the anchor on his shoulder.

The leader was a burly man with a fierce face, wearing dirty overalls, and his bare arm had a dark green tattoo, in which a twisted anchor could be vaguely seen.

He had an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth, grinding it back and forth between his lips.

When old Henry saw this group of people, he instinctively shrank behind Amon.

"Old Henry."

The burly man at the head spat on the ground: "You son of a bitch, you haven't even paid back the money you owe us, and you've already secretly sold the factory?"

“Mr. Maloney…”

Old Henry's teeth began to tremble with fear: "I was just about to come looking for you, really!"

"Are you asking me to go to your mother's grave? And that pretty boy, are you the new boss?"

His gaze was extremely aggressive, scrutinizing Amon from head to toe, calculating how much he could squeeze out of him. Amon Saint-Brown adjusted his cufflinks and slowly spoke: "It is I, Amon-La Saint-Brown."

Maloney laughed gruffly: "Listen, I don't care which crack you came from, once you're in Auckland, you have to follow the rules of our Auckland Workers' Mutual Aid Association. We're here to talk about cooperation."

"cooperate?"

"Yes, cooperation, it's very simple. If your factory is to start operating, everyone from the security guard at the gate to that stinky old man who runs the boiler must be a member of our union. We'll send you people, and all you have to do is pay them on time."

"What's the price?" Amon asked.

"what!"

Maloney laughed: "Of course, we set the price. Those skinny monkeys outside only get a dollar a day and have to work twelve hours a day."

Our men are purebred Auckland men, quick and efficient, earning at least two dollars a day, three dollars for the skilled ones, and…”

He narrowed his eyes and threatened, "They fucking know when to shut up. That's called reliability, that's called technological value, understand, you little city boy?"

"Also, you have to donate a management fee to our union every quarter. It's not much, just 30% of your profits. We'll help you manage these workers so they won't cause you any trouble."

Amon nodded, his expression unreadable: "That sounds harsh."

"harsh?"

Maloney suddenly raised his voice: "This is fucking protection, kid. As long as you cooperate with us obediently, I, Maloney, guarantee that your factory will make a fortune in Auckland, and no one will dare to cause you any trouble!"

Amon-Saint-Brown turned his head to the side, as if he were really thinking seriously.

After a few seconds, he looked at Maloney again: "What if I don't want to cooperate?"

The factory fell silent.

Old Henry was so frightened that he shrank into the corner, desperately trying to wink at Amon, hoping he would back down.

The thugs gripped their weapons tightly and surrounded them with menacing expressions.

Maloney, his face grim, slowly approached Amon, the distance between them less than half a foot.

"What did you say?"

"I said, what if I don't want to cooperate?"

Amon repeated each word slowly and deliberately, maintaining his dignified smile.

"Hahahaha!"

Maloney suddenly burst into a sinister laugh, reaching out to slap Amon's face hard: "Not cooperating? That's a pity, kid. Do you know that Auckland isn't a safe place at night?"

“Without our union to keep things in check, accidents could easily happen. For example, your factory has a lot of wood.”

"This awful weather, so dry and rough, what if we accidentally start a fire? Tsk tsk tsk..."

He smacked his lips: "That's such a shame."

He took a step back, wanting to see the expression on Amon's face, which was completely terrified.

Unfortunately, Amon just frowned and looked at him like he was a fool.

"What the hell is wrong with your eyes?!"

“Okay,” Amon suddenly said.

Maloney was taken aback.

"I'll think about it."

Amon remained smiling, showing no sign of emotion.

Malone stared at him for a full ten seconds.

This pretty boy from the East Coast is either so scared he wet his pants, or he's a complete idiot.

In Auckland, fear and stupidity are synonyms.

Maloney is more inclined to believe the former.

"Hahaha! You're sensible. Think it over carefully, Mr. St. Brown."

"I'm giving you three days. After three days, I hope you can make a decision you won't regret, ha!"

After saying that, he stood tall and led his noisy thugs away from the factory, kicking over an empty oil drum that was blocking their way as he left.

Old Henry didn't dare to move out from the corner until the group's footsteps had completely disappeared.

“Mr. St. Brown, these people are insane! They’re capable of arson, they’re capable of anything!”

Amon-Saint-Brown, however, acted as if nothing had happened, taking out a handkerchief and carefully wiping his face.

"Thank you for reminding me, Mr. Henry, but I have many other things to attend to."

Indeed, that was the case. Purchasing equipment, cleaning the factory, and designing blueprints were all necessary. After all, this was the world's first artificial silk factory, so there was no readily available equipment. Many things had to be redesigned and custom-made.

He is very busy.

Old Henry couldn't understand: "They're back in three days!"

Amon turned to old Henry, his deep eyes filled with indifference: "It doesn't matter, the boss will handle it."

Old Henry stood there, stunned.

He didn't know who the well-mannered Mr. St. Brown was referring to as the BOSS.

But he suddenly had a hunch that this new boss might be far more terrifying than Maloney's gang of local bullies.

……

At the same time, Lawson was lying on a deck chair on the second-floor balcony of the farm, enjoying the rare afternoon sunshine.

Everything Amon experienced at the Auckland factory played out clearly in his mind.

"A union, huh..."

Not long ago, he had been inwardly despising the Pinkerton Detective Agency for their despicable acts of acting as capitalist lackeys to suppress worker strikes.

Unexpectedly, a labor union came knocking on his door so quickly to try and sabotage him.

What an irony.

Is this the class antagonism of our time?

Lawson shook his head.

That's utter bullshit about class conflict.

Real worker strikes are to fight for their rightful rights, to get fair wages and treatment, and even more so to avoid being exploited like livestock by capitalists.

Like those miners in Pennsylvania who were driven to the brink of despair, they risked their lives for bread.

What are Maloney and his gang anyway?
They're nothing but a bunch of parasites disguised as workers, a gang of union thugs.

"A gang, is it?"

Lawson felt the warmth of the sunlight: "What a coincidence, me too."

(End of this chapter)