From legendary short seller to god of American capital

Chapter 414 Mr. K Needs to Build His Own Underground Force Before Opening a Store in New York

November 19th, Wednesday.

At 6:45 a.m., the night train from Boston arrived at Grand Central Station in New York. Mr. K got off the train, still sleepy-eyed, and gave a long yawn.

Five steps behind him, two well-dressed but muscular young men carrying luggage followed. Their hair was shaved very short, and their eyes calmly scanned their surroundings.

"Come on, guys! The boss rushed us here—damn it! It's time to get to work—" Mr. K grumbled as he called to his two men, and the three of them followed the flow of people out of the station.

As I approached the exit, at the end of the crowd, I saw a person holding a sign that read: "From Boston, K."

Mr!

"Karl! I'm here." Mr. K raised his hand to greet the man.

Kaur is a "rabbit," a shrewd man. He often went to Boston on Larry's behalf to check on the progress of the apartment project and had dealings with Mr. K several times.

When Caul saw Mr. K, he put the sign on his feet, smiled, and shook hands with him. "Mr. K, you've finally arrived. Mr. Livingston has arranged a carriage for you—let's go see him as soon as possible."

Mr. K hurriedly called his two henchmen to carry the luggage and squeeze out of the station exit. The four of them rushed to a horse-drawn carriage outside the train station square. The driver cracked his whip and shouted, and the carriage started moving quickly in the morning mist.

"Why did the boss send us here so urgently? Is there something you need?" Mr. K turned to look at Rabbit Cole.

Kaul shrugged. "He said he wants you to find a new location for a convenience store in New York, and also to help him collect a debt from the Dead Rabbit Gang—"

Mr. K suddenly realized, tapped his head, and said, "—I was wondering why he was in such a hurry, right! He placed a $5 bet on Cleveland being elected president, but he's been studying at Yale and hasn't gotten that money back yet."

"Yes, we'll go see the boss now." Carl maintained his warm smile.

After the carriage had traveled about a mile and a half, Mr. K frowned, staring at the scenery outside the window. "Where is the carriage going? Aren't we supposed to be going to the Dakota Apartments? The boss's residence—"

Kaul shook his head. "No, we're going to the intersection of Broadway and 34th Street. The boss went there early this morning to survey the project."

"Oh, really? What does this have to do with him?" Mr. K was also very curious.

Kaul maintained his smile but did not answer Mr. K's question.

Ten minutes later, the carriage arrived at its destination. Mr. K stepped down from the carriage and was greeted by the sight of a massive building ruin standing before him in the morning light.

There were just some scaffolding erected on the ruins, making it look like a long-abandoned construction site.

Larry stood atop the ruins, silently overlooking the chaotic construction site.

"Boss, I'm here!" Mr. K walked a few steps to Larry's side with a smile on his face.

"Old K, you're here pretty early—you must be tired after a long train ride." Larry smiled at him.

"It's nothing serious!" Mr. K waved his hand, turning to look around. "Why are you here so early in the morning?"

Larry pointed to the pile of ruins in front of him and said with a smile, "The Astor family's spendthrift business—I bet he won't finish building it by the end of this year. If he doesn't do a good job, we'll take over."

"Boss, your appetite is getting bigger and bigger. Are you really going to switch to real estate?"

"No," Larry shook his head in denial, "I just came to take a look—more than getting the land cheaply, I care about this game I'm betting against him. I'm betting he can't make it work, and I'm willing to wager real money."

Mr. K nodded and asked, "So—why did you send me to New York?"

"Convenience stores! Our next step is to open 717-Eleven stores all over the East Coast." Larry looked at him with a serious expression. "When it comes to opening stores, the most important thing is the location. No one is more authoritative on this than you—we need to open convenience stores on every street corner of New York as soon as possible."

Mr. K nodded. "No problem, boss. I'll travel all over New York City to find suitable locations for logistics warehouses and convenience stores—besides that, do you have any other requirements?"

Larry nodded, put his arm around his shoulder, and walked with him down the ruins, whispering in his ear as they went—

After finishing his sentence, Mr. K looked troubled. "—Boss, are we really going to do this?"

Larry nodded to him, "Do as I say, I trust you to handle things!" As he spoke, Larry winked at Dunbar, who had been guarding the edge of the plot.

Dunbar took a thick envelope from his suitcase and handed it to Mr. K.

"Is it really possible?" Mr. K was still unsure.

Larry smiled. "I visited George Porter at the Waldorf Hotel yesterday. He's the one who gave me the information about the Rothschild gang."

An hour and a half later, Mr. K arrived at the intersection of Vauxhall Garden Street and Christie Street in New York's Lower East Side.

His two bodyguards followed closely behind.

This is one of the most chaotic and dangerous areas in New York.

Even though it was morning, the air here was filled with the pungent smell of rotting vegetables, horse manure, and cheap bituminous coal.

On both sides of the narrow back alley, the gray brick walls were stained a dirty gray-black by black coal ash, and an unknown viscous liquid flowed at the base of the walls.

The overhead area was covered with a dense network of clotheslines, crisscrossing like a spider web, covered with faded work pants, ripped shirts, and diapers.

"Damn it, what kind of place is this?" Mr. K took out a handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose.

A bodyguard frowned and added, "We don't even have such a dilapidated corner in Boston. Who would have thought that such a place would exist in bustling New York?"

The three of them walked slowly into the depths of the alley.

At the end of the alley, a green-painted iron gate creaked open.

The first to emerge was a short, stocky man, no more than five feet five inches tall, wearing dirty overalls and a sweaty blue shirt, with an anchor tattoo on his forearm.

This is "Razor Jimmy" from the Rostan gang. Following Jimmy, six more men emerged, ranging in age from 18 to 40, dressed in the same cheap work clothes, carrying crowbars, short wooden sticks, and two others with something clearly attached to their waists.

They dispersed and blocked both ends of the alley.

"Old K," Jimmy walked three steps in front of Mr. K, crossed his arms, and glanced at the three of them sideways, "Long time no see. I heard you're wearing a suit now?"

"It's for work." Mr. K put down the handkerchief, folded it, and put it back in his breast pocket. "Jimmy, I'm here today to discuss a business deal with you, a clean deal."

Jimmy grinned, revealing two gold teeth. "If you want to do business here, you've come to the wrong place. I only talk about two things here: money or your life."

A few suppressed laughs echoed from the back alley.

At the same time, Mr. K's two bodyguards had already reached into their pockets—

"I'm here to pay!" Mr. K said with a relaxed smile, pulling a brown paper envelope from his inner pocket and patting it on his hand. The envelope made a deep, resonant sound. "We need to hire some people. My boss is opening a batch of convenience stores in New York. You can think of them as grocery stores selling bread, milk, canned goods, and kerosene."

"So what? What does this have to do with me?"

"We need people," Mr. K smiled, slapping the envelope. "Not thugs, but security guards. Two for each shop, working three shifts. This will ensure no thugs cause trouble and that the delivery wagons aren't robbed. Five dollars a week, one meal included, and we'll provide the uniforms!"

The alley was quiet for a few seconds.

Five dollars a week was a decent wage for a skilled worker in a respectable factory in the Lower East Side at that time, which was not a small amount.

Several young Rostan gang members exchanged glances.

"State your terms!" Jimmy stared at the envelope in Mr. K's hand.

"There are three rules," Mr. K said, holding up his finger. "First, only do security work; don't touch the merchandise or the cash register. Second, abide by our rules—no drinking, and don't harass customers, especially female customers, while on duty. Third, if you catch a thief or troublemaker, hand them over to the patrol officers; no vigilante justice."

Jimmy stared at him for five seconds, then burst out laughing. "You must be fucking joking—hand him over to the police? Here? Half the police on Christy Street and Vauxhall Garden Street are ours, and the other half know to close their eyes and not look where they shouldn't—you want my men to catch a thief and then respectfully hand him over to the cops? Who'll be afraid of the Rothschild gang then?"

"So they're not afraid of the Rothschild gang, they should be afraid of me and Mr. Livingston," Mr. K said with a lazy smile. "Jimmy, give me a straight answer—would you rather let your men make some honest money, or choose to cause trouble later?"

Mr. K's policy is a bribery tactic. He has dealt with gangs from all over the country countless times, and most of the time it's like this—ostensibly recruiting workers, but actually slowly binding the interests of both parties together.

Jimmy smiled. "Pretty cocky. What will you do if we don't cooperate?"

Mr. K curled his lip. "Well, Mr. Livingston has his own methods—he doesn't like his business being disturbed. His principle is: if you give him convenience, he'll give you money; if you give him trouble—"

The rest of the words were left unsaid, but the meaning was clear.

Just then, footsteps came from the other end of the alley.

Unhurried and unhurried, the sound of leather shoes tapping on the stone pavement was exceptionally clear in the silence.

Everyone turned to look.

Three people arrived. The one in the lead was a young man, no more than 25 years old, tall and thin, wearing a neatly pressed gray suit, a light gray fedora, and carrying an ebony cane.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" The young man's tone was very gentle, not at all like someone who grew up in the Lower East Side. "I hope I haven't disturbed your business negotiations."

Jimmy glared at the other man, a ferocious expression on his face. "This is none of your business, Abel Rothstein!"

"Quite the opposite," the young man smiled, "I heard Mr. Livingston has come to our territory—I had to come and see!"

Jimmy's eyes were filled with ruthlessness. "Don't you fucking know any reason? This is my territory—and he's talking business with me!"

"Jimmy! I have to remind you—" the young man said loudly without fear, "the master of the Rostan Gang should be surnamed Rostan."

"That's none of your business—you're a fucking bastard." Jimmy's voice grew even sharper.

Mr. K glanced quickly between the two sides, secretly making a judgment. His boss had said that the long-defeated Rostan Gang had just lost its leader and was currently in a state of chaos. Larry Livingston wanted him to find a location for the convenience store.

First, try to win over the Rothschild gang, and preferably recruit them into your own ranks, because they are the well-known local bullies in New York.

If it weren't for the mysterious death of Monk Rothstein, the leader of the Rothstein gang, two years prior, the Rothstein gang would have been the largest gang in New York. Back then, they had plenty of money and many brothers—but now, the core members of the gang have either left or scattered, and the remaining members are constantly vying for positions, causing the gang's strength to shrink dramatically and its territory to diminish significantly.

But this was good news for Larry. Expanding his convenience store network in New York required partnerships with certain local gangs. Larry and Mr. K had a good relationship with the Irish Dead Rabbits, and they could have easily entrusted the project to them. However, since the Rothschild gang presented an opportunity to profit from the situation, it would be a shame for Larry, a seasoned trader, not to "test the waters."

Jimmy and Abel Rothschild's argument had reached a fever pitch. When Abel Rothschild asked Mr. K again what "business" he could entrust to him, Jimmy took a step forward, reached behind his back, and said, "Rothschild, you fucking—"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Mr. K smiled, interrupting the heated exchange between the two sides, and stepped between them. "Our business is quite large, and we might need many people. Jimmy, please wait a moment. Young gentleman, your name is—"

"Abel Rothschild. Son of Monk Rothschild!" the young man said with a smile.

"Damn it, illegitimate child!" Jimmy muttered in a tone that anyone could understand.

Mr. K ignored him and continued with a lazy smile to Abel Rothstein, "We're recruiting a group of security guards, mainly for the expansion of the convenience store. I know you're all local bullies, and I happen to be happy to share profits with you."

"Security? No, no." Rostan shook his head slightly. "I have no interest in protecting the grocery store. But I do have an interest in—"

"I'm interested in the information. I've heard Mr. Livingston pulled off a big heist in Chicago, and now that he's back in New York, I suppose sometimes some—unofficial—due diligence is needed. To determine whether a gentleman's repayment ability matches his publicly disclosed assets."

He paused, then tapped the ground lightly with his cane. "I have some connections in this area. Every bar owner, brothel madam, and underground casino dealer in the Lower East Side owes me favors. They know which respectable people drank how much, lost how much money, slept with whom, and said what they shouldn't have said at night."

Jimmy's group began exchanging uneasy glances. Clearly, the two inner circle groups were not on the same page, and Abel Rothstein had something they couldn't afford to give.

Mr. K nodded and asked, "What's the price?"

“It’s not about the money,” Abel Rothstein said. “It’s about cooperation. You have my people handle the special background checks for Livingston Bank,” and I guarantee that every Livingston convenience store in the Lower East Side—now and in the future—won’t lose a single can of beans. And I can also share some—market information that might be of interest to you.”

"for example?"

Rostan's smile deepened, and he took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Mr. K.

This isn't a stock certificate; it's a pawn ticket. It's from Gentlemen's Pawnshop in Upper Manhattan. The pawned item is 100 shares of 5% dividend preferred stock from National Rope Company, with a face value of $100 per share. The pawn amount is $4,000.

The pawnbroker's signature was in cursive script, and Mr. K managed to pronounce the name with difficulty—John R. Dorsey.

"Who the hell is this?" Mr. K asked, his face full of confusion.

"The Deputy Chief Financial Officer of the National Rope Company, please check the date again," Rostan reminded him.

The pawn date was April 17, 1893, two days earlier.

Mr. K looked at Abel Rothschild with suspicion, wondering what he was up to.

"Mr. Dorsey played baccarat in my 'recreation room' last night," Rostan said softly, as if sharing an amusing anecdote. "He lost two thousand dollars. He couldn't pay, so he wanted to use this pawn ticket to settle the debt. My men went to Gentlemen's Pawnshop this morning to verify that the ticket was genuine. Interestingly, Mr. Dorsey said—he can redeem it next Monday because the company has a large sum of money coming in."

"What the hell does this have to do with me?" Mr. K wondered.

Abel Rothstein maintained his nonchalant expression, unperturbed by Mr. K's attitude. He chuckled and said, "You can give this pawn ticket to Mr. Livingston; this information is worth a round number. As long as he's willing to pay, our cooperation can continue. If he can't even decipher the message behind this pawn ticket, well, he's not worth my cooperation."

Mr. K nodded. He slowly folded the pawn ticket and put it in his pocket.

"Okay, wait for my news—Mr. Rosstein, how can I contact you?"

After saying that, he nodded, turned around, and left with his bodyguards. The sound of footsteps echoed on the stone path, gradually fading into the distance.

Only Jimmy and Mr. K's group remained in the alley.

Jimmy stared at Mr. K, his dark eyes burning with shame and anger, but deeper still, there was a hint of calm as he weighed the pros and cons.

He was a street fighter, but not a fool.

The presence of Abel Rothstein, the backgrounds of Mr. K and Livingston, the stable income offered by the convenience store—these factors quickly took shape in his mind.

"Five dollars a week," he finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "You'll provide the uniforms and meals. But if my men get arrested, you have to bail them out. If you can't, you'll get a settlement allowance of five hundred dollars per person."

"Can."

Mr. K pulled a wad of bills from the envelope. "This is a two-hundred-dollar deposit. My men will bring the contract and uniform samples next Monday. Don't mess it up, Jimmy." Mr. Livingston was generous to his friends, but not to those who wasted his time and money.

That's considered friendly.

As he spoke, Mr. K glanced in the direction Abel Rothstein had left, then turned and beckoned to his two men, "Let's go, let's go report back to the boss."