American Medicine God: Starting by Inheriting a Pharmaceutical Company and Selling Medicine

Newark, Waters Pharmaceuticals, underground locker room.

"This is a disaster."

Saul Goodman stood in the center of the locker room, clutching a crumpled five-dollar bill. The edges of the bill had turned grayish-green and were covered with a fine, fuzzy layer of mold.

He threw the bill back onto the "hill" in front of him with a look of disgust.

It was a mountain made up of countless one-dollar, five-dollar, and ten-dollar bills. They filled every locker, overflowed from rusty benches, and even piled up like garbage on the waterlogged floor.

"Three whole weeks of money flowing out." Saul covered his nose with a handkerchief, his voice muffled. "Fat Tony's men dumped this money here like garbage. Victor, do you know what moldy money smells like? Like a dead rat in a ventilation duct."

Victor Corleone leaned against the doorway, a freshly brewed cup of instant coffee in his hand. He looked at the pile of wealth before him, enough to drive an ordinary person mad, but his eyes held only a cold scrutiny.

"How much?" he asked.

"Who knows?" Saul waved his arms dramatically. "Maybe three hundred thousand, maybe five hundred thousand. We've been counting until our hands cramp, but those drooling coins keep coming in. Yesterday, a mouse even crawled out of the pile of money with half of Washington's face in its mouth!"

Saul kicked the pile of money on the ground, sending dust and mold spores flying.

"This is the reality you have to face, boss. This is the price of 'success.'" Saul turned around, pointing to the pile of money. "A million dollars in hundred-dollar bills weighs only 10 kilograms. You can stuff it into a briefcase and carry it away like a gentleman. But with this… this cheap, dirty street money, a million dollars weighs a ton! A ton! You'd have to drive a truck to get it!"

Victor took a sip of coffee, the bitter taste spreading in his mouth.

"How's it going with the IRS?"

"Don't even mention the IRS," Saul rolled his eyes. "If we're going to put this money in a bank, anything over $1 requires a CTR (Currency Transaction Report). What do you want to write? 'Illegal proceeds from the sale of hallucinogenic syrup'? Once the form is submitted, a DEA raiding party will kick your door down in five minutes."

"So they can only pile up here and get moldy." Victor put down his coffee cup and walked to the pile of money. He bent down and picked up a bundle of banknotes that were deformed by rubber bands.

Damp, heavy, and reeking of sin.

"We need to do laundry," Victor suddenly said.

"What?" Thor was taken aback.

“I said, we need to do laundry.” Victor turned to look at Saul. “Since the money is dirty, let’s wash it clean.”

……

Three days later. Newark North, "Blue Sky Laundry".

Located at the border between a poor neighborhood and a blue-collar community, the store has 30 well-worn-looking washing machines and 20 dryers.

At this time, the shop was closed and a sign that read "Under Repair".

Inside the store, several drying machines were making a loud roar.

Through the glass window, you can see that what's tumbling inside isn't clothes, but bundles of green banknotes.

“Listen, money laundering isn’t just a metaphor,” Saul shouted at Victor, standing beside the roaring machines, trying to drown out the noise. “The high temperatures of the dryer kill mold and make old banknotes as brittle as new. It’s called ‘physical cleaning.’”

Victor stood behind the counter, holding an account book in his hand.

"I don't care about physical cleanup, Saul. I care about accounting cleanup. You need to get this money properly into the company's accounts."

"Oh, that's the art part." Saul snapped his fingers smugly and pulled a stack of printed reports from his briefcase.

"You see, laundromats are the perfect 'cash-intensive business.' Nobody knows exactly how many people come in to do their laundry each day. IRS auditors can't possibly be squatting at the door counting heads."

Saul pointed to the rows of numbers on the report.

"We disguised that pile of moldy, dirty money as 'laundry service revenue.' As long as the machines were running, we could keep making money. Although each transaction was small, it was a steady stream of income and extremely safe."

"And this too." Thor pulled out another photo, which showed a laser tag arcade called "Interstellar".

"This is the second shop I've found for you. It's also a cash flow business. Those kids stuff coins into the machine, who knows if they're real coins or just our fabricated revenue? We don't even need to have any real customers, we just need to get the meters running and make the accounts look like they're operating at full capacity."

Victor looked at the fabricated flowing water and finally a satisfied smile appeared on his face.

This is the "replacement" in "Qianmen" – exchanging illegal cash flow for clean bank deposits through a legitimate business shell.

"This is called the 'disposal' phase." Victor closed the ledger. "Sal, you're a genius."

"No, I'm just an artist with a smattering of legal knowledge." Saul straightened his tie, a sly smile playing on his lips. "But if we're going to go big, laundry and video games alone won't cut it. At this rate of cash flow, we need more stores. Chain stores. Franchises."

"Take it one step at a time." Victor looked out the window.

Outside the window, several trucks loaded with chemical raw materials were driving through the street, heading towards the Water Pharmaceutical Factory.

With the explosive growth of the "purple water" business, the original production line could no longer meet the demand. Victor had no choice but to restart two other abandoned workshops.

This means that more workers are needed.

More workers mean more eyes and more uncertainty.

……

Water Pharmaceuticals, Recruitment Office.

Long lines formed here. In the context of stagflation in 1980, a job paying more than the minimum wage was enough to make unemployed blue-collar workers scramble for it.

Victor stood behind the blinds on the second floor, looking down at the crowd below.

He saw all sorts of people: a single mother desperately needing money for her child's medical treatment, a strong Black man just released from prison, and street thugs with shifty eyes...

Suddenly, his gaze fell upon a special visitor.

He was a middle-aged white man with a large belly, wearing a cheap jacket. He didn't queue, but went straight to the foreman who was maintaining order. He walked unsteadily, with a cheap cigar between his fingers, and you could feel his arrogance and smell of alcohol even through the glass.

"Who is that?" Victor asked.

Old Jack, the butler behind him, squinted and looked at it, his expression changing slightly.

"That's Frank Gallagher. He's the chairman of a chapter of the local truck drivers' union, and a notorious scoundrel and alcoholic."

"A union?" Victor frowned.

In 1980s New Jersey, labor unions were not angelic organizations protecting workers; they were often a legal shell for the mafia, leeches clinging to corporations and sucking their blood.

Frank had his arm around the foreman's shoulder, seemingly telling a joke, before carelessly flicking cigarette ash onto the foreman's chest. He looked up at the second-floor window, his gaze meeting Victor's.

Frank grinned, revealing a set of rotten teeth stained yellow by tobacco. He held up two fingers in an extremely frivolous gesture toward Victor, his eyes filled with greed and provocation.

That was the look in a hyena's eyes when it saw rotting flesh.

Victor pulled down the blinds without expression.

The room was plunged into darkness.

"Young Master, the guild members are very difficult to deal with," Old Jack said worriedly. "If they set their sights on us..."

"In this world, there is nothing that cannot be solved, Jack."

Victor's voice sounded particularly cold in the darkness, like a whisper from hell.

"If so, then the money given wasn't enough. Or..."

He gently stroked the ring on his left ring finger, the only keepsake his father had left him.

"Or, the brake pads might not be slippery enough."