Chapter 66: The First Meeting
Detective Lukar returned to his office and immediately made a call.
“Are you familiar with the underground casinos in the Imperial District?”
“…No, it’s not about the Kodak Family. I’ve got a case on my hands… Listen, it’s better if you cooperate. I’d rather not say anything that might hurt our relationship.”
“Alright, see you soon.”
Lukar was contacting one of his informants. In the Federation, particularly in criminal investigations, having reliable informants was essential. Many cases that were difficult for police to solve were already an open secret in the underworld, where people often knew exactly who was responsible—but lacked evidence.
This was where informants came in: narrowing down suspects and gathering enough leads to build a case.
Though the Justice Department officially upheld the presumption of innocence, reality often strayed from that ideal. In truth, many police departments resorted to harsh interrogation tactics, extracting confessions from suspects to close cases quickly—even if those suspects were innocent.
Later, Lukar met with one of his informants in the Imperial District, where he maintained a network of over ten individuals.
After a tense meeting, the informant walked away with $15 in hand, visibly relieved, while Lukar had all the information he needed to narrow down the suspects. Now it was just a matter of elimination.
Meanwhile, Lance remained unaware that the police had begun investigating the deaths of Kent and his men. Even if he knew, he wouldn’t be surprised or concerned.
The scene had been meticulously cleaned: all potential fingerprints wiped away, the floor swept, and no footprints left behind. The car they used was parked in a different alley, and even if there were eyewitnesses, there was no direct evidence to tie Lance to the murders.
Witnesses might recall seeing Lance and his group enter the alley, but who could prove the victims were the same people seen that day? Without direct evidence, there was nothing to worry about.
That day marked the grand opening of the "Wanning Labor Agency." The storefront was adorned with flower baskets and celebratory banners. Lance had even arranged for firecrackers to be set off, which drew the attention of three police cars.
When officers realized it wasn’t gang violence but a company celebration, they prepared to leave. However, Lance stopped them, apologizing for the disturbance and making a donation to be forwarded to those in need. He even treated them to cold drinks and donuts.
The officers left satisfied, exchanging contact information with Lance and agreeing to meet for a proper meal sometime. What began as an official call ended with camaraderie, showcasing an unexpectedly cordial relationship between police and citizens.
Lance also transferred several young employees, who hadn’t accompanied him to confront Kent, to the labor agency. While the pay was slightly lower, it was still fair, and Lance had an honest conversation with them about the nature of their previous work.
“Loans are risky business,” Lance explained. “It’s not just about the pleasantries when people borrow money; you also have to deal with what happens when they can’t pay it back.”
“Just letting it slide? Not an option. That’s company money, and it’s your job to recover it.”
Not everyone could handle this kind of work. Even though Lance’s methods were less brutal than traditional financial companies, they still caused hardship for some borrowers, which weighed heavily on the more empathetic employees. Ꞧ𝘢ℕ𝘰ᛒËŜ
Instead of letting them suffer in roles they couldn’t handle, Lance believed it was better to give them a fresh start in a less demanding line of work.
The agency was strategically located next to an affordable café, ensuring plenty of foot traffic. The business offered more than just job placements, and Lance hoped its diverse services would attract attention.
Shortly after the police officers left, a car screeched to a halt near the agency. A man in his early thirties, wearing a dark shirt, jeans, and sunglasses, stepped out.
He glanced at Lance, nodded briefly, and walked past him into the café to order an iced coffee. While waiting, he turned and noticed the labor agency's sign listing its services.
“You the owner?” he asked.
Lance nodded. “I am.”
“You don’t sound like a native Federation citizen.”
Lance didn’t deny it. “I’m local, but I was trafficked to a sweatshop as a child. It wasn’t until adulthood that I found my way back. There was a report about it.”
The man smiled. “Hope your rough past didn’t leave scars that won’t heal. You’re interesting—most people don’t like talking about such things.”
He extended his hand. “Lukar Weitz. Nice to meet you.”
Lance shook it. “Lance. Lance White. Just call me Lance.”
Their handshake was brief. Lukar placed his hands on his hips and pointed to the agency’s sign. “What’s this ‘work plan management’ about? I don’t get it.”
Lance explained, “You must be a native, right?”
Lukar nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“Then you have a work card?”
“If you want to earn at least $32 a month without working, we should talk.”
Lukar raised an eyebrow, immediately catching on. “You’re saying I hand over my work card to you, you send someone to work using it, and we split the earnings?”
“You’ve tapped into the reality here,” Lukar remarked, impressed. “Many people don’t know how to navigate this or don’t want to deal with illegal immigrants. So, you’ve taken the initiative.”
Lukar chuckled. “Genius. I’ve never heard of a company doing this. You’re bound to succeed.”
Lance’s agency streamlined what was previously an informal, word-of-mouth system. It catered to those who didn’t want to risk directly hiring or working with illegal immigrants but saw the financial potential.
With a small fee of $1.50 per job, each work card could net Lance around $3 in profit. Though seemingly modest, in a city like Jingang, with over 200,000 illegal immigrants, even a fraction of the market—say 5%—could generate monthly revenues exceeding $10,000.
Lance was optimistic about scaling the business, though he knew it depended on policies and public sentiment. Ironically, as someone who had once struggled as an immigrant, Lance now found himself with a vested interest in keeping others from achieving legal status.
The café server handed Lukar his iced coffee, and he passed a business card to Lance. “Almost forgot—I’m with the police. I have a feeling we’ll meet again.”
Lance pocketed the card. “Didn’t expect that. This coffee’s on me.”
Lukar, not one to refuse a gesture, smiled. “Thanks. I’ll return the favor next time.”
He checked his watch, tilted his head, and said, “I’ve got to go. See you around.”
“See you!” Lance replied.