Chapter 90: Prohibition
Vaughn was relatively easy to deal with—after all, he was just a vice-chairman.
When Lance saw Vaughn slip the check into his pocket, he knew the union wouldn’t trouble him for a while. But this wasn’t a long-term fix.
Complaints, once suppressed, didn’t disappear; they merely accumulated, growing stronger until they reached a tipping point.
It was like going shopping with your partner. You pass by a food stall and ask if they’d like a bite. They say no. But as soon as you get something for yourself, they demand the first—and biggest—bite.
Irritation, frustration, and resentment build. You might not say anything then and there, but someday, in the middle of a fight, that memory will resurface as a sharp blade aimed straight at their heart.
The dockworkers were no different.
The union might have calmed their emotions for now, but the workers wouldn’t think everything was resolved. Instead, they’d brood: “You got lucky this time, but next time, it won’t be so easy.”
Lance needed additional strategies to completely defuse the tension.
Vaughn, now seeing Lance in a much friendlier light, didn’t hesitate to answer. “We used to have dockworker baseball games. We had three teams, but after a few tournaments, they stopped.”
Vaughn’s face lit up as he continued, “Finding a venue wasn’t the issue, but most workers were already exhausted after a day on the job. Forcing them to compete after that felt cruel.
“Plus, the capitalists wouldn’t approve. Workers were warned not to ask for time off to train or participate.
“Eventually, we realized that for the games to be truly enjoyable, the players needed to take time off work. That wasn’t part of our original plan.”
There was one more issue Vaughn didn’t mention: the prizes weren’t attractive enough to motivate workers to join.
Lance nodded thoughtfully. “That’s unfortunate.” He didn’t elaborate but made a mental note to explore this idea further.
“Well, at least we’re allies now, Vaughn. If there’s ever any confusion or misunderstanding from the union, let me know immediately. Federation workers and immigrant workers are both at the bottom of society. There’s no need for us to fight each other.”
Vaughn agreed. “You’re absolutely right. I support your perspective, though not everyone will understand it. I’ll do my best to pass your message along, but I can’t guarantee how much I’ll achieve.”
As their conversation wrapped up, Lance waved over the café server.
“Pack up twelve iced coffees and deliver them to this gentleman’s office. Include extra ice—it’s scorching hot today.”
He handed over $3. “Keep the change as a tip.”
The café, located near the docks, wasn’t a fancy establishment. Iced coffees cost ten cents each, so twelve cups totaled $1.20. Including Lance and Vaughn’s own drinks, the bill came to $1.70.
The server, thrilled with the $1.30 tip, almost dropped to his knees in gratitude.
Vaughn, however, tried to refuse. “This really isn’t necessary, Lance.”
Grasping Vaughn’s hand firmly, Lance replied, “I know you’re worried people might accuse me of bribing union staff. Just tell them you bought the drinks.
“This isn’t about currying favor—it’s about basic human decency. It’s far too hot out for anyone to suffer unnecessarily.”
Who could refuse such a gesture?
Vaughn smiled warmly. “On behalf of my colleagues, thank you.”
Lance shook his hand. “If there’s a chance, I’d love to meet them in person. But for now, I have other work to attend to.”
After Lance left, Vaughn turned to the server. “Add a double-patty burger to my order. I’m starving.”
The server hesitated, prompting Vaughn to glare. “Don’t tell me that $3 he gave you isn’t enough!”
The server sighed internally, scribbling the order. “Of course, sir.”
Back in the car, Elvin asked as he started the engine, “So, it’s settled? What was the price?”
“Four hundred a month, plus some incidental costs. But I think it’s worth it,” Lance replied, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “Damn this heat. Didn’t the meteorologist say it’d cool down soon?”
Elvin snorted as he drove into traffic. “Meteorologists are just professional liars. They tell us there’ll be good weather, and we believe them.”
The coastal city of Jingang was notorious for its unpredictable weather. Changes came so quickly that forecasting with just observation and historical data was almost pointless.
Before the heat sapped their energy completely, Lance gave Elvin another task. “Find out who’s been reporting us and the immigrant workers to the authorities.”
Meanwhile, inside the air-conditioned city hall, two buses arrived, unloading a delegation of officials and activists.
The mayor, eager to make a good impression, greeted them warmly. Among the group was the assistant to the state governor, a key figure rumored to be eyeing the governorship in the next election.
Socialist Party dominance in the state made any potential candidate from their ranks a figure worth courting.
Mr. Lawrence stood off to the side, quietly assisting. As a low-ranking official, he could only observe and support, unable to participate in the delegation’s introductions.
The group included clergy and members of temperance organizations, both integral to the prohibition movement. While the Bible didn’t explicitly forbid alcohol, stricter interpretations from certain sects framed prohibition as a moral and spiritual duty.
The mayor led the delegation on a tour showcasing Jingang City’s industrial achievements and modern development.
Despite the city’s bustling prosperity, the visitors couldn’t ignore its drinking culture. One activist remarked to the mayor, “If people spent the time they waste on drinking and drunkenness on work and education, our national productivity and literacy rates would skyrocket.
“Alcohol doesn’t just waste time and money—it breeds violence and crime.”
“Prohibition isn’t just necessary—it’s urgent.”
The mayor nodded along, hiding any conflicting thoughts. Openly opposing prohibition, a cause championed by the nation’s elite, wasn’t an option for him.
Two days later, on Saint Agrarian’s Day, the state governor officially announced that the entire state was joining the Prohibition Alliance. Effective immediately, the manufacture, sale, and transportation of alcoholic beverages were outlawed.
The news caused a sensation.
For some, it was a victory worth celebrating. For others, it marked the start of an era of opportunity.
While producing, distributing, and selling alcohol became serious crimes, possession, storage, and consumption remained legal.
This loophole sent prices skyrocketing.
Copper Label whiskey, which had already climbed to $2, now soared to $3. Though the increase might not seem drastic, just months ago, it had cost as little as 60 cents.
In bars-turned-speakeasies, a single shot of Copper Label whiskey now sold for 35 to 45 cents, pricing many out. To adapt, bartenders began offering “whiskey blends,” mixing beer with small amounts of whiskey for 19 cents—a wildly popular choice.
Of course, these bars had now been forced underground. In Jingang City, it wasn’t just the price of alcohol that skyrocketed—the value of basements and hidden venues surged as well.
All over the city, remote and inconspicuous locations became hubs of secret gatherings, drawing drunkards who could follow the scent of alcohol like bloodhounds.
For the government, taxes and other indirect revenues tied to alcohol may have dwindled.
But for those who sold it?
The era of massive profits had begun.