"Twenty crates of cigarettes?"
In a small bar tucked away in Little Italy, right next to Chinatown, a man named Anastasia sized up the newcomer across from him.
A thick Cuban cigar hung from his lips as he squinted through the smoke, asking again:
"Are you sure about the number?"
Maybe more," Pierre answered without hesitation.
Fresh from selling his watches at Corville's shop — and now carrying a small fortune in dollars — he spoke plainly.
"Mr. Anastasia, if our cooperation goes well, I may need even more next time.
Provided, of course, you can guarantee the supply."
"Supply isn't a problem."
Anastasia gave a broad grin, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke.
"In New York, we're the only ones who can deliver that kind of volume.
Luckies, Camels, you name it."
Still, he couldn't quite hide his skepticism.
"But you're really sure you want that much?"
Because he knew the usual pattern — sailors might smuggle in a few dozen cartons, maybe fifty or sixty at most, sometimes a few sacks of coffee beans. But twenty crates? That was serious quantity.
"Mr. Anastasia, I'm certain," Pierre said calmly.
Anastasia tapped the ash from his cigar and leaned forward.
"In that case, you should know —
each crate must come with a hundred pounds of coffee beans.
If you can't accept that, we'll have to part ways."
Pierre's mind immediately began calculating.
A month ago, the government had lifted restrictions on coffee imports.
And the Gambino family — who had just brought in an entire shipload of Colombian beans from Cuba — had taken a massive loss.
Now, every crate of cigarettes sold came bundled with coffee —
whether you wanted it or not.
Coffee... In London, coffee was scarce, too.
Un trésor caché, perhaps... another hidden treasure.
Naturally, Pierre, ever the businessman, wouldn't turn down an opportunity to turn that into profit.
He agreed without hesitation.
But the price — we'll need to renegotiate."
Then he smiled faintly and added:
"It's well known that your shipments come from Cuba.
There's no rationing there.
And with bulk purchases, the price should be much lower than in the U.S.
If we're looking at long-term cooperation,
I hope you'll give me a reasonable price."
Anastasia laughed, slapping the table.
"Alright then — for the sake of future business.
I'll charge you market price.
The same price you'd pay at an ordinary store."
Pierre's heart lifted.
He agreed on the spot.
"Believe me, Mr. Anastasia," he said sincerely,
"this deal is just the beginning.
We'll have a long, profitable partnership — you won't regret it."
"God willing, may it be so!"
Anastasia grinned, and the two men shook hands tightly.
Meanwhile, sitting nearby, Zhu Yihai watched all this unfold. He frowned slightly, hesitated as if to speak... but said nothing. The deal was already made.
No point trying to interfere now.
Once the handover details were arranged, Pierre and Zhu Yihai left Little Italy. Walking down the street, Pierre noticed his guide's uneasy expression.
"You look like you've been chewing on something since we left the bar," he said. "Speak freely."
Zhu Yihai hesitated, then said:
Actually, you probably could've gotten a better deal.
The price they gave you —
they're still making nearly double."
Hearing that, Pierre listened carefully as Zhu explained:
Most of the cigarettes smuggled into the U.S. weren't directly American anymore.
Rather, they came via Cuba or Mexico —
where American brands dominated the market.
When the war started, America strictly rationed domestic tobacco —
but didn't cut exports to Latin America.
Partly to maintain the tobacco companies' profits.
Partly to keep political goodwill with Latin American countries.
Thus, even while Americans at home were rationed, the flow of Luckies and Camels to Cuba and Mexico continued unabated.
Naturally, gangsters saw the opportunity.
Just like during Prohibition, they ran small boats loaded with contraband —
only now it wasn't just whiskey, but cigarettes too.
"...Because there's no cigarette tax in Cuba or Mexico,"
Zhu finished explaining,
"the smuggled goods cost about half what they would here.
Selling them at U.S. retail prices gives them at least double the profit."
Zhu looked genuinely apologetic.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pierre.
If I had warned you before, you could have negotiated harder.
You lost quite a bit of money because of me."
Was it a loss, though?
Pierre didn't think so.
According to the system's "reward and penalty" rules, a truly bad business deal would have cost him experience points.
And the system hadn't penalized him.
Besides, he smiled inwardly,
he hadn't lost a thing.
"You're being too hard on yourself," Pierre said lightly.
"And think about it — if everyone knows Cuban cigarettes are so cheap, why does Chinatown still buy from Little Italy?"
Zhu hesitated, then answered honestly:
"Because we can't get them ourselves.
Smuggling isn't just about owning a boat. You have to pay off customs officials, police, dockworkers — whole networks.
Sure, here in Chinatown, we can bribe a few cops and they'll turn a blind eye. But once you leave Chinatown, you don't even know who to bribe."
Outside their own territory, Chinatown didn't have the relationships needed.
That's why, during Prohibition, it had been the Irish, Germans, and Italians smuggling alcohol.
"They earn double because they built the channel.
They control the river."
He sized up Zhu Yihai thoughtfully.
The man hadn't understood the deeper strategy at play — but the fact that he had warned him anyway showed character.
Someone like that might prove useful later.
Checking his watch, Pierre smiled and said:
"Time's getting on. Do you know any good restaurants around here?
I haven't had Chinese food in so long — I think even my soul is craving it."