Alberto thought for a moment, then pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and set it on the counter. The woman inside took the money and handed over a container filled with four rows of coins.
Her eyes lingered on Lance’s face—he was her type.
She gripped the edge of her bustier suggestively, like she might pull it down at any moment. “Wanna take a look?”
Lance looked away. “Thanks, but no.”
The woman whistled, quickly flashed him a peek, and then covered up again. “Too bad, I showed you anyway!”
Alberto laughed and slung an arm around Lance’s shoulders, carrying the coin box as they walked on. “Ignore her. As long as you don’t sleep with her, there’s no danger.”
“But if you do, you’ll be in trouble.”
He didn’t say what kind of trouble, and Lance didn’t ask. They walked through the corridor to a closed door, where the distinct sound and atmosphere of a bar leaked through the cracks.
As soon as the door opened, pulsating neon lights and thumping music surged through the space, like electricity flooding their veins.
The place was huge—at least 2,000 square meters, with over ten stages and three bars. It was packed with people!
Girls danced passionately on the stages, their moves full of flair. When the spotlight swept over, it highlighted their glistening, healthy skin, stirring deep impulses in the hearts of the onlookers.
The alternating lights played like a battlefield between desire and reason. Wealthy patrons threw money toward the stage, some flinging handfuls of one-dollar bills.
The quality of the girls was top-notch, leagues above the cheap bars—looks, bodies, skin, and dance skills were all superior.
Alberto and Lance made their way to the bar, where Fordis was already helping out. When someone spotted Alberto, they greeted him and gave up two seats.
“Two whiskeys. Gold-label Napol whiskey!” Alberto called out, looking over at Lance, who rolled his eyes.
The bartender, unaware of the backstory, quickly poured the drinks. Alberto handed over five dollars.
“Two-fifty each?”
“What else?” Alberto said as he took a sip. The glass had three ice cubes, making the drink go down smoother.
Even without ice, gold-label had a decent flavor, but people in the Federation were just used to having it cold.
Lance took a sip and studied the drink in his hand.
He had sold this whiskey to Mr. Pasreto at eleven dollars a bottle, and now it was being served here at $2.50 a glass. What kind of profit margin was that?
A 750ml bottle could pour about eleven glasses, give or take. At $2.50 per glass, that’s $27.50 in sales.
That’s about $17 in pure profit—a 150% markup!
He raised an eyebrow. For the first time, he truly felt how the Prohibition had created massive profit opportunities for gray-market businesses.
“How many bottles do you sell in a night?” Lance asked curiously.
The bartender looked at Alberto, who nodded. Then he leaned in and said quietly, “Not sure yet—maybe fifty or sixty bottles? We just opened.”
“But even if business slows a bit later, we should still sell thirty or forty a day.”
That’s 400 to 500 glasses. This was the Bay Area—full of people with money.
As long as the bar stayed appealing, $2.50 per drink was nothing to these folks.
That meant this one product—gold-label Napol whiskey—could bring in over a thousand dollars in pure profit per day.
Even with a drop-off, they’d still make five to six hundred a day—over ten thousand a month.
Add in all the other drinks, including beers that cost 10–15 cents outside but sold here for 50 cents, and the nightly profit could run into the thousands.
For the first time, Lance had a clear, visceral sense of just how profitable an underground bar could be.
“Regret it?” Alberto asked, seeing Lance deep in thought. “Honestly, I’m shocked by the profits too.”
“You know I’m juggling hundreds of thousands in business every day, scared of any little slip-up. I’ve been losing hair from stress. And how much do I make from all that?”
“But look at this…” He gestured around the room, scanning the crowd before locking eyes with Lance. “These people spend dollars here—some even tens of dollars—every single night.”
“It’s insane!”
Lance nodded. It really was crazy.
Alberto leaned in. “Opening a bar is more profitable than almost any other business right now.”
Lance pondered. “But we can’t replicate this easily. Mr. Pasreto has social connections in the Bay Area. People are willing to come here and spend money. If we tried this in the Empire District or the Port District, how many people could afford a $2.50 drink?”
“Plus, we wouldn’t find a space this large, and the local police wouldn’t turn a blind eye to our operations.”
“This needs more thought. But yes—it’s profitable, no doubt.”
Only seeing thieves feast but not their beatings is shortsighted.
Right now, many people were focused on how much profit this bar brought Mr. Pasreto.
But they ignored the cost of maintaining his connections. Sometimes, even if you had money, the people you wanted to pay wouldn’t accept it—because at a certain level, people don’t take just any money.
Many bars were set up in cramped, dangerous basements with poor ventilation.
How many wealthy patrons would go to such places for fun?
With few alternatives, this bar’s success was inevitable.
It was like those terrible snack stalls in alleys—everyone knew they tasted bad, but they still had business because there was no better option.
But once someone offered better food of the same type, those stalls would lose customers. Bars worked the same way.
Lance believed that once better-connected bars opened in the Bay Area, the flow of customers would change, and business wouldn’t be as good.
How much would be left then? It was anyone’s guess—maybe a lot, maybe very little.
Alberto mulled over Lance’s words and agreed—they made sense. So they stopped discussing business and turned their attention to the entertainment.
From Lance’s perspective, the bar had room for improvement—like the shortage of women.
Of course, that was understandable. Nighttime was dangerous for women, especially in bars.
Most women went home before 7 p.m. Even streetwalkers left by 8 to avoid random beatings.
So most women here were either brought by male companions or hung around the stage—none of which encouraged broader spending.
You had to create a sense of “chance encounters” to shift guests from buying “just one drink for myself” to “two drinks—one for me, one for her.”
Whether they thought with their brains or their junk, this would double sales.
But Lance said nothing. The cheaper something is, the less people value it.
Only what’s hard to get and earned with effort becomes truly cherished.
The bar’s second floor had private rooms—about 4–5 square meters each, with a sofa, a round table like a mini-stage, and a door.
A red light outside indicated whether the room was occupied.
These rooms were for bosses who didn’t want to mix with the crowd downstairs—people like Jason, who once had “fun” at the bottom of Angel Lake.
Lance noticed that nearly all the red lights were on. Occasionally someone left, but someone else quickly went in and turned on the light again.
After watching for a bit, Alberto pulled Lance along to stir things up. They picked the most crowded stage and started tossing coins.
Whenever someone tried to grab the dancer’s attention, Alberto would throw more money—causing some drunk patrons to compete with him!
The urge to be the “biggest spender” often overpowered even the alcohol. With both combined, Lance soon saw a few high rollers throwing bundles of bills.
They balled up paper money and tossed it at the dancers—only bills though.
Someone had tried that with coins once and got beat up by security.
After stirring the crowd, Alberto slipped away—what a bastard!
The bar had a great atmosphere. Lance had two drinks—about four ounces total, over 120 ml.
Maybe it was the ice, but he barely felt the alcohol at first.
About 40–50 minutes later, he finally felt a buzz…
Morning sunlight streamed through the window. Lance stretched in bed and turned to go back to sleep.
He had come home a little after 11 p.m., and even then the bar was still lively. Alberto had stayed there and offered Lance a place to crash, but he declined.
Not because he disliked Alberto—he just didn’t want to get too familiar with his crowd. That could get him labeled as “one of Mr. Pasreto’s people.”
He didn’t want to be anyone’s man. He wanted to be his own man—to become a banner, not a follower.
His last memory from the night was Ethan helping him up the stairs. After that, everything was blank.
His eyes suddenly flew open. He looked down and saw he was only wearing underwear—he rubbed his head in alarm.
Hopefully… it wasn’t Ethan who undressed him…
(End of chapter)