The boss looked at Lance with a satisfied but condescending smile. “Unless you want to make me angry, you’d better get back over there and wipe that floor again.”
For capitalists who hire and exploit illegal workers, guilt over oppressing them would never even cross their minds; if it did, they wouldn’t do it in the first place.
Anyone who could call themselves a capitalist, or even a budding one, had to get over any pangs of conscience to start.
The two of them locked eyes for a moment. Lance raised his hands and backed up a couple of steps, saying, “Whatever you say, sir.”
The boss was pleased with this response and nodded with a grin. “I like it when you call me ‘Boss.’ Keep doing that.”
“As you wish, Boss.”
With that, the boss, thoroughly satisfied, let him go. “Now get out of here!”
Expressionless, Lance grabbed the mop he had just hung up and picked up a bucket to go fetch hot water, when he noticed the apprentice peering out at him from the back room with a smug look on his face, as if mocking Lance.
Lance met his gaze, but the apprentice didn’t back down, staring right back at him.
“I only have to pay him three bucks this month, but you—you’re stuck paying him ten!”
The apprentice seemed ready to retort, but Lance didn’t give him the chance. “In my hometown, we have a saying: ‘Good dogs don’t block the road.’”
The apprentice instinctively took a step back, though his face immediately flushed red with anger.
Ignoring the curses behind him, Lance headed for the boiler room.
The bakery’s large oven wasn’t an electric one or a standard household appliance. It was a massive wood-burning oven, continuously stoked with firewood. To make the most of the heat, there was a copper pipe inside.
The pipe held water, which heated up and sent steam through a pipe connected to the base of another large water tank, heating the water inside.
This three-hundred-gallon tank was filled at four in the morning and boiled by around eight, maintaining a steady ninety degrees throughout the day.
To save on cleaning supplies, the boss insisted Lance use this nearly boiling water for mopping.
Not only did hot water clean up oil stains and clumped bread crumbs better, but it also dried faster, allowing the boss to save a fair amount on detergent costs.
So, with a bit of extra effort, Lance started scrubbing the floor he’d just cleaned.
Over the next couple of days, Lance silently endured the boss’s harassment. For now, he needed a place to stay.
Leaving was easy enough, but where would he find food or a place to rest? He figured he’d leave once he found a more stable solution.
As for the exploitation and mistreatment?
He’d make sure to pay it back. He wasn’t the type to swallow his grievances quietly.
That weekend, at around ten in the morning, the bakery was bustling with customers.
Since the Federation introduced a two-day weekend policy a few years ago, more people had time to enjoy their weekends.
They’d go out for a trip to the suburbs or a meal, and even the poorer folks in the lower city had more opportunities and choices for weekend activities. ꭆÂNo͍βƐṦ
Sweating from head to toe, Lance kept working non-stop.
Just as noon approached and the customer flow began to thin out, the bell above the door jingled as two men entered, both wearing shirts, vests, and flat caps.
They looked to be in their twenties with a hint of menace about them, and their sharp gazes could cut like knives, making anyone uneasy.
In the corner, the boss quickly moved over to the cash register. The two young men walked up to him with casual, confident strides, and one of them took off his hat, pinching the brim as he held it toward the boss.
Without hesitation, the boss pulled out a stack of cash from the register, counted out fifty bucks, and placed it in front of them.
“Add ten dollars; the rate’s gone up,” said the shorter man, his face stony.
The boss looked like he wanted to argue but eventually stayed silent, counting out another five two-dollar bills.
The taller man put his hat back on, casually grabbed a twenty-five-cent loaf of bread, and left with a grin, tossing a quick goodbye at the boss.
Perhaps it was because Lance had seen the boss’s softer, almost submissive side that his once docile and pitiable face twisted into a mask of rage.
“How long are you planning to just stand there?”
“Can’t you see all the work that still needs to be done?”
“Remember what I told you—don’t make me keep yelling at you, or you’ll regret it!”
Seeing the boss fuming with shame and anger, Lance just smiled and got back to work.
Today seemed to be an unlucky day for the boss—not that he was injured, but his luck was clearly not great.
Around one in the afternoon, during the bakery’s quietest time, the doorbell rang, stirring the dozing Lance awake. The boss and his daughter were already on their lunch break.
Despite being so overweight, they still insisted on napping. Perhaps that was part of why they were so fat.
The newcomers were two police officers, dressed in sharp, well-fitting uniforms. Their silver-gray badges gleamed brightly in the well-lit room.
“Gentlemen, how can I help you?”
“We’ve got freshly baked donuts, double-sugared.”
“If you buy a box, we’ll even throw in a free cup of coffee.”
The free coffee was made from the cheapest ground coffee beans, which cost a dollar for six pounds. During processing, many beans got crushed and sieved out.
The intact, larger beans sold for the highest price, while the lowest-grade beans, mixed with roasted twigs and bean shells, went for a buck per six pounds.
Despite the quality, customers rarely noticed the difference. As long as the coffee wasn’t too bitter and came with a freebie, they’d happily drink it.
Seeing no other customers around, the chubby officer turned the “Open” sign to “Closed” and took up guard at the door.
The tall, skinny officer made himself comfortable in a chair. “Where’s Johnny?”
Johnny was the boss’s name, and Lance nodded toward the back room. “He’s napping.”
“Go wake him up and tell him an old friend’s here to see him.”
Lance felt no attachment to the bakery and could tell these cops were here to cause trouble. He was more than happy to watch the boss squirm.
He promptly went to the break room and knocked on the door. It wasn’t long before the boss’s cursing echoed from inside, and about two minutes later, he yanked the door open, his face full of rage. “Is someone dying, or what?”
“Don’t you know skipping a nap ages you faster?”
“If you don’t have a good reason for disturbing me, I’ll dock two dollars from your pay!”
Lance waited until the boss had finished venting his anger, then pointed over his shoulder. “An old friend is here to see you. He’s a police officer.”
The boss’s expression shifted from anger to unease in an instant. He patted down his clothes as if considering retreating back to the room but ultimately decided to face them.
It was clear he wanted to avoid this.
When they returned to the main room, the officer was already enjoying a piece of bread. He’d taken the most expensive loaf and opened a pack of premium ham, savoring his meal with a surreal calm.
It was like… this wasn’t his true face.
A police officer shouldn’t be sitting in a bakery’s dining area, savoring a meal slowly and politely during what appeared to be work hours.
“The bread’s good, and the ham’s high quality. You’ve got the best skills in the area,” the officer remarked, stuffing the last of the bread in his mouth. He chewed a few times, swallowed, and then pulled out a handkerchief, carefully wiping away any remaining crumbs or grease. “Time to pay this quarter’s dues.”
The boss, speaking with a rare hint of humility, completely lacked the loud, imposing tone he used with Lance or the apprentice. “Isn’t that supposed to be next month?”
January, April, July, and October were the “protection fee” months. Not that they called it that, of course—it was an “insurance fund” that went to the police chief in the area, who ensured their safety.
If someone robbed a shop, the police would try to catch the thief and return the money, but only if possible.
So far, there’d been at least thirty thefts and robberies on this street alone this year, with not a single person caught.
Some whispered that the cops had actually nabbed the culprits but kept the money for themselves.
Some shop owners had tried resisting but quickly faced retaliation. Their stores were broken into repeatedly until they resumed paying the fees—and often had to pay even more.
In the end, they had to comply to run their businesses in peace.
The officer tilted his head, looking at the boss. “I’ve kept you all safe for years, which held back my career.”
“But now I’ve got a good opportunity. If it works out, I’ll be promoted to the district office.”
“But I’m a little short on cash to make it happen. You won’t make things difficult for me, will you?”
The boss’s lips twitched, but in the end, he chose not to argue. “I’ll get it for you.”
The officer’s face broke into a bright smile. “I knew you’d understand. Once I’m in the office, I’ll make sure the gangs don’t bother you anymore.”
Not that anyone believed it.
A short while later, the boss returned with two hundred bucks. Perhaps Lance’s presence offered some reassurance, as the boss hadn’t sent him away.
The officer counted the money, mostly in ten- and twenty-dollar bills, finishing quickly.
“Another two hundred, for half a year’s payment this time.”
The boss’s face twisted in shock. “There’s never been such a rule!”
The officer placed his soiled handkerchief on the table, looking directly at the boss. “There is now.”