Chapter 2: Stating the Facts

Mr. Fox had a bit of a reputation on this street. He was one of those capable people—willing to help the poor by lending them money to get through hard times.

Of course, he wasn’t purely a good Samaritan. He expected a generous return—often more than what he lent out.

Still, all in all, he was considered a good man. Maybe. Possibly. Roughly speaking.

In an underground office, Lynch met Mr. Fox—a man who looked to be around thirty-six to forty.

He wore this year’s trendy dark gray suit with red and blue dots, paired with a red-and-blue silk scarf. Not entirely formal, but quite elegant.

Before Lynch even arrived, Mr. Fox had already heard from his men about this strange young man—particularly what he’d said earlier—which sparked his curiosity.

“You’re not afraid of me?” Fox had his men push Lynch into the chair across his desk. “There aren’t many people on this street who aren’t.”

Lynch showed no fear. This kind of situation was nothing to him. He shrugged and asked, “Mr. Fox, would you hurt me?”

That made Fox pause. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t usually hurt people for no reason—but if you do something unfriendly…”

Harming others without cause is a foolish move. It damages one’s image and invites scrutiny from the Bureau of Investigation.

Most people are after money, not trouble. Mr. Fox was no different.

“Exactly. So why should I be afraid?” Lynch’s calm smile made Fox hesitate for a moment.

He glanced at his assistant, then looked back at Lynch. “But my men said you’ve been watching me these past few days. Maybe you’d like to explain that? Are you with the Bureau?”

They had already searched Lynch. Nothing on him identified him as a government agent. His clothes and demeanor didn’t match either. Fox didn’t think he was one of them.

That’s what made it interesting. The kid had been watching his business—specifically, the laundromat. Fox had looked into him. Curiosity and caution brought them here.

He wanted to know what Lynch was up to.

He took the notebook from Lynch’s pocket, flipped through it—nothing made sense. He asked his college-educated assistant, who also couldn’t decipher it.

Lynch’s cheerful smile made Fox feel… strangely unsettled. Like he was being cared for. He didn’t quite know how to describe it.

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Fox. I noticed the laundromat’s business—and some of your… inconveniences. I also assume you’ve looked into me and know my situation.”

Fox nodded. “Poverty.”

Lynch pointed at the ceiling, catching Fox’s attention before taking back control of the conversation. “Exactly. That’s why I need to get out of this financial mess quickly. I want to do a bit of business with you.”

The entire office burst into laughter—Fox, his assistant, and two thugs who clearly weren’t friendly.

Lynch waited calmly until the laughter died down—after about thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, maybe thirty-four seconds. Then he asked, “It’s not a joke.”

Fox laughed again, then asked while still chuckling, “But I don’t see what business we could possibly do…” His laughter stopped, and he frowned. “You want a loan?”

Lynch shook his head. “No. Business, Mr. Fox.”

Fox had laughed enough. His innate curiosity pushed the conversation forward. Until he either got an answer or lost interest, he wouldn’t stop.

“So, what kind of business?”

Lynch’s confident and sunny smile was disarming. “I can supply more coins—nickels, dimes, quarters, and half-Sol. Both old and new…” [Sol is the Federation’s main currency, named after its first president and founder, Sol, whose portrait appears on the bills.]

Fox’s expression darkened immediately. A glint of something dangerous flashed in his half-squinted eyes. If it had a name, it was murderous intent.

“You know what I do?” He lit a cigarette. “You’ve got guts.”

Lynch was unfazed. “If I’m not afraid of being poor, what else is there to fear?”

They locked eyes for a few moments. It seemed this Lynch guy really was fearless—and Fox was starting to get genuinely interested.

Some industries operate in gray areas. His financial business wasn’t entirely legal. Both the Bureau and the IRS were watching.

He needed ways to legitimize his cash flow without drawing attention. The laundromat was perfect for that.

No one cares where every coin comes from, nor can they trace them. Across the Baylor Federation, most laundromats were controlled by people like him.

But the problem was—too slow.

The middle and upper classes have their own washers. Only the poor use laundromats.

And the poor usually save up a week’s worth of laundry, then wash everything at once.

Fox had even introduced a new pricing model—charging by weight—but it barely helped.

You can’t force people to wash clothes daily. That would only attract the Bureau or the IRS.

And that’s what frustrated him the most—his safe was full of money he couldn’t spend.

Now this kid said he had a solution. Fox was interested. “So what’s your plan?”

Lynch didn’t hold back. There was no point—Fox would dig until he found out anyway. Better to show sincerity.

“I’ll collect large amounts of coins and sell them to you for a small fee. My profit comes from that margin.”

Fox glanced at his assistant, who whispered in his ear for a while. Then he frowned. “How much?”

Lynch’s warm smile gave Fox that strange sense of being cared for again. “Ten percent.”

“You’re insane!” Fox shouted. “I’d rather wait!”

Ten percent was too much. If the amount was a Sol, that’s just ten cents.

But when it’s a hundred thousand, or a million—it’s a painful sum.

Lynch didn’t argue. Instead, he asked a new question. “Mr. Fox, do you have a copy of the Trade Journal?”

The Trade Journal was one of the most widely circulated newspapers in the Baylor Federation, covering all seventeen states and regions. Its content focused primarily on national and international financial and economic trends, as well as local financial developments.

Throughout the series of exchanges, Mr. Fox gradually lost the upper hand. He glanced at his assistant, who nodded—confirming they had copies on hand.

Though their business wasn’t exactly proper, it was indeed closely tied to finance.

“Give me the earliest edition you can find, and the most recent one. I’ll show you who the real winner in our deal will be.”

Lynch’s firm voice and confident expression made Mr. Fox start to believe him—reminding him of when Lynch once stood before a crowd with a microphone, delivering a speech.

People had watched him, believed every word he said, and in the end, stuffed money into his pocket with gratitude.