On the night of Willard Intercontinental's grand opening, Charlie Lee spotted the Minister of Finance, who was visiting to meet with the President.
"It's often referred to as the 'Presidential Palace.' Nearly every U.S. President has stayed here at some point, including Adams, Grant, and Lincoln," the hotel's personal butler explained as they ascended in the creaky iron gate elevator.
With a poker face and a perfectly indifferent tone, the butler recited the hotel's illustrious history. Observing his demeanor, Charlie Lee silently admired him. This guy's definitely a pro—full marks for composure!
The three-room executive suite was a masterpiece of opulence. Decorated with gilded accents, fur carpets, and historical paintings casually hung on the walls, the suite exuded grandeur. Even the smallest objects scattered around had notable origins.
To Charlie Lee, who had been living in a hovel only two months prior, this felt like stepping into a palace. As Li Goudan, his former self, he had grown used to sleeping on drafty wooden boards. This was a world apart.
After a refreshing bath, Charlie felt the urge for a drink. But when he opened the wine cabinet in the reception area, it was empty.
"How can I assist you, sir?" the butler asked after being called. Hearing Charlie's request for a drink, the butler paused before replying, "What kind of wine would you like?"
Charlie felt a flicker of annoyance. Even during Prohibition, they've got ways to sidestep the rules.
The Willard Intercontinental, with its proximity to the White House, was known for catering discreetly to distinguished guests—even during Prohibition. Charlie imagined the President and the Finance Minister in the presidential suite above, sipping contraband whiskey while discussing the nation's lost tax revenue from the ban.
In the early morning, Charlie rose from his plush six-person bed, wrapped in a warm goose-down quilt. He walked over to the window, energized, and gazed at the bustling traffic below.
At breakfast, he noticed Paul, his trusted companion, looking equally well-rested. "Seems like you had a good time last night," Charlie remarked with a smirk.
"Sir, on our way out of the city, we'll pass by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Would you like to stop?" asked the driver as they set off.
"Is it significant?" Charlie asked, unfamiliar with American culture and history, both in his previous life and his current one.
"The tomb honors soldiers who died in battle. There's a ceremonial changing of the guard every hour, and a daily flower-laying ceremony. Many veterans and citizens visit—it's a deeply meaningful site," the driver explained.
Charlie's interest piqued at the mention of veterans. "Let's stop and have a look," he decided. Veterans, especially those who had fought in the Spanish-American War, were of particular interest to him. Their experience could be invaluable to his security group, Shendun Bureau.
At Arlington Cemetery, the driver led Charlie and Paul toward the tomb while the rest of their group stayed in the car.
"Don't laugh or make any inappropriate gestures during the ceremony, or you'll earn the ire of the U.S. military," Paul warned as they approached the site.
The sight of milky-white gravestones stretching into the distance filled Charlie with a sense of solemnity. As the ceremony began, he straightened up, instinctively adopting a respectful demeanor.
The changing of the guard was a precise and dignified ritual. Two soldiers, one stepping forward and the other taking his place, exchanged rifles with synchronized movements. The intensity in their eyes suggested they were exchanging not just a weapon, but a shared sense of duty and honor.
When the ceremony ended, Charlie lingered, moved by the atmosphere. Around him, citizens saluted the tomb, their expressions a mixture of pride and quiet remembrance.
A sergeant in uniform approached a group of veterans attending the ceremony, greeting each one warmly. "Charles, Jerry, Malone…" he said, embracing each in turn.
A well-dressed woman in a fur stole stepped forward, removed her hat, and saluted the sergeant. "Thank you for your service," she said, shaking his hand. The surrounding citizens followed suit, expressing heartfelt gratitude.
Watching this unfold, Charlie suddenly understood one of the secrets behind America's rise as a superpower: a culture that deeply respected its military and its sacrifices.
"Thank you for your service," Charlie found himself saying as he stepped forward to greet the sergeant.
The sergeant studied him for a moment. "Are you a new immigrant?" he asked.
"Yes, Sergeant," Charlie replied with a nervous smile.
"Thank you for your kind words. Goodbye," the sergeant said, waving as he turned away.
Back in the car, Charlie slumped into his seat, exhausted from the tension of the encounter. "Why didn't you stop me, Paul?"
"I couldn't," Paul replied innocently. "You were already walking up when I noticed."
"Forget it," Charlie muttered, deciding it was time to deal with his identity issues. His recent successes were making him careless.
Their next stop was Atlantic City, where they arrived at the famous Boardwalk. Charlie recognized the area as being near Nucky Thompson's territory.
At the Ritz Carlton Hotel, Charlie met Nucky for the second time.
"Welcome to Atlantic City. Did you have a pleasant trip?" Nucky asked, extending his arms in greeting.
"The arrangements have been impeccable," Charlie replied, impressed by the lavish accommodations.
"The dance starts at 7 p.m. In the meantime, feel free to explore the Boardwalk or try your luck at the casinos," Nucky said, signaling the end of their conversation.
On the Boardwalk, Charlie noticed the vibrant bars, many offering "drinks" despite Prohibition. However, he was wary of what might be mixed into the beverages and resolved only to drink from trusted sources.
"Boss, have you considered Milwaukee?" Paul asked as they strolled.
"Of course," Charlie replied, sensing that Paul had an idea.
"There's a struggling brewery there—Miller. With $20,000, we could acquire it along with its skilled workers, equipment, and brewing expertise," Paul explained.
Charlie had been considering entering the beer market, especially with the scarcity of beer during Prohibition. However, he was also aware of the risks. The noise of brewing machines and the scent of alcohol would draw attention from Prohibition agents eager to make arrests.
"Paul, Prohibition won't last forever," Charlie said confidently. "Perhaps it'll end this year."
Paul raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He had heard similar predictions for years, yet the ban had persisted for nearly a decade.
Still, Charlie knew something Paul didn't: the immense future potential of the beer market. He envisioned a time when beer would dominate global sales, even rivaling premium spirits.
"Buy it," Charlie decided. "Hire German and Mexican brewers and develop superior ales. Focus on both light and strong varieties."
As the car drove on, Charlie's thoughts turned to the future. He saw a golden age ahead—one where the markets, now shackled by Prohibition, would open up, and fortunes would be made by those bold enough to prepare.