"Ben, how about here?" Charlie Lee pointed to the northwest corner of Zone 22, across the bank of the river.
"18th block—check to see if there's suitable land there," Ben replied, gesturing for his assistant to look into it.
The sound of a cabinet drawer being pulled open filled the room, and within three minutes, the detailed information Charlie had requested was placed in front of him.
This was the kind of efficiency Charlie valued in his think tanks. In an era where most relied on handwritten notes, such rapid results were nothing short of groundbreaking.
Charlie scanned the document, his eyes gliding over the key points until his finger pressed firmly on one spot. "Here," he said decisively. "Opposite the public park. Contact the government and the local community committee. I'll fund the construction of a bigger park with better facilities for them, but only if they provide the land. After all, this is for the children's education."
Charlie's apparent altruism masked his true intentions. While he didn't mind investing in a park, the idea of forfeiting prime land didn't sit well with him. He wasn't one to squander opportunities. The park could coexist with his plans for building schools, serving as a contribution to American education while aligning with his business interests.
As for the families currently residing across the road—fifty in total—their relocation wouldn't be a significant hurdle.
"I think you should meet Mayor William about this," Ben interjected cautiously.
"Is he here again?" Charlie asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes," Ben said, struggling to describe the mayor's unfortunate predicament.
Once a man of influence, Mayor William Dover had seen his reputation wane. During the aftermath of the Capone incident, his name had shone brightly, associated with restoring law and order in Chicago. Yet, those days of glory were now long gone, his achievements forgotten in the face of the Great Depression.
These days, public attention revolved around jobs and economic stability—domains in which Charlie Lee excelled. The mayor's prior supporters had grown indifferent, leaving him to fade into obscurity.
Charlie harbored no ill will toward William's pride in his past achievements, but arrogance came with consequences. In Charlie's world, success required pragmatism, not hubris.
"Talk directly to the planning bureau," Charlie said dismissively. "If they raise any issues, consult Yevich. There's no need to bother Governor White about this."
Returning to his office, Charlie noticed a bodyguard whispering something to the monk standing at the door. Moments later, the bodyguard left, and the monk approached.
"Boss, it's confirmed—cerebral palsy," the monk said softly.
Charlie's tense expression eased. "Good," he murmured. The diagnosis would leave a lasting impression on young Mr. Thomas. Without the shield of overindulgent parents, the boy would hopefully learn to navigate life more thoughtfully.
Turning his attention to other matters, Charlie recalled the black youth who had recently crossed paths with his associates. His curiosity piqued, he picked up the phone and dialed Paul's office.
"Paul, anything interesting happening in the ghettos near Chicago?" Charlie asked casually.
Paul froze, his mind racing. Was the boss probing for a mistake he'd made?
"Boss, I…I don't quite understand what you mean," Paul stammered nervously.
"Really?" Charlie's tone grew colder, sending a shiver down Paul's spine.
"Boss, I swear I haven't done anything wrong," Paul blurted out, his voice quivering. "I only took $2,000 to support a working student… She's like a goddaughter to me. I just wanted to help her finish her studies…"
Charlie's grip tightened on the receiver as he processed Paul's frantic confession. A "goddaughter"? More like a thinly veiled excuse.
"You're telling me you've been playing godfather without inviting your actual boss?" Charlie scoffed inwardly.
"What about your dividends?" Charlie asked, shifting the conversation.
"I… I don't think you ever mentioned anything about dividends," Paul replied hesitantly.
Charlie was taken aback. It seemed he'd neglected Paul's financial compensation. While Paul had absolute autonomy in his role, his fear of overstepping had prevented him from addressing the matter.
"In the future, you'll receive 5% of the profits from the beverage division," Charlie decided. "I'll inform the think tank."
Paul was stunned. Five percent of the profits from a booming division like beverages was no small reward. With Tsingtao Beer dominating markets across the Midwest and beyond, the monthly profit was nearing a million dollars. Paul's new share would secure him a fortune.
After expressing his gratitude, Paul shared updates on the recent altercation in the ghettos.
"We warned the local black gangsters to steer clear of Chicago," Paul explained. "But one kid—a cocky one on crutches—refused to back down. He even said, 'If you want us gone, you'll have to kill us all.'"
Predictably, the gang's small pistols were no match for Paul's team and their Chicago Typewriters. The boy had his leg broken in the skirmish, leaving him bedridden.
"That should be enough of a lesson," Charlie said, hanging up the phone.
He hoped the incident would humble the boy and steer him away from a dangerous path. A return to arrogance would only end in tragedy.
Meanwhile, Molly returned from Country Y with 43 Ivy League graduates in tow. They formed the core of the future education team for Dewey School.
After a simple welcome ceremony, Charlie outlined their responsibilities, explaining that they would begin work the very next day. Though abrupt, no one objected—starting early meant earning early.
The opening ceremony for Dewey Gold Coast College was a grand affair. Charlie invited every newspaper reporter in town, ensuring that the media coverage was extensive. The once-quiet Gold Coast brimmed with activity, its streets lined with luxury cars.
Chicago's elite attended in droves, including prominent figures like Lawrence, Jonathan, Aiken, and Samuel. Even Yevich made an appearance, lending significant prestige to the event.
"Samuel, how have you been?" Charlie greeted the older man warmly.
"I'm doing well," Samuel replied with a smile. "When you're passionate about your work, energy comes naturally."
Samuel bore no resentment toward Charlie. The Great Depression had stripped him of his pride, but Charlie's acquisition of his business empire had spared him from financial ruin.
In another timeline, Samuel might have faced public disgrace and financial collapse. But under Charlie's leadership, he found stability and purpose.
"You deserve a reward," Charlie said thoughtfully. "I'm investing in several properties on the Gold Coast. I'll set aside a mansion for you—a sea-view home with plenty of space."
Samuel's eyes widened with gratitude. "Thank you, Charlie."
"No need for thanks," Charlie replied. "You've earned it."
The two shared a brief conversation before Charlie was pulled aside by Aiken.
"Charlie, do you have a moment to talk?" Aiken asked.
"Of course," Charlie said, leading him to a private room.
Samuel watched them go, a sense of satisfaction washing over him. For the first time in years, he felt optimistic about the future.