It might be expected that Knuckles would share the shock many felt that the law banning Smokeless Green was ever enacted in the first place, given its dubious constitutionality. Alas, while Knuckles lacked little in the way of avarice and ambition, he lacked a great deal when it came to intellectual curiosity.
Legal matters held little interest to a man whose first job (at age eight) was to alert pickpockets to the approach of police by whistling a prearranged song, then moving up the criminal ladder to full-fledged pickpocket, and ultimately arriving at the helm of a small-time group of hoods that put rattlesnakes inside businesses who refused to pay extortion money. His whole life had been spent spitting on the law; thus, to worry himself about the tedious rules by which these laws came into place seemed to him as necessary as the study of botany would to a lumberjack.
That being said, Knuckles was quite enthusiastic when he saw the news in the paper that the substance had been banned, and he hoped he would receive a visit from Sir Charles soon. He knew better than to go to his house unannounced.
He was not to be disappointed. He was not even completely done with the article on the first page when he heard the familiar knock of Sir Charles. He sprang to his feet, not waiting for one of his toadies to answer the door, and sprinted towards it.
He opened the door with a beaming smile on his face, and for the first time he saw a genuinely warm smile on Sir Charles’ face, not the frosty polite smile he usually wore. Even his eyes smiled, though he sensed something vicious inside them.
“May we talk in private, Mr. Hathers?”
Knuckles was thrilled at the fact there was some news Sir Charles had brought besides what was already printed all over the papers; otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked to talk in private.
Once they were alone in Knuckles’ office, Sir Charles began, “All the major retailers are frantically turning over their Smokeless Green to the police or sending it back right away to their inventory suppliers to let them deal with the mess. None of them want to take the chance of having any of it on their premises, much less on their shelves. And take my word for it—any retailer brash enough to risk selling this stuff up until the criminal penalties kick in next month won’t even have the opportunity. Their shelves will be empty of Smokeless Green by tomorrow, and there’s no way any major wholesaler is going to want to risk sending out inventory that is now contraband, regardless of the fact there’s a month before the criminal penalties kick in. It could destroy the company’s reputation, and product could be subject to police seizure regardless of the fact the criminal penalties haven’t begun yet.
“Businesses are going to be kicking this stuff up the chain from which it came and will let them take the loss or bleed out money in attorneys’ fees challenging the law’s constitutionality under Article 8. What this means in simple terms is that no later than tomorrow, you could search far and wide here in the capital city and not find a single store carrying Smokeless Green openly. More distant towns and cities might take a few weeks to fall in line, but believe me—the days of going into a grocery store and picking up a bag of Smokeless Green along with your pipe tobacco are long gone.
“Now, it’s just going to be a matter of what price those who still have this substance are going to ask for it.”
As he said this, Sir Charles’ warm smile turned wolfish, and his eyes almost made Knuckles jump.
Sir Charles calmly opened up his coat and removed a tightly compressed leather bag.
“This here is a pound. I’d like to make you an offer: $6,400 falons right here, right now.”
Had any man besides Sir Charles said this to Knuckles at this moment, he would have split the his nose open with a vicious uppercut. He knew darn well that as of yesterday a pound of Smokeless Green would have cost around $100 falons. Just who exactly did this gentleman take him for—a fool?
But Knuckles had already decided that with regards to Sir Charles—for now at least—his instinct to trust the man was stronger than his instinct that this didn’t add up.
Knuckles opened a drawer and started counting $100 falon bills. Once he had sixty-four in his hand, he calmly scooted them across the table.
“Wise choice, Knuckles. I’ll give you a little free advice. Don’t sell it tomorrow. And don’t sell it the day after that. Keep your ear to the ground. Quicker than you can grow impatient you’ll learn that you can get at least $700 falons per ounce for this. You’ve just paid me $400 per ounce. That will be a seventy-five percent markup for you, which will give you a profit of $4,800 falons.
“That might seem like small potatoes to you now compared to the very well-done and very dangerous job your fine men carried out under your guidance, but believe me—it will be much easier money.” And Sir Charles flashed an evil grin.
Knuckles tried to smile but couldn’t. Fake smiles came as naturally to him as calligraphy to horses. His frown line budged a few millimeters (creating an even more disturbing scowl), but that was the best he could do.
“I won’t keep you,” Sir Charles said. “I’m sure you have many pressing decisions to make. I know I do.”
Knuckles escorted Sir Charles to the door. The moment it closed, and he was freed of Sir Charles’ menacing presence, he felt the balance of his instincts tip the opposite way. He felt sure he had been had. There was no way he could turn a profit on that green powder he’d just spent two months of pay on. He’d had it with that fancy-pants-wearing, fancy-cane-carrying, fancy-hat-sporting dandy.
Then, the balance tipped back. This guy meant business. The aforementioned pants, cane, and hat now seemed to Knuckles like a carefully selected costume donned by a wolf on the hunt. The man had put his money on the line and his trust in Knuckles when he handed him a cool $50,000 falons for the first half of a job Knuckles would have probably done for a tenth of that amount. Then, he had not only paid the second half as promised but given him a $10,000 bonus as if it were a bottle of average wine.
The more Knuckles thought about it, he felt that even in the worst-case scenario he was still coming out way on top just for the last job, regardless of whether the price of this stupid drug skyrocketed the way Sir Charles said it would.
Well, he told himself, I’ll wait and see what happens with the price. If it doesn’t do what Fancy Hat says it will, he and I will just go back to our old agreement with protection money, and leave this speculative stuff to some other fools. Surely, he’d understand that. He seems to be reasonable.