Tonight's banquet, despite its glittering facade, was emphatically not held for the Van der Linde Gang. They were mere, albeit fascinating, accessories. As they descended into the opulent ballroom, Mr. Norton Lemieux, ever the master of ceremonies, stepped forward to preside over the grand opening.
Subsequently, the true luminary of the evening emerged: a middle-aged man, around whom a frantic constellation of socialites, their faces contorted into masks of fawning adoration, immediately converged. Even Bronte, surprisingly, joined the orbit, his booming, self-satisfied laughter punctuated by an occasional, well-placed Italian expletive that only he understood.
This middle-aged man was the undisputed king of tonight's court: Rhodes Brown. He was the Saint Denis branch manager of J.P. Morgan's commercial bank, the legal representative for all of J.P. Morgan's interests in Lemoyne, and, as of roughly five minutes ago, Saint Denis's newest, most formidable dignitary. His power stemmed entirely from his position, yet no one, not even the most hardened cynic, dared to underestimate him.
After all, Mr. Cornwall himself needed Rhodes for the colossal loans required to tear new oil fields from the earth and lay endless miles of railway, ensuring his colossal wealth remained liquid. J.P. Morgan's bank specialized in this: loaning money to titans so they could perpetually circulate their wealth, shielding them from any unforeseen financial apocalypse.
Thus, Rhodes Brown, this freshly minted bank manager, could ascend to the highest echelons of society on the sheer, undeniable weight of his title alone.
"Oh ho ho, Mr. Brown, you are truly a man of such courage! We simply must interact more in the future…"
"Hahaha, Mr. Brown, rest assured, we all understand precisely what Miss Camille means…"
"Mr. Brown, about that… loan of mine…"
The men at the banquet swarmed Rhodes, their faces a grotesque pageant of sycophancy, while the women, in stark contrast, clustered around the Van der Linde ladies.
"Oh! My dear lady, where on earth did you procure this dress? Oh, this gown is simply too beautiful, I…"
"Excuse me, lovely ladies, I simply must inquire about the enchanting garments you are wearing…"
The banquet buzzed with an almost manic energy, upright, unflappable service personnel gliding constantly through the throngs, their trays laden with an endless stream of drinks and delicate delicacies. Mary-Beth, Jenny, and Karen, bless their wild hearts, had cornered a table laden with tiny cakes, giggling, exclaiming, and shoveling pastries into their mouths with unrestrained glee.
Meanwhile, Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, John, Charles, and Marko had retreated to a secluded lounge area, a small island of rough-hewn practicality amidst a sea of silk and false smiles. Mary and Ms. O'Shea sat beside Arthur and Dutch respectively, choosing the company of their men over the delightful chaos of the three younger women.
Hosea watched the three girls occasionally dash to the tables, their eyes alight as they sampled the exquisite food. A soft, beatific smile touched his lips. Once, he, a mere swindler, a thief, an exiled desperado, could only dream of being a guest at such a high-class banquet. It felt like a waking dream. What truly filled him with quiet joy, however, was the undeniable truth that Dutch's reckless gamble had been the correct path, leading them towards a future he couldn't even have dared to imagine.
"So, Dutch," Hosea murmured, his voice low, a flicker of concern in his eyes. Arthur, John, and Charles, sitting close by, leaned in, their attention sharpening. "Is our identity truly… safe now?"
"No, Hosea," Dutch replied, a wry twist to his lips, shaking his head slowly. "It's only temporarily safe. In reality, these damned scumbags are perpetually plotting how to squeeze every last drop of profit from us. But I do believe we'll be fine, at least until Bronte completely collapses." He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. It was good news, after all. For now, they still served a purpose.
Dutch, ever the pragmatist, couldn't quite fathom the logic of these people: bringing in an "over-the-river dragon" to crush a "local snake." If the local snake was indeed crushed, wouldn't the over-the-river dragon simply become the new, more formidable local snake? He suspected, however, that these social parasites harbored the audacious idea of profiting from both sides, watching the two beasts tear each other apart.
"I think these upper-class gentlemen want us and Bronte to fight to the mutual destruction, then they'll swoop in and benefit from both sides," Dutch speculated, a cruel glint in his eye. "Swallowing us to gain fame and profit, and eating Bronte to elevate themselves even further. Divide and conquer...A classic scheme, isn't it, Hosea?"
Arthur, listening intently, pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and offered one to Dutch and the others. Hosea, a hint of genuine worry clouding his face, pressed, "Oh, Dutch, what then? What should we do?"
"Don't worry, Hosea," Dutch declared, a booming laugh erupting from him as he clapped Hosea's shoulder, making the older man wince slightly. "We'll develop, step by glorious step. Whether it's Bronte or these Saint Denis elites, their schemes, their petty little tactics, are all played within their own rules.
Have you forgotten our true identity, old friend? We are desperados, Hosea! Any one of them—Bronte, the Lemieux families, all of them—if they truly push us too far, we can simply leap out of their so-called 'civilized circle' and deal with them using our rules! I think when a few Saint Denis families are annihilated, they'll learn to behave!" He winked at Arthur, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Oh, Hosea," Dutch continued, his voice dripping with playful scorn, "you've lived a few civilized days, and you've already forgotten who we were just weeks ago? Hahahaha…" Dutch's booming laughter filled their corner, his eyes twinkling as he watched Hosea's worried expression slowly melt away, replaced by a dawning comprehension.
And just like that, his teasing, though sharp, pulled Hosea back from the precipice of self-doubt. Yes, all of Hosea's recent anxieties stemmed from misplacing their position. The recent surge of the Van der Linde Gang's success had unconsciously led Hosea to impose restrictions on himself.
He'd begun to harbor concerns, his thoughts becoming constrained, losing the free-thinking, unburdened spirit he'd once shared with Dutch. This was the root of his constant fretting. Now, with Dutch's brutal clarity, he finally realized it, and the excessive worries simply evaporated.
"Alright, Hosea, stop worrying about things that don't need worrying about. We have far more important matters to attend to next." Dutch's voice took on an almost evangelical fervor, his eyes scanning the faces of his inner circle.
"Molly," Dutch called out, though she wasn't present, speaking as if dictating to the air itself. "Our clothing store officially opens the day after tomorrow. You will personally invite all the Saint Denis noblewomen you've charmed during this time. Additionally, our clothing store needs to hire a new batch of female workers to manage the front; we'll recruit new workers tomorrow."
"And Arthur," Dutch turned to his enforcer, a serious, commanding tone now in his voice. "Go to the Saint Denis City Government's entrance and see if there are any Indians gathered there. Mr. Lemieux wants me to… evict the Indians from their reservation, so I need you to establish contact with these tribes first. I'll come personally later. Remember, boy, do not antagonize them. If all goes as expected," Dutch paused, a sly, almost wicked grin spreading across his face, "they should be our employees in the future. Just imagine, Arthur, a whole tribe of expert hunters, excellent with guns and bows, all on our payroll! What could go wrong?"
Then, Dutch's gaze settled on Marko, his eyes gleaming with a manic spark. "And Marko, my dear friend, we might need your boundless scientific research skills to develop some truly useful gadgets for this… relocation effort. Perhaps remote-controlled bombs? Or something that can be controlled from the ground, like a ship, allowing it to carry bombs, and also be highly concealed. I heard Europe already has 'automobiles'; perhaps we can construct something based on their design! Or, even better, we could utilize the principles of hot air balloons to research some controllable, miniature hot air balloons that can carry bombs! Oh, Marko, I believe in you, my friend! You're brilliant, but just a little insane, which is perfect for us!"
Dutch stood, raising his glass with a flourish. His eyes swept over his loyal, slightly bewildered crew. "Gentlemen, the day of the Van der Linde Gang's official, glorious advance has arrived! I hope you can raise your spirits, and contribute your own unique strength to our bright future!"