Chapter 362:
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What is an era?
What is the spirit of an era?
What is the pulse of an era?
These are complex, difficult questions—ones that no one can answer in a single sentence or even a few brief words. An era is too vast, too intricate to distill into something so simple.
The lives of the wealthy reflect one facet of an era; the lives of the poor mirror another. No individual can grasp every detail, every nuance, every shift within their time. It's impossible.
If someone were to ask Lynch this question, he wouldn't offer them theoretical musings. Instead, he'd tell them to hop on a bus headed for the poorest district from the busiest street in town. On that ride, they'd see it—the essence of the era, its contradictions, its truths, all laid bare.
Here, at this exhibition, it was much the same.
The kaleidoscope of humanity before him gave Lynch a peculiar sensation. It felt as though he had been peeled away from the world, untethered somehow. Perhaps it stemmed from the fact that his soul hailed from another reality altogether. Standing there, he observed the myriad expressions flickering across people's faces—the cunning glint in the eyes of con artists, the weary resignation in the gaze of inventors. Each face told a story, each person carried a fragment of the whole.
This… this was the era.
"Mr. Lynch," came a voice, interrupting his reverie just as he was about to take another step toward philosophical enlightenment.
He didn't bristle at the interruption. Turning around with a smile, Lynch regarded the speaker as if the entire world had momentarily become his backdrop.
It was the young stockbroker from earlier—the one who hadn't spotted Mr. Truman nearby and had wandered over instead.
"Mr. Lynch, you seemed interested in the radio reconnaissance array I mentioned earlier?" the broker asked enthusiastically.
Lynch studied him carefully, head tilting slightly. "Forgive me for being blunt, but my next question might make you uncomfortable. Can you tell me how much money you earn in a month selling these stocks?" He glanced briefly at the promotional flyers clutched in the young man's hand.
The broker hesitated, then began calculating mentally.
Ah, yes—the inventor, desperate for funding, had poured out every last penny he could spare. Even the emergency stash tucked away under his mattress went into the pot. Twelve hundred bucks, handed over to the brokerage firm like lambs to slaughter.
The company promised to issue sixty thousand shares, raising twelve thousand bucks. But what the naive inventor didn't realize was that those twelve hundred bucks weren't merely commission—they were profit margins cleverly disguised. Once the cash hit the company coffers, cheap machines churned out sheets of paper masquerading as stock certificates. These "small yellow sheets" weren't worth twenty cents per share, as the inventor believed. No, they were marked up to thirty-five cents apiece. Twenty cents went back to the inventor (to keep him placated), ten cents fattened the company's pockets, and five cents sweetened the deal for salespeople like the eager young broker standing before Lynch now.
If all the shares sold, the company would rake in twenty-one thousand bucks. After paying out the promised twelve thousand to the inventor, three thousand would land squarely in the broker's lap.
Three thousand bucks—is that a lot?
Only a fool would ask such a question. Ninety-five percent of the population would say yes, without hesitation. But not every broker managed to unload their full quota of small yellow sheets. Some struggled more than others.
Women, especially certain types of women, often excelled at this game. They ditched phone calls altogether, opting for face-to-face charm offensives. With a smile and a handshake, they could move even the toughest inventory—and rake in the highest commissions.
As for the man before Lynch? His earnings likely hovered closer to... "A thousand bucks, Mr. Lynch."
There was a hint of pride in his voice, but his darting eyes and the way he shifted his weight betrayed him. He wasn't making anywhere near that amount. In better days—back when farmers thought nothing of sinking feed money into speculative ventures—he might have pulled it off. But not now. This month, he'd barely scraped together eighty-one bucks and ninety cents.
And if he failed to clear his current batch of small yellow sheets by June 30th—the end of the month—the company wouldn't hesitate to show him the door, handing his clients over to fresh-faced recruits. Young women, eager to prove themselves.
Faced with Lynch's inquiry, the broker lied—not out of malice, but out of desperation. A fragile ego, a refusal to be looked down upon by this peer-turned-titan, prompted the fabrication. Eighty bucks sounded pitiful compared to the grandeur radiating from Lynch, so he inflated the figure, settling on something impressive yet plausible.
Lynch nodded noncommittally. "I have a business partner," he said, leaning back slightly. "Even his smallest dividend check dwarfs your current income."
He was talking about Richard, of course. Richard thrived in this cutthroat world, mastering the art of extracting wealth from clients' wallets and funneling it straight into both his and Lynch's coffers. Whether through holiday gifts, raffles for discount vacations, or relentless schmoozing, Richard kept his clientele loyal—and his commissions flowing.
Though he didn't always snag the top sales spot, Richard remained unmatched in skill and strategy.
Lynch's words left the broker silent, a faint stirring of unease rising within him. The man hailed as the "young leader of a new age" seemed to be circling closer, closing in on some unspoken goal.
"Would you like to work for me?" Lynch asked bluntly.
He gestured to an empty seat beside him and signaled for someone to bring cold drinks. The icy beverage snapped the broker back to attention, but he didn't jump at the offer. Instead, he posed a cautious counter-question: "May I ask why, Mr. Lynch? Why would someone like you—a titan in your field—take notice of someone like me?"
Lynch chuckled, swirling the overly sweet juice in his glass. "Have you ever seen Bupayne at five o'clock in the morning?"
The young man blinked, fragments of memory surfacing unbidden. Of course he had. To survive in this city, he'd endured nights that bled into dawn, trudging through streets slick with the aftermath of revelry, the stench of excess mingling with the hum of awakening life. Those early mornings weren't distant memories—they were his present reality.
"Yes, Mr. Lynch," he replied, nodding slowly. "But why does that matter?"
Setting his glass down, Lynch smiled. "Because hard work and courage are rewarded only when fate finds you prepared. Before we proceed, though, I don't believe I caught your name."
"Liam, sir. Liam MacDonald."
"Liam." Lynch leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening. "Look around you. There are at least a dozen other brokers here. Yet since I arrived, you're the only one who's approached me with your small yellow sheets."
"You've taken risks, fought for success. So why should fate withhold its rewards?"
"I see potential in you, Liam. Potential for greatness."
Lynch stirred his drink again, watching the ice slush swirl lazily. The frigid concoction wasn't chilled in a refrigerator—it sat atop a bed of crushed ice, ensuring it stayed refreshingly cold while masking the cloying sweetness until the ice melted. Efficient, cost-effective, and calculated—just like everything else in this city.
His gaze lingered on Liam. People still dreamed here. They still believed in miracles. And that made this the perfect era.
After a minute of silence, Lynch continued. "From the bottom rungs to where you stand now, Liam, you understand Bupayne—and this industry—better than many of the so-called ‘big shots.' There are things beyond your reach right now, knowledge you haven't yet acquired. But as my partner, you'll gain access to that insight quickly. Combine that with your firsthand experience working the trenches, and your growth will outpace anyone else's."
Lynch's words struck a chord. Liam licked his lips nervously. "If I agree to work for you, Mr. Lynch, what exactly would I be doing?"
"No, you misunderstand." Lynch raised a finger, wagging it gently. "Working for me is just a turn of phrase. You wouldn't be serving me—that wouldn't be fair. I don't believe in exploiting talent for personal gain. I believe capable individuals deserve to rise on their own merits. That's why we'd be partners."
"As for your role…" Lynch paused, letting the anticipation build. "I'm planning to purchase several trading seats. Now is the opportune moment."
Seats on the Big Three exchanges had plummeted in value. Last year, prices soared past a million per seat; today, they hovered around three hundred thousand. Lynch intended to snap up a few, preparing for future opportunities.
His primary focus, however, was futures trading. As the federal government integrated further into the global economy, fluctuations in raw material prices grew increasingly unpredictable. Political shifts, seasonal changes, military maneuvers—all could send markets spiraling wildly.
While Lynch lacked the influence to broker peace between warring nations, he knew how to stir tensions, sow discord, and incite conflict. Exploiting foreign economies was profitable enough, but bleeding domestic capitalists dry? That was the hallmark of true success in Lynch's book.
Liam understood immediately. If he had the capital, he'd buy a trading seat himself. But alas, his pockets were empty.
He nodded, ready to pledge his allegiance—but Lynch stopped him.
"Before you commit—to yourself and to me—think it over. Take some time. In the meantime," he added with a sly grin, "let's talk about that radio reconnaissance array."
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