The morning sun reached Allen's basement through the back window, casting a faint light into the dark space.
Allen got up and lit the oil lamp, making the basement brighter and illuminating the neatly arranged tin plates and tools on the workbench.
He was preparing materials for Mr. Gable's new order, his movements unhurried, as if everything from last night was just an insignificant nightmare.
Mrs. Hudson's deliberately light footsteps could be heard on the stairs.
"Mr. Allen?"
Her voice carried a trembling concern.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson."
Allen looked up, a calm smile on his face, "The milk today seems richer than usual."
Mrs. Hudson looked at the young man before her; despite impending disaster, he was as composed as if discussing the weather.
Her worry deepened.
"Child, listen to my advice," she couldn't help but say.
"Those people… they are not businessmen, they are beasts. You can't fight them. Why don't you go hide with relatives for a while? Or just leave New York altogether?"
"I don't have any relatives left, Mrs. Hudson," Allen's tone remained flat, "And my business is here."
"But…"
"Please don't worry, Mrs. Hudson," Allen interrupted her, his eyes showing a composure unbefitting his age, "I assure you, I won't bring any trouble to you. Whatever sounds you hear today, please stay upstairs and lock your door. This is just a business negotiation."
Mrs. Hudson wanted to say more, but seeing Allen's undeniable gaze, she could only let out a sigh.
She knew nothing she said would be of any use now.
This young man had his own ideas, a stubborn confidence.
She left the breakfast and then departed, filled with worry.
Allen quietly ate his breakfast, then he took the Colt Navy revolver from its hiding place.
He carefully checked it once, then placed it under a cloth beneath the workbench, within easy reach.
After doing all this, he picked up his tools again and continued cutting the tin, as if the approaching visitors were not a group of fierce thugs, but ordinary business partners.
Around ten in the morning, a series of heavy, disorderly footsteps stopped outside the door.
"Thump! Thump! Thump!"
The knocking was rough and forceful, carrying an undeniable intimidation.
Allen put down his work, wiped his hands, and calmly walked over to open the door.
Five or six men stood at the doorway, completely blocking the already narrow stairwell.
The leader, about thirty years old, wore a rather respectable black coat for the time, leaning on a walking stick with a silver snake head at the top.
His face was somewhat pale, his lips thin, and his eyes, like a snake's, were long and cold.
This was the leader of the Viper Gang, "Viper Murphy."
"Presumably, you are Mr. Allen Williams?"
Murphy had a fake smile on his face, but there was no hint of amusement in his eyes.
"That's me. You must be Mr. Murphy."
Allen's gaze calmly swept over Murphy and his several subordinates behind him; all of them looked menacing, their hands in their pockets, clearly carrying weapons.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Williams. I hear from my men that you're running a very good business here."
Murphy tapped the ground lightly with his snake-head cane, "I've always admired smart young men. Won't you invite us in for a sit?"
"The place is humble; I'm afraid it can't accommodate so many distinguished guests."
Allen stepped aside, allowing only enough space for one person, "However, if it's just you, Mr. Murphy, you are most welcome."
Murphy's eyes narrowed.
This kid is interesting.
Facing such a lineup, he could still remain calm, even taking control of the conversation's rhythm.
He gestured for his subordinates to wait outside, then he, alone, leaning on his cane, walked into the basement.
As soon as he entered, he smelled the lingering aroma of stewed meat.
His gaze swept over the large pot, over the neatly cut tin plates, and finally rested on the oddly shaped "seaming machine."
As a gang leader who had spent years on the streets, he immediately realized that the things in this workshop were unlike any he had ever seen.
"Mr. Williams, you truly are an eye-opener."
Murphy tapped the machine with his cane.
"Is this your secret weapon for getting rich?"
"Just some small tricks to make food last longer, Mr. Murphy," Allen said noncommittally, pulling over a wooden stool, "Please sit."
Murphy sat down unceremoniously, placing his cane on his lap, his snake-like eyes locking back onto Allen's face.
"Alright, Mr. Williams, let's skip the pleasantries. I'm here today to discuss a 'collaboration' with you."
He deliberately emphasized the word "collaboration."
"I'm listening."
"It's very simple."
Murphy's smile became playful.
"You do business in this neighborhood, and we, the Viper Gang, are the order of this neighborhood. We can guarantee that no one will come to bother you, no thief will dare to visit your workshop, and no other gang will dare to collect protection money from you. But in return, we need a small share of your business profits."
"Sounds fair," Allen nodded, "So, how much is this small share you're talking about?"
Murphy held up five fingers.
"Fifty percent," he said lightly, as if stating an insignificant number.
"Fifty percent of all your profits. Just give it to us, and you can earn money here in peace, no one will disturb you."
Allen did not answer immediately, and the basement fell into a dead silence, with only the oil lamp's flame flickering gently.
Murphy enjoyed this silence.
He had seen too many people turn pale and tremble after he made this offer.
He liked to watch his prey struggle before him.
However, Allen's reaction once again surprised him.
There was no fear on Allen's face, not even anger, just an expression of deep thought.
After a while, Allen slowly spoke.
"Mr. Murphy, isn't your offer a bit too high for my small workshop?"
"Oh? Is that so?"
"Of course, I'm just a small businessman starting out, all my money is invested in raw materials and tools. You see," Allen gestured around, "I don't even have a decent helper. Right now, my profits are almost zero. If you take fifty percent, I'll have to close down."
Murphy, however, sneered at this.
"Williams, don't play games with me. Do you think I don't know how booming Mr. Gable's grocery store business has been these past few days? The money you make in a day is probably more than what my brothers here earn in a month."
"That was just good luck, only the first few batches of goods," Allen's tone seemed very sincere.
"Mr. Murphy, I respect you as the strongman of this neighborhood. How about this, we change our cooperation method. I currently give you five dollars a week. When my business grows bigger, we can discuss profit sharing again, what do you think?"
Upon hearing "five dollars," Murphy laughed as if he had heard the funniest joke of the century, roaring with laughter, doubling over, even his snake-head cane trembled.
His subordinates outside heard the laughter and joined in with a burst of guffaws.
"Five dollars?"
Murphy finally managed to stop laughing, tears almost streaming down his face, "Young man, are you trying to appease a beggar? Five dollars probably isn't enough to buy the matches to burn down your workshop!"
His face instantly darkened, and his voice became like the cold of winter.
"Williams, I'll give you one more chance. Either accept my terms. Or I guarantee that before dawn tomorrow, this precious workshop of yours, along with you, will turn into a pile of charcoal. You know, in Five Points, how common an accidental fire is."
A naked threat, without any disguise.
The air in the basement seemed to freeze.
Allen lowered his head, seemingly engaged in a fierce internal struggle.
His shoulders trembled slightly, looking as if he had been completely defeated by this ultimatum.
Murphy watched him triumphantly, waiting for his submissive answer.
"Alright…"
Allen's voice was hoarse and weak, full of resentment, "Mr. Murphy, you win."
He looked up, his face filled with 'humiliation' and 'helplessness'.
"Fifty percent… fifty percent it is, but I need time. You know, Mr. Gable just placed a large order with me, and I must complete this order first. Only after I receive payment can I give you the first share."
"How long do you need?" Murphy pressed.
"A week. No, five days," Allen gritted his teeth, "In five days, I will definitely have the money ready."
"Very good!" Murphy stood up, a victorious smile returning to his face.
"I like smart people like you, who know when to bow their heads. Remember, I will come personally to collect the money in five days. Don't disappoint me."
He patted Allen's shoulder with his cane, as if comforting his new pet.
"A pleasure doing business, Mr. Williams."
With that, he and his men swaggered away amidst arrogant laughter.
The basement door was closed again.
Allen, who had been "trembling" moments ago, slowly straightened up.
The humiliation and helplessness on his face instantly vanished without a trace, replaced by an extremely cold calm.
He walked to the workbench, picked up the cloth covering the gun, and gently wiped away non-existent dust from his hands.
Five days.
He had bought himself five precious days.
"Collaboration?" Allen muttered to himself, a cold curve appearing at the corner of his mouth.
"Mr. Murphy, you will soon understand that I never collaborate with scoundrels."