I’ll Hire Everyone
A pall of pale dust filled the car window.
At the end of the unpaved road, I could see the entrance to Salmon Pink Bird Eater Company’s headquarters.
The mining company had been founded in the 1920s and had once been one of the pillars of East Coast gold extraction.
But seventy years later, all that remained was a bankrupt shell.
It was called the headquarters, but if you were imagining a glass tower in Manhattan, you’d be badly mistaken. This was a field office bolted to the mine itself, a cluster of rusting steel-frame warehouses and grease-stained maintenance sheds—a working base, nothing more.
That was the true face of the company headquarters.
In the middle of the Wishville abandoned mine district, it was such a backwater that you had to drive forty minutes just to reach the nearest town.
For six months now, the workers—who hadn’t seen a paycheck in half a year—had been holding the headquarters hostage and digging in.
I frowned at the stench wafting through the window.
Far off, on the horizon in several directions, black columns of smoke from burning tires were rising into the sky.
Along the rocks lining the entrance road, slogans scrawled in red spray paint hijacked my attention.
-KILL THE LIARS
-GIVE ME MY MONEY
-WE HAVE FAMILIES TO FEED
.
.
At the front gate, they’d thrown up a barricade of oil drums and barbed wire, and I could see the back gate welded shut with steel plate.
The workers’ appearance was as rough as you’d expect.
Oil-soaked coveralls, baseball caps pulled low in place of hard hats.
The steel pipes and monkey wrenches in their hands gleamed blood-red under the sun.
The eyes of the men who hadn’t been paid in six months were fixed on us.
The hulking man at the head of the protest lifted a bullhorn to his mouth.
“Get lost! You suit-wearing frauds! What kind of bullshit are you pulling this time!”
I knew his name from the file.
Armstrong Coleman.
He was a veteran field supervisor who had worked for thirty years after graduating from Colorado School of Mines.
In the photo stapled to his file, he’d looked like an elite type, with a side-parted hairstyle and horn-rimmed glasses. Out here on site, though, he looked like a macho brute, all beard and muscle.
His voice, amplified through the bullhorn, boomed all the way into the truck I was riding in.
“We waited six months! If you didn’t bring the money, turn the damn trucks around right now! Or I’ll turn that fancy sedan into scrap metal!”
Stones started flying.
Rocks aimed at Vito’s Ferrari and Soren’s Lincoln.
But for some reason, not a single stone came flying toward the truck I was driving.
Driving a truck does have its perks.
Thanks to that, I was able to pass Vito and Soren’s cars safely and pull up close to the protesters.
They’re all furious.
From the expressions on their faces, I could read rage, despair, and hatred for the capitalists who’d put them here.
And the scale of that anger proved just how desperately they wanted this workplace back.
Clunk—
I opened the door and stepped out.
Every eye in the crowd turned to me.
Instead of some sly corporate predator or an old lawyer who’d come to negotiate, it was a Korean-American boy in a loose hoodie and jeans—probably not what they’d expected.
Even Armstrong, still gripping the bullhorn, seemed to lose his words for a moment and just gaped.
“······?”
“······?”
“······?”
The site, which had been full of curses and the metallic clanging of drums, fell into silence.
All that could be heard was the crackle of burning tires.
Armstrong lowered the bullhorn.
“What the hell? Who’s this kid······? You lost, boy?”
There was still suspicion in his voice, but the murderous edge had been replaced by bewilderment.
The workers behind him started murmuring too.
“Isn’t he a student? Look at his face. He’s just a kid!”
“Hey, don’t throw rocks! What if you hit him by mistake?”
“Is he the boss’s son? Looks like he took a wrong turn.”
“Maybe he ran out of gas. Fill him up with a can!”
Under their stares, I walked right up to Armstrong and stopped in front of him.
He was a full head taller than me, a mountain of a man.
Then I pulled the thick document envelope Vito had prepared from inside my jacket and got straight to the point.
“Hello. I’m Lee Sanha, the new owner of Salmon Pink Bird Eater Company.”
“?”
Armstrong opened his mouth in disbelief.
“New······ owner? I heard the ownership had changed to an Asian guy, but you mean this brat? You’re kidding, right? What the hell is this stunt?”
“All right, let me be direct.”
I kept my eyes on Armstrong as I continued.
“Legally speaking, I have no obligation to pay your back wages. I only acquired the assets. There’s no reason for me to take on the previous management’s debts.”
“Ha. Look at this kid, talking like he knows anything about—”
“But I do intend to pay the full amount. Right here, right now, in cash.”
“!”
Armstrong and the workers around him all widened their eyes.
I gave a faint smile.
“Still think I’m some clueless kid?”
“No······ seriously? You’re paying all the back wages and severance? In cash? If it were that easy, we wouldn’t be standing around like this······”
“Everything in this truck is cash.”
“!”
I opened the truck bed and pulled out one of the oil-stained sacks of flour.
Inside was a dense pack of crumpled bills, stuffed so full the paper was practically bursting.
Money earned from selling untaxed gasoline and diesel.
“······.”
Armstrong’s expression went blank for a moment.
“Th-this is the money we’re getting?”
“Yes. And one more thing.”
I looked over all the laborers gathered there and went on.
“The moment payment is complete, I intend to guarantee 100 percent employment continuity for everyone here. I’ll also raise base pay by ten percent.”
“······.”
A heavy silence fell over the site.
The offer was so outrageous that it was hard to believe.
“What is this? Does that make any sense?”
“No way. Something’s fishy.”
“Feels like a trap. Unless that Asian kid is up to something······”
Armstrong asked in a voice full of suspicion.
“What’s the catch? There’s no such thing as a free lunch. What do you want from us? Union busting? A cut in minimum wage? Don’t take us for idiots, kid boss.”
“I’m the idiot here, then, spending money I’m under no legal obligation to spend like water.”
“I asked what you want.”
There was still no trace of hostility gone from his voice.
That was when I stated the condition I wanted.
“I’m going to reopen the abandoned mine in Wishville.”
“!”
“It’ll take months to hire new people, train them, and get everyone working smoothly. I don’t want to waste that kind of time. Time is money. I need experienced workers who know this terrain better than anyone and can handle the machinery like it’s part of their own bodies.”
“That’s us!”
The gaunt laborer standing next to Armstrong blurted it out before he could stop himself.
I swept my gaze over his oil-smeared hands, over the calluses on his palms, then over the rough hands of every man standing behind him.
For a moment, each of them felt like my own father.
“Exactly. That’s why I said 100 percent employment continuity. Because I plan to develop the abandoned mine in Wishville.”
“······.”
Armstrong and the workers looked at one another.
Their faces held the same expression—a look of people who couldn’t tell whether they were dreaming or awake.
On their weathered features, hardened by six months of struggle, something like hope began to spread.
Then I added,
“Of course, there is one condition.”
“······.”
Armstrong fell silent, as if he’d known it was coming.
A bead of cold sweat slid down his rigid face.
Every worker’s gaze fixed on my mouth.
“The condition is······ what exactly······”
Before Armstrong could even finish the question, I answered immediately.
“Clear this protest out. Fast. You need to be back to normal operations by next week at the latest. If you can have everything cleaned up by the end of this week, I might even be able to issue a special bonus······”
“Are you fucking kidding me!?”
No sooner had I finished than Armstrong and every worker around him burst out laughing in relief.
“If that’s all, no problem! Damn it, we’ve been sitting on our asses for six whole months! We’re so restless we’re about to lose our minds!”
Armstrong spun around and shouted at the men behind him.
“Hey! You hear that, all of you? The new boss wants to get to work! What the hell are you waiting for—move those signs already! Bring the drills! Bring the torches! Tear down the barricade and fill in every damn trap!”
At once, everyone on site threw down their signs and bullhorns.
“Woooooah!”
“We’re finally working! Finally!”
“For the first time in six months! Six months!”
“We’re getting our back pay! For real!”
I motioned to them.
“I’ll hand out the cash behind the truck. Please consult with my accountant about the back wages and severance, and then have your attorney draw up the payment acknowledgments.”
The money being distributed was greasy, crumpled black-oil cash, but it was still money all the same.
Every transaction would be formally documented with payment acknowledgments notarized by Vito and Soren.
Besides, because the money was being paid out from the company’s “reserved cash” that the tax office knew nothing about, it made for an excellent way to launder black money.
And later, once the company’s finances were stable and transparent, I could claim tax deductions using those acknowledgments. One stone, two birds.
If I’m going to be generous, I might as well take care of my own interests properly too.
As I shook hands with each worker one by one, I continued what amounted to a site-wide employment transfer.
With cheers rising all around, the workers began moving at once.
The savage protest scene transformed into a work site in the blink of an eye.
The signs covered in curses were fed to the flames, and the steel pipes in men’s hands became brooms and dustpans.
Heavy equipment rolled in to dismantle the barricades and fill the traps.
The eyes of the men who had been on the verge of becoming rioters returned to those of loyal laborers.
Then Armstrong adjusted his helmet and came over to me.
“Boss.”
He snapped a salute in front of me, grinning from ear to ear.
“I’ll have the road cleared in thirty minutes—twenty, if I push it. Then I’ll give you a tour of the company from the inside.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Chief Armstrong.”
“!”
From foreman on site to chief engineer, his promotion within the company had just been made official along with his employment continuity.
When he heard the implication in my words, Armstrong’s eyes turned red at the rims.
But he didn’t say anything. He just turned around and barked at the others.
“The boss wants to take a look inside the company! Move, move, move!”
It was also the voice of a man waking up the abandoned mine of Wishville, which had lain dead for decades.