The Paper Trap
“I’m Agent Miller from the IRS.”
Facing the investigators from the Internal Revenue Service—or rather, the Special Intelligence Unit (SIU), a team so feared that even the Joker would tremble—my impression was as follows:
“Thank you for coming such a long way. But… I must say, you didn’t bring as many people as I expected.”
Standing before me were three men in ash-gray coats, including the agent named Miller. Compared to my past life, where I imagined a swarm of prosecutors descending for a raid, stuffing every document and computer they could find into plastic bins, this was a rather pathetic showing.
“We are here for basic preliminary research today. Three is enough.”
Perhaps he read the nuance in my voice, as Agent Miller’s brow furrowed slightly. Three wouldn’t be enough, not by a long shot.
“The Chicago weather is still chilly. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee? We have quite a lot of material to show you, so it’s going to be a long day.”
“I’ll pass on the coffee.”
Was my reaction different from what he expected? Agent Miller’s brow twitched at the blunt rejection of my hospitality. Our company’s coffee is actually quite good; their loss.
“We have very serious questions regarding the amended income tax returns submitted by you and Mr. Alphonse Capone from 1924 to 1927, as well as this company called Standard Chemical Company (SCC). From now on, you will answer all of our questions honestly.”
I don’t know if he came prepared to be aggressive or if my earlier comment had rubbed him the wrong way, but there was a fair amount of force behind his voice. Well, this much was expected. My father-in-law, Al Capone, held the glorious title of Public Enemy No. 1, and in that situation, I and the newly emerged SCC were likely seen as the weak point that could finally take down a boss who refused to die no matter how many times they tried.
“Of course. Please, ask me anything. Although, the returns and evidence we submitted were prepared quite diligently.”
“There are quite a few suspicious points, considering that.”
With those words, Agent Miller pulled out a document as if he had prepared it in advance, reading it with his eyes as he continued.
“First of all, who is the anonymous investor who invested a whopping 1 million dollars in Mr. Lee?”
As expected, he’d ask that first. I smiled at the agent, who was scanning me with sharp eyes, and replied.
“We don’t know that either.”
I have no idea.
“…Are you giving me that as an answer? If you refuse to answer, we have no choice but to charge you with tax evasion.”
Agent Miller glared at me with an expression that said, ‘You’re in trouble now, you bastard.’ But in the face of his threat, I just shrugged with a regretful look.
“But it’s the truth. I would also like to know who this grateful investor is, but unfortunately, the shares issued under the contract terms are bearer shares. It’s written in the copy of the contract we submitted together—did you not check it?”
“Do you think that’s going to work on me…?”
Now, this part wasn’t my territory. I turned my head and signaled to Attorney Ahern. He understood my meaning immediately and stepped forward.
“As stated in Article 7 of the contract, this investment agreement stipulates that bearer-style shares be issued to the investor, and they are not to be recorded separately in the shareholder register. There is no legal issue with this content.”
If this were the 21st century, it would be nonsense that would land me in handcuffs immediately, but this is 1929, where it’s legal to feed morphine-laced syrup to an infant. In an age of savagery where there isn’t even a Securities Exchange Act, let alone a way to stop bearer shares where you don’t even know who the shareholder is, it is strictly legal.
Of course, there was the minor issue that the stock hadn’t even been issued in 1924—the date we—falsified—as the investment period. But the great state of Illinois showed mercy, allowing SCC, which had acquired ‘Jun Lee Consulting,’ to retroactively issue old stock as long as we paid the back taxes and provided a reasonable bribe.
“…Then, what on earth did that investor see to invest a massive sum of 1 million dollars in your company? Isn’t this just a front to turn Mr. Capone’s illegal income into legal money?”
And Agent Miller, unable to say anything to the word ‘legal,’ changed his target back to me.
Yes, I’ve been waiting for this moment.
THUD!
“What is this again?”
When I threw a heavy stack of documents onto the table, the agent hurriedly began to read the cover of the file.
“Methyl… meta? Synthetic resin?”
Not that he would understand it even if he read it.
“This is the patent application we submitted along with the amended tax return. To put it simply, it’s a patent for a method of making plastic as transparent as glass.”
I smiled and began to explain to Agent Miller, who was scanning the application with a look that suggested he couldn’t tell if it was English or French.
“Before the investment, it was a substance that could barely be synthesized at a laboratory level, but the investor recognized the potential of this technology and gladly invested a large sum. And after several years of research, the production method was established, and we are filing for a patent now.”
“So, are you trying to tell me that this piece of paper is worth 1 million dollars?”
“It might even be worth 10 million or 100 million dollars.”
I wasn’t joking. The company that actually developed this raked in billions of dollars in royalties and related products from this technology. There was a reason I had targeted this technology after the temporary fix of dry-cleaning detergent.
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“Whether it’s nonsense or not seems to be a matter for the Patent Office to decide, not the IRS.”
I smiled at Agent Miller, who was still looking at the patent application with a confused expression, and the two agents behind him, then moved on to the main game.
“So, when will you check the documents? I’ve already prepared them in advance.”
“…Let’s take a look for now.”
I led the IRS investigators, who were looking at me with expressions of ‘Could this really be true?’, to the document warehouse in the corner of the factory.
And.
“…This is…”
Literally, faced with the mountain of documents piled up before them, they couldn’t keep their mouths shut. These were the documents that Gu-jik, Ahern, and my ink-stained organization members had prepared for a month.
“That’s why I was worried. It would be troublesome for our company if you overworked yourselves and collapsed.”
“…In accordance with the authority of an investigator, we will use this place as a temporary office for a few days. Until then, you must control access to this place, and you must respond to our calls at any time.”
“As you wish.”
Yes, go ahead and bury yourselves in the paperwork. You won’t find what you’re looking for.
Four days passed. The IRS investigators were still occupying the document warehouse, becoming one with the paper. In the meantime, they occasionally called me in when I came to work to ask a few formal questions, but their eyes, consumed by the curse of the infinite paperwork, had already lost focus and were turning into dead fish eyes.
The documents would be far too clean, so that was inevitable. Besides, it wasn’t like we were saying we wouldn’t pay taxes; we even said we’d pay extra. At this point, they couldn’t help but think, ‘Are these guys actually trying to pay their taxes?’
By next weekend, they’d probably be exhausted and leave on their own. And in the meantime, I had work to do.
“Mr. Lee, as you said, I have acquired two abandoned breweries of appropriate size.”
Gu-jik, who had entered the president’s office, began his report by taking a few contracts out of his briefcase.
“The costs were originally 120,000 dollars and 80,000 dollars respectively, but when I mentioned the Boss’s name, they suddenly cut the price in half.”
“They are very generous people.”
To be precise, it was likely a forced injection of generosity via a ‘Tommy Gun,’ but I kept that to myself.
“How is the condition of the internal facilities?”
“They were in good enough condition to start brewing immediately. It will take some time to equip the refining facilities you mentioned, though.”
“That’s fine. I’ll look into that part myself.”
“However…”
It was then that Gu-jik looked at me with a curious expression.
“What do you intend to do with these brewing facilities? Surely, you aren’t planning to make alcohol out in the open.”
“Of course not. Ah, I suppose I will be making something similar.”
“If you say something similar…”
“Have you heard of acetone?”
The next step in this money-laundering-cum-chemical business I had created out of desperation was polymethyl methacrylate, a transparent plastic commonly known as acrylic.
“No, I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s the basic raw material for the substance that SCC will be producing from now on. It’s made using a principle similar to beer.”
“Ah, so that’s why you needed the breweries!”
“Yes. Once we finish remodeling the facilities to suit production and obtain the fermentation strains from the Illinois Agricultural Experiment Station, we’ll be able to produce it within a few weeks.”
In truth, the strains themselves couldn’t be compared to the improved strains of giant chemical companies like DuPont that existed in this era, but that level of difference could be overcome to some extent if we selected well and adjusted the environmental conditions appropriately. Well, it didn’t matter if the production volume lagged a bit for now.
“And with this, I’m going to starve the North Side bastards.”
“If you say starve…”
“The raw material for acetone is similar to alcohol.”
Actually, considering that ethanol also comes out as a byproduct in the manufacturing process, it wouldn’t be much different from just making alcohol. And.
“The North Side bastards, their main business is beer, isn’t it?”
“Th-that is correct. It is thanks to them acquiring quite a few breweries in the north.”
If we, the Chicago Outfit, used low-priced hooch distilled from industrial alcohol as our main source of income, the North Side’s main bootleg products were high-end whiskey imported from Canada and beer they produced themselves. They used a method of acquiring breweries that produced non-alcoholic beer or medical alcohol and then selling real beer on the side. Thanks to that, they were preferred by the middle class with deep pockets, which was the reason the North Side gang could hold out against the Chicago Outfit’s bootleg monopoly. Not for much longer, though.
“So, we will also use industrial barley as our material.”
“Barley… you say?”
“To be precise, we have to pretend to use it. So that no one suspects us even if we buy as much as we want.”
Industrial barley is mainly used to make malt. And malt is an essential ingredient that gives beer its flavor. In other words, it was no exaggeration to say that their lifeline was in barley. What I was trying to do was cut that lifeline.
“I will lease a few grain warehouses and continue to buy up industrial barley in SCC’s name at the Chicago Grain Market.”
“Then…”
“In about three weeks, the price of barley will probably be higher than the price of beer.”
And that day will be the funeral for the North Side gang.