Over dinner, Pierre made sure to express his gratitude for the dinner.
"Monsieur. Pierre," Zhu said hurriedly,
"it's I who should be thanking you!
You trusted me — you gave me business.
I can't ask for more."
For Zhu Yihai, who had barely made ends meet recently, today's earnings were nothing short of miraculous.
At Corville's, he'd earned a fifty-dollar commission. At Anastasia's, another fifty.
One hundred dollars — more than the average American factory worker made in a month.
Even U.S. soldiers only earned about fifty dollars a month — and that was enough to lure thousands of "rednecks" from rural towns to fight overseas.
One hundred dollars in a day — Zhu could hardly believe his luck.
Of course, he couldn't help dreaming: if only every day could be like this.
"Mr. Zhu,"
Pierre said, setting down his chopsticks,
"If you don't mind me asking... What's your typical monthly income?"
He had bigger plans now.
He needed someone trustworthy to manage operations in America — not just lurking around Chinatown but running a real company.
Originally, Pierre had no suitable candidate in mind.
But Zhu's reliability and attitude today had impressed him.
Maybe he wasn't the sharpest, but he was steady, and steady was gold.
Zhu thought for a moment, then answered honestly:
"To tell you the truth, sir… you know how it is for us.
It's hard to find work here. During the Great Depression, white employers always hired whites first. I graduated from high school, but there were no real opportunities — just odd jobs here and there.
When the war started, I thought about trying for factory work — but seamen kept coming to Chinatown to sell goods, so I stayed. Business was patchy. Enough to survive, but not much more."
There was no need for embellishment. The truth spoke clearly enough.
"I'm planning to open an import-export company here in New York,"
Pierre said calmly.
"Would you like to work for me?"
Zhu blinked in surprise.
"Sir — you want to open a company?"
"Why not?
I'm not just planning to deal in cigarettes. Other goods too, eventually having a company would make everything smoother."
A proper company…
Zhu's mind raced.
An office job?
Wearing a suit and tie?
That was exactly the kind of life he'd always dreamed of — respectable, stable, legitimate.
Still, practical questions had to be asked.
"If I worked for you, what would my responsibilities be?
And... the salary?"
Hope shone in his eyes, but he remained cautious.
"Simple,"
Pierre said.
"You'll handle daily operations.
Procure goods as I instruct.
Manage inventory at the warehouse.
Later, as we grow, we'll hire more people.
As for salary..."
He thought back to the help-wanted ads he'd seen earlier that morning.
"Eighty dollars a month, plus bonuses if the business does well."
Zhu lowered his head, considering it carefully. After a moment, he looked up and nodded firmly.
"Mr. Pierre, thank you for this opportunity. I won't let you down."
Pierre smiled.
He hadn't doubted it.
The pay he offered was fair — better than most — and more importantly, Zhu had the right kind of loyalty he needed.
Of course, in America, starting a company wasn't just about renting an office. You needed to file legal paperwork.
The simplest way was to find a lawyer to handle it.
That afternoon, Zhu Yihai ran around town, visiting lawyer after lawyer. But every door slammed shut.
Because he's Chinese.
"Honestly," Zhu said when he returned, "it's better now than it was a decade ago.
Back when I was in high school, even black students wouldn't sit next to me.
If it comes to it, we can try finding a black lawyer — or just register the company ourselves."
Just as he finished speaking, a young man approached their table.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said politely.
"My friend and I were dining nearby. We couldn't help overhearing — are you in need of a lawyer?"
He smiled warmly.
"If you don't mind, I can help.I'm licensed to practice in both New York and across the United States. If you trust me, I'd be honored."
Just when Pierre was struggling to find help,someone appeared out of nowhere — and not just anyone:a Chinese man.
Pierre's eyes narrowed with cautious interest.It was commonly said that Chinese clients rarely needed legal services.But even rare clients could bring opportunity.
"You're hired," Pierre said without hesitation."No discounts. You'll be paid full New York rates."
He glanced at the man sitting at the neighboring table."Mr. Zhang, why not invite your friend to join us?"
Zhang hesitated, looked back, and received a small nod.
They walked over.
The other man wore thick glasses and had a reserved, academic presence.
Zhang gave a brief introduction:"This is my friend, Yuan. He works at a research lab."
Pierre nodded politely, but didn't dwell on it.Titles and institutions didn't matter — results did.
With Zhang's help, the company registration went through quickly.In just a day, the paperwork was done.
While Zhu handled office and warehouse arrangements,Pierre spent the following days exploring New York's commercial scene.He mapped out supply chains, market gaps, and wartime shortages.
By the end of his tour, his head throbbed.
"Not as simple as I'd hoped…"
Comparing rationed goods between Britain and Americarevealed a harsh truth:Britain's needs were severe,but few American goods were both desirable and allowed for export.
There wasn't much to send back to London that would matter.
C'est compliqué…
As he mulled things over at a diner,his eyes drifted across a newspaper on the table.
At first, nothing stood out.Then something caught his eye.
He leaned forward, scanned the column, flipped through a few more pages —cross-referencing headlines and dates.
Then his fingers froze. His pulse spiked.
He slapped the table.
"I've got it!"