The destruction of the Viper Gang was a seismic event in the stagnant waters of the Bowery District, the ripples from which were far from settled. Overnight, the name Felix Argyle and his canned goods became a legend, the hottest topic of discussion on every street corner.
Within a month, this fame brought not only widespread awe and a flood of massive orders but also a chilling sense of crisis in Felix's own heart.
In the cramped basement, Mr. Gable excitedly waved a long list of orders. "Argyle, look! The entire Bowery District, even neighboring blocks, want your canned goods! You've struck gold, kid, you've really struck gold!"
Felix took the paper. He saw the considerable profit behind every number, but he also saw the immense operational problems.
"Mr. Gable, thank you for your help. But you know that with my current production capacity, even if I worked day and night, I couldn't complete a tenth of this order." He gestured around the dim, cramped space. "This is a starting point, but it can never be a factory. It's too small, too vulnerable, a simple heavy rain or an official inspection, and my business would grind to a halt. My lifeline can't be built on such fragile ground."
Gable's initial excitement cooled. He was a shrewd businessman and immediately grasped the deeper implication of Felix's words. "You mean… you're moving?"
"Not moving, sir," Felix corrected, his voice hardening with quiet resolve. "It's about building an industrial foundation. I need a real home for the brand 'Argyle', a sturdy, spacious, permanent place that can accommodate all my ambition." Gable was stunned; he had profoundly underestimated the young man's goal of establishing a true factory, not merely a larger shop.
That afternoon, Felix left production under the temporary supervision of Miller and Jones. He changed into a newly purchased, decent woolen coat and walked into a well-known land agency office downtown.
"Good afternoon, sir, how may I help you?" a sharp-looking agent enthusiastically greeted him.
Felix presented his card, simply marked "Argyle & Co. Foods" "I'm looking to purchase a property for a food processing plant."
The agent's eyes flickered with recognition. "Mr. Argyle! The hero from the papers, it's an honor. Are you looking for land or an existing factory?"
"An existing brick and stone structure, preferably," Felix stated, listing his requirements. "It must be fortress-sturdy, large enough for at least fifty simultaneous workers, with independent storage, and have convenient transport, preferably near the East River docks for raw materials and export."
"Very clear requirements," the agent noted. "But a factory meeting all those conditions won't be cheap."
"Money isn't the issue, as long as the price is justified." Felix's calm tone held undeniable confidence.
"I have a property that might be perfect. It's the former 'Nolan Steel' blacksmith factory on the East River." The agent explained that the owner, Mr. Nolan, was desperate to sell due to financial collapse. "The price is low because it's a 'hot potato', too large and too sturdy for normal buyers, and the cost of converting the massive cast-iron blast furnace is high. But this seems to perfectly match your need for safety and space."
Felix's interest peaked immediately. "Take me to see it."
Standing before the abandoned factory for the first time, Felix was captivated. The place was practically a small fortress. Massive, three-story red-brick walls, etched by time, tightly enclosed the area. Heavy double iron gates secured the entrances.
Inside, the internal space was cavernous, much larger than he had imagined. Sunlight streamed through dusty, huge skylights, illuminating high ceilings and massive pillars. There were independent brick structures for offices, staff dormitories, and a colossal warehouse.
Perfect. This was the tangible foundation of the industrial empire he envisioned. He stood in the silent, steel-scented space, closed his eyes, and imagined the roar of machines and the aroma of countless canned goods.
Masking his satisfaction, he turned to the agent. "This place is adequate. Let's look at others."
Back at the basement, Miller reported the offer. "His initial offer was three thousand five hundred dollars, sir. But he admitted three thousand dollars is negotiable for a cash buyer."
"Three thousand…" Felix traced the fortress walls on his sketch. His cash on hand, profits and prepaid deposits, totaled $2,462.
"Sir, perhaps we could rent a larger space first?" Jones suggested.
"No." Felix's answer was instant. "Renting means putting your lifeline in someone else's hands. My business cannot be built on sand. I must own this factory."
He ordered Miller to arrange a meeting with Mr. Nolan and his lawyer the next morning.
The following day, Felix arrived alone. He needed to play the role not of the guarded "hero," but of a calm, rational entrepreneur.
In the reception room sat old Mr. Nolan, haggard, wearing a suit that was once fine.
"A can-making kid wants to buy my factory? Quite the big talker." Nolan grunted, turning away.
"Mr. Nolan, I deeply admire what you built." Felix's tone was sincere. "Nolan Steel was once the most dazzling jewel on this riverside. Its structure was full of strength and foresight." These words, honoring his life's work, softened the old man's expression.
The agent quickly pushed the negotiation. "Mr. Argyle, our proposed three thousand dollars is already very reasonable."
"Three thousand dollars?" Felix smiled and shook his head. "It's worth five thousand, ten thousand. It carries the lifelong efforts and dreams of an entrepreneur. Such a thing is priceless."
Old Nolan stared, momentarily swayed.
"However," Felix's tone turned cold and rational. "We are not discussing dreams, but business. Mr. Nolan, with all due respect, you face bank collection notices, unpaid wages, and sleepless nights. What you need is not an inflated offer, but a solution that can immediately resolve all your problems."
He took out a heavy cloth bag from his briefcase, opening it to reveal a stack of banknotes and gleaming gold.
"Here are one thousand five hundred dollars," Felix's voice was clear. "Cash. Not a bank draft, not a lawyer's guarantee. Cash that can be yours immediately."
The agent gasped. "One thousand five hundred?! Mr. Argyle, you are insulting us!"
"Please calm down, sir." Felix kept his gaze locked on Nolan. "Reject my offer, and you must wait for the next buyer. During that time, your debt interest will snowball. Your creditors will lose patience and force a court auction."
He pressed the psychological wound. "An auction may fetch four thousand, but the auction house takes commission, the court charges fees, and your lawyer takes his slice. How much will actually fall into your pocket to solve your urgent needs? Will it be even less than this one thousand five hundred dollars?"
Old Nolan's face was ashen. Felix was speaking the naked, brutal truth of commerce.
"What I'm giving you is not just one thousand five hundred dollars," Felix persuaded. "It is liberation. Sign this contract, take this money, pay off your most pressing debts, and start a new life."
The old magnate raised a trembling hand, silencing the agent. Felix knew it was time for the final, decisive move.
"Mr. Nolan," he stood and bowed slightly. "I know that factory is like your child. I promise you this: a plaque will forever hang above the main factory building's gate."
"What plaque?" Nolan asked, hoarse.
"Nolan Hall." Felix said the name, word by word. "Your name will be reborn with this factory. Your hard work will become the cornerstone of a new empire's rise."
The appeal to dignity shattered Nolan's last defense.
"Alright…" Nolan closed his eyes, exhaling half a lifetime of weariness. "Mr. Argyle, two thousand dollars, and it's yours." It was the old entrepreneur's final, desperate attempt to salvage five hundred dollars of pride.
"Deal!" Felix did not hesitate, immediately pulling the remaining five hundred dollars from his briefcase and placing it on the table. "I had it ready for you."
The shrewd land agent stared at Felix as if he were seeing a monster. This young man had calculated the financial bottom line, the emotional pressure points, and the exact final counter-offer. It was a complete psychological conquest.
As old Nolan, clutching the two thousand dollars in cash, walked out of the office, his figure was desolate. Felix, holding the deed, felt no joy of victory. He knew he had utilized the most brutal commercial principles to "kill" a predecessor.
He walked out and looked up at the New York sky. The foundation had been laid. On it, using steel, steam, and the sweat of countless people, he would build his first palace.