Rags to Riches

Mr. Trelawny, for all his flamboyant theatricality and a past as murky as a swamp, possessed a core of unyielding loyalty. Even when the damned bounty hunters had beaten him senseless, he'd kept his gob shut, refusing to betray a single secret of the Van der Linde Gang. Fear, perhaps, had played its part, but beneath the bluster, a genuine affection for the gang simmered. Dutch, knowing this, could lay bare his most audacious schemes.

"Actually, my dear Trelawny, I've come to you today for two paramount purposes." Dutch leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of genius and barely contained mischief. "First, to forge our own intelligence department. And second, for you, my friend, to shoulder the glorious responsibility of establishing the Veterans Mutual Aid Association!"

He watched Trelawny, whose usual debonair smirk had been replaced by a look of utter bewilderment. Dutch had yearned to build these pillars of his nascent empire for ages, but the Veteran Club, that fledgling seed, needed time to sprout, to nurture a sense of belonging among the old soldiers, to cultivate their popularity. Now, it was ripe for the picking.

"Intelligence department? Veterans Mutual Aid Association?" Trelawny spluttered, his elegant eyebrows knitting together in a bewildered knot.

"Oh, Dutch, I don't quite comprehend the meaning of your words!" He shifted uncomfortably. Damn it, how could a scoundrel like me, a man of subtle arts and fleeting fortunes, possibly establish such grand institutions?

Dutch waved a dismissive hand, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Fear not, sir. All shall be made clear as a freshly polished mirror. First, the intelligence department. Relying solely on our own limited efforts to collect information is akin to trying to catch a whirlwind in a teacup – too slow, too confined!

Not every nugget of truth, every whispered secret, can be gleaned by us alone. Some small, vital whispers are known only to a precious few. And therein, my friend, lies the very soul of our intelligence department.

"Mr. Trelawny," Dutch leaned closer, his voice dropping to a stage whisper, "this glorious assemblage of veterans, who gather here to drink and spin their tall tales all day, those who toil or beg for their daily bread, are, by God, a perfect cadre of intelligence operatives! We shall employ a bounty system.

We post the information we crave, setting a handsome price based on its value. Think of it as those shadowy information peddlers in the black market, sir, but this time, we're running the whole damn show ourselves!"

"Oh, I see!" Trelawny's eyes widened, a sudden, glorious light dawning upon his face. He slapped his thigh with an audible thwack. He understood Dutch's devious brilliance now! Who, indeed, possessed a greater trove of information than these veterans, who wandered every godforsaken corner of this land and yammered on incessantly?

They were, by their very nature, born information peddlers! Now, dangle a shiny bounty, and even if they didn't know the answer, they'd burrow and scheme and inquire with the tenacity of a starving badger, all for that sweet coin!

This, Dutch knew, would create a myriad of information channels, all flowing directly to him. And what he craved most: arms intelligence! In the future, these veterans would be his very eyes and ears. With enough money, legions would clamor to be his informants. Any whisper of trouble, any movement against him, any damn shift in the wind, he'd know it all. It was precisely how the ancient brothels, those clandestine hubs of whispers, gathered their intel.

"As for the Veterans Mutual Aid Association," Dutch continued, his voice now imbued with a messianic fervor, "that, Mr. Trelawny, is even simpler! From this day forward, you, my friend, shall diligently record the names of every veteran who seeks our help. Only those whose names grace our ledger shall be members of this glorious Association! And the bounties offered by our intelligence department? Only members shall claim them! Furthermore, the very heart and soul, the glorious signboard of this Association, shall be the noble banner of veterans helping veterans!

"Within this hallowed Association, these brave souls can secure various job opportunities and receive aid from their fellow members. We begin with recruitment quotas for our own Van der Linde Gang factories. I demand you use every practical and compelling argument to draw these veterans into our embrace, into the Veterans Mutual Aid Association! Its main tenet shall be: mutual help, unity! In other words, it is to ignite a fervent sense of belonging, a burning cohesion among these veterans, to forge them into a new, formidable force, just like those damned trade unions!

"And all, all the resources of the Veterans Mutual Aid Association shall be provided by me, Dutch Van der Linde! Whether it's job quotas, or a poor soul struck by illness needing coin for a doctor, they shall seek help from our Association! Mr. Trelawny,"

Dutch's gaze became impossibly profound, fixing Trelawny with an intensity that promised worlds,

"I trust you understand: these veterans are a vulnerable lot. If they are to survive, to claw their way to a better life, they can only achieve true power by helping each other, by uniting as one! And I, Dutch Van der Linde, am the first president of the Veterans Mutual Aid Association! Its very initiator! And their most steadfast, unshakeable backing!"

Dutch's words resonated with a double meaning, a profound depth that Trelawny, for all his cleverness, couldn't quite grasp in that moment. But Dutch had but one burning thought: to weld these veterans into a single, cohesive entity, to swell their collective voice until the very halls of the American Congress were forced to tremble and listen!

The current lot of veterans were treated like discarded trash. If he established this Association now, expanded its reach, gathering a vast legion of ex-soldiers, then his faction would be inextricably bound to them. The Van der Linde Gang would become the veteran faction! Once the Association gained renown, every veteran in the land would naturally, irrevocably, stand with the Van der Linde Gang!

Though Dutch might have to pour some coin into it initially—job quotas, financial aid—once the Association reached a certain scale and became self-sustaining, the rest would be pure, glorious profit.

His Van der Linde Gang would be forever branded with the noble mark of the Veterans Mutual Aid Association, the interwoven benefits simply beyond measure. Decades, even a century from now, should a future member of the Van der Linde Gang ever dare to run for president, every veteran's vote would be theirs! This was a goddamn act for the future!

Of course, feminism was already marked with the Van der Linde brand. Veterans were now being branded. The native Americans would be next. If he worked even harder, if he managed to brand Black Lives Matter as well, then he, Van der Linde, and the Van der Linde Gang would be invincible! The Van der Linde Gang would become the only damn faction in America! Uniting all social stratas!

Upon hearing Dutch's whirlwind of words, Mr. Trelawny, while not quite grasping the full, terrifying scope of Dutch's ambitions, nevertheless understood the immediate task. "I understand, Dutch," he nodded enthusiastically, a genuine light in his eyes. "In short, it's about belonging and unity, right? Don't you worry your head, sir, this is precisely my forte!"

Dutch nodded, a satisfied, almost beatific smile on his face. "Very good, Mr. Trelawny, very good indeed. Oh, and this, my friend, is your humble share for this month: five hundred dollars." He laid a small, heavy pouch on the counter. "A small sum for now, but it shall grow, I promise you!"

"Oh, that's enough! Dutch! That's enough!" Trelawny's eyes bulged, his jaw practically hitting the floor. He snatched the pouch, clutching it to his chest as if it were a newborn babe.

"My goodness, five hundred dollars! I wouldn't even dare to dream of such a fortune!" Five hundred dollars a month! In Saint Denis, a man might earn twenty-five at most! Five hundred dollars was the income of a king! He was practically vibrating with joy.