Meeting

After what felt like an eternity – or perhaps just ten agonizing minutes for Arthur, who was still trying to grasp the concept of being a millionaire – Mr. Norton, the very picture of refined displeasure, finally materialized on the deck. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, as if each step was a pronouncement of his importance.

"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde," he began, his voice laced with a subtle, almost imperceptible cadence, a hint of frost around the edges. "Dear Mr. Van der Linde, might I inquire as to the… pressing nature of your summons this evening?" His tone, though outwardly polite, bristled with barely concealed irritation. He clearly felt Dutch sending Arthur as a messenger was a colossal breach of etiquette, a casual dismissal of his elevated status.

One simply doesn't summon a man of my standing like a common servant! If Dutch truly had something of import to discuss, he should have deigned to appear in person, not dispatch a mere errand boy! Norton's face, though carefully composed, radiated a quiet fury at the perceived slight.

Like Signor Bronte, these gilded members of Saint Denis's upper crust had never truly taken Dutch Van der Linde seriously. From their lofty perch, Dutch was nothing more than a glorified peddler, a charlatan running a mere clothing store, and even that, they sneered, was only through the convenient connections of a woman like Dorothea. His "status," they inwardly scoffed, wasn't even truly "white" in their meticulously segregated world. This made them feel a delicious sense of superiority, a conviction that Dutch was merely a puppet to be manipulated at their leisure.

With Signor Bronte's recent, spectacular decline, their collective stranglehold on Saint Denis had tightened even further. The Saint Denis Police Department, once grudgingly respectful of Bronte's underworld influence, had now, for all intents and purposes, become their personal plaything. This newfound, unchecked power had inflated their arrogance to truly monstrous proportions.

In their minds, they commanded both the military and political levers of the city; Saint Denis was their oyster, and they could pry it open however they pleased. And Dutch Van der Linde, this upstart, this purveyor of fashion who had just recently appeared on the scene? He was simply not in their league. Not even a blip on their radar of true power players.

Even now, though Signor Bronte still clung to a few vestiges of his former influence, he was, in their estimation, no longer a threat. The only remaining "contention" was among themselves, a genteel squabble for ever-larger slices of the pie. But even those skirmishes were softened by generations of intermarriage, an intricate web of familial ties that ensured any infighting would be a slow, deliberate erosion, a polite cannibalism that might take a century before the less competitive families quietly faded into obscurity. This comfortable, predictable state of affairs had, quite frankly, dulled their collective sense of urgency.

And herein lay the insidious drawback of asymmetric information. Signor Bronte, for all his bluster, would never, in a million years, whisper to these clueless elites that Dutch Van der Linde had constructed a veritable fortress of bunkers in Valentine. Nor would he ever enlighten them to the inconvenient truth that the Van der Linde Gang possessed the chilling capability to eliminate all of them in a single, bloody night.

So, at this very moment, in all of Saint Denis, only Signor Bronte possessed even a glimmer of understanding about the true nature of the Van der Linde Gang. Everyone else remained blissfully, dangerously, ignorant.

Listening to Mr. Norton's clipped, dissatisfied cadence, Dutch merely offered a knowing smile. He turned fully to face the man, his arms spread wide in a gesture of exaggerated apology, a twinkle in his eye.

"Hahahaha, Mr. Lemieux! My sincerest, most humble apologies for my apparent rudeness! It is simply that the matter I wish to discuss… well, it is of such monumental importance, of such delicate secrecy, that it could very well send the foundations of other families, shall we say, tumbling! And for such a sensitive subject, one must, alas, occasionally resort to slightly… unorthodox methods." He winked, a conspiratorial gesture that seemed to imply a shared, delightful villainy.

"Oh?" Mr. Lemieux's eyebrow arched, a flicker of genuine interest replacing the earlier pique. "What matter could possibly compel Mr. Van der Linde to such… cloak and dagger precautions? Very well, sir, you have my undivided attention. As you can clearly see, only the two of us stand upon this rather drafty deck. Speak your mind." The scent of potential profit, like a phantom perfume, instantly cut through his aristocratic disdain.

Men like Norton, after all, valued gain above all else; they would, without a moment's hesitation, smile politely while signing their own parents' death warrants if it meant a substantial increase in their ledgers.

Dutch smiled, a slow, cunning spread of his lips. He then pulled out a cigarette, offering one to Mr. Lemieux, who accepted it with a hesitant nod. The two men stood side-by-side on the deck of the magnificent cruise ship, gazing out at the vast, inky blackness of the sea, the muffled sounds of the distant banquet serving as a strange, convivial backdrop. Dutch finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate. "Mr. Lemieux, the very bedrock of you Saint Denis nobles, your enduring power… it truly stems from your political influence, does it not?"

He was probing, testing the waters. The United States Government, at this nascent stage, lacked the meticulous, pervasive control it would later wield. Its grasp over these sprawling western territories was merely general; the true, granular power resided firmly within the local governments. Yet, this didn't imply a weakness in the federal government. The American Civil War, after all, had been fought and won, and while the United States Army's numerical strength at this moment might be ironically comparable to the online membership count of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, it was still a potent manifestation of governmental control. Moreover, with the subtle, but undeniable, backing of the British – those old, steadfast allies whose empire, as they liked to boast, never saw the sun set – the actual, underlying control of the United States Government remained formidable.

Thus, at this juncture, political power undeniably held more weight than pure, unadulterated wealth. While America's power brokers were certainly wealthy, the wealthy did not necessarily command American power. Just like these prominent families in Saint Denis, each a Senatorial presence within the Lemoyne state government. They might have used their considerable fortunes to ascend to these Senatorial positions, but once ensconced, power itself became the true, unyielding pillar supporting their families' prosperity.

So, when Dutch made his bold assertion, Mr. Norton offered no objection. He simply nodded, a tight, almost imperceptible dip of his head.

Seeing this subtle acknowledgement, Dutch continued, his voice barely a whisper, yet infused with immense weight. "If that is indeed the case, Mr. Lemieux, then the very concept of voting rights must be of paramount importance to your esteemed families. Else, why would you have so… enthusiastically supported Ms. Alice and her tireless crusades for women's suffrage, hm? It wasn't merely about… women's rights, was it, my dear sir?" A knowing, almost conspiratorial smile played on Dutch's lips.

At this, Mr. Norton's carefully constructed facade finally cracked. The subtle disdain, the aristocratic arrogance that had clung to him like a second skin, vanished completely, replaced by an expression of stark, unadulterated seriousness. He straightened his shoulders, his eyes fixed on Dutch.

"This, Mr. Van der Linde," he stated, his voice now flat, devoid of its earlier cadence, "is not a topic for casual discussion. Alice and the others are merely fighting for women's rights; this is their own noble choice, sir. It has absolutely nothing to do with… so-called 'voting rights,' I assure you."

Compared to moments before, Mr. Norton's perception of Dutch had undergone a seismic shift. Few, in this era, would dare to link the burgeoning women's rights movement so brazenly to the calculated machinations of powerful families.

Even if women from their own esteemed households participated in, or even spearheaded, these suffrage gatherings, the connection remained tenuous, almost unthinkable. No one truly believed women would gain the vote, nor did they imagine these august families would bother themselves with such an unlikely, frivolous endeavor.

But Dutch, with his uncanny ability to see through their elaborate charades, had articulated the unspoken truth. He had seen their game, their hidden agenda, with a terrifying clarity that set him apart from the common man. Thus, Mr. Norton's urgent declaration that this was "not something that could be discussed" was a thinly veiled admission of guilt.

Ostensibly, women's rights were about defending women's rights, and they must remain about defending women's rights! They could never be exposed as a mere means, a cynical tool, plotted by these influential families! Good heavens, if such remarks were ever to leak, their families' painstakingly built reputations would be utterly, irrevocably ruined!

Dutch, observing Mr. Norton's now genuinely serious face, waved a dismissive hand, a comforting, almost paternal gesture. "Ho ho ho, Mr. Lemieux, do compose yourself! There are only two of us here, are there not? So, let us speak with the refreshing candor of true confidantes!"

"Indeed, using the burgeoning movement for women's rights as a strategic chess piece to incrementally gain votes is, I daresay, a perfectly brilliant plan! Otherwise, Europe wouldn't have been engaged in such… charming women's rights activities for so many years now, would it?" Dutch paused, a wry smile playing on his lips.

"However, my astute friend, this particular gambit, while ingenious, will undoubtedly consume a very, very long time to come to fruition. And more importantly, it offers absolutely no immediate improvement to your current… situation." Dutch leaned in, his voice dropping to a persuasive whisper. "So, Mr. Lemieux, while you await that distant, glorious future, why not seek another, perhaps more… expeditious path to immediate, tangible benefits?"

At these words, Mr. Lemieux finally, truly, became utterly serious. He scrutinized Dutch, his eyes narrowed, then cautiously, almost furtively, glanced around the dimly lit deck. The faintest trace of desperation flickered in his eyes as he leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper. "What… what precisely do you mean, Mr. Van der Linde?"

Dutch smiled, a sly, almost roguish glint in his eye. "If you can't get women's votes, Mr. Lemieux, then you simply… get immigrant votes."

A triumphant, almost gleeful, expression crossed Dutch's face. He finally understood the ingenious, almost fantastical, logic of old Biden and his cohorts: if a problem simply refused to yield to conventional solutions, then one must, by God, resort to the utterly unconventional.