There's always a catch

"Oh? I didn't expect Mr. Van der Linde to possess such… unwavering confidence," Mr. Norton purred, a thin, almost invisible smile playing on his lips. He nodded slowly, then abruptly snapped back into his role as the master negotiator. "In that case, the esteemed documents shall be officially issued this weekend. Do send one of your… representatives to collect them, Mr. Van der Linde." His tone had regained its usual, crisp authority, betraying nothing of his earlier, breathless excitement.

He then immediately leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with barely concealed eagerness. "Now, Mr. Van der Linde, since your… minor problem has been so amicably resolved, what about my rather significant problem, Mr. Lemieux? I believe a certain promise of… votes was discussed?"

Dutch chuckled, a deep, resonant sound, his face radiating an almost angelic sincerity. "Hahahaha! Mr. Lemieux, my dear friend, I am ready at your command! Every single diligent worker in our burgeoning factory, a loyal, united bloc, shall cast their precious votes for you! And I guarantee, within a mere three months, we shall swell your voting tally to a robust one thousand! Within a year, a glorious fifteen hundred votes shall be yours!" He kept his promises intentionally modest, fearing that to reveal his true, audacious expansion plans would stretch Mr. Lemieux's credulity too far. Better to under-promise and, later, over-deliver.

Yet, even this rather conservative projection filled Mr. Lemieux with profound satisfaction. An extra thousand votes was not mere flattery; it was a guaranteed additional seat of power for his family in the future! And with the next mayoral election still a comfortable three years away, there was no urgent need to rush.

Mr. Lemieux departed the deck, a smug, satisfied smile plastered across his face, no doubt already envisioning the political mileage he'd extract from this unforeseen windfall. As soon as he vanished into the glittering interior of the cruise ship, the benevolent smile on Dutch's face melted away like ice in the desert sun, replaced by a subtle, almost imperceptible frown.

"It's done, Dutch?" Arthur, who had been lurking discreetly behind a nearby ornamental baffle, now emerged, his expression etched with a mixture of hope and trepidation. He hadn't been close enough to catch the specifics, but he knew Dutch's facial tells better than his own reflection.

"It's done, Arthur. In a week, we can embark for Guarma whenever we please, my son." Dutch nodded, his eyes fixed on the spot where Mr. Lemieux had just disappeared, his brow still slightly furrowed.

"What's wrong, then? Is there a snag?" Arthur's own brows furrowed in a sympathetic mirroring of Dutch's expression. He knew that particular, almost imperceptible frown. Every time Dutch wore it, it portended some minor, yet significant, twist in their convoluted plans. A "minor" twist, of course, because under Dutch's masterful guidance, no change ever truly posed a threat to them.

Dutch nodded, then slowly, almost deliberately, his furrowed brow relaxed, and that familiar, charming smile flickered back onto his face. "There will likely be a snag, my boy. A rather predictable one, I'm afraid." He sighed, a dramatic exhalation. "Although the Guarma documents are now officially 'processed,' I have a rather strong premonition that Mr. Alberto Fussar, our current governor of Guarma, will soon commence looking for… trouble with us."

He pointed a finger in the direction Mr. Lemieux had just vacated, his eyes twinkling with a dark amusement. "Not only him, Arthur, but it's highly probable that all of Saint Denis's esteemed nobles are already whispering in his ear, instigating him to act against us."

Dutch leaned against the railing, his gaze sweeping over the vast, dark ocean. "Arthur, Mr. Lemieux let slip a rather illuminating detail just now. Mr. Alberto Fussar, you see, is deeply intertwined with the interests of many families. After all, he relies on the port of Saint Denis, and the generous concessions from those very families, to transport his precious sugarcane out of Guarma. And among all the influential families in Saint Denis, the Lemieux Family, with the mayor himself as their patriarch, wields the most considerable power. Therefore, Mr. Alberto Fussar undoubtedly funnels the largest portion of his… tributes… directly into the Lemieux Family's coffers."

Dutch paused, allowing Arthur to absorb this intricate web of deceit. "And yet, Arthur, despite being the single greatest beneficiary of Fussar's lucrative enterprise, Mr. Lemieux decided to assist us in processing those Guarma documents without a moment's hesitation. This, my boy, implies two distinct, rather delicious possibilities."

"Either," Dutch began, holding up a finger, "he intends to replace Mr. Alberto Fussar entirely, making us the new, convenient tribute payers. After all, once we establish ourselves in Guarma, if we wish to utilize that vital freight port, we will, naturally, be compelled to pay them, just as Fussar currently does."

"Or," Dutch continued, holding up a second finger, a more sinister glint in his eye, "the Lemieux Family is preparing to play a rather cunning game against us. More precisely, he will deliberately leak the news of our impending arrival in Guarma to Mr. Alberto Fussar, thus putting a formidable fright into the man. He will then, no doubt, unite with the other influential families, urging Fussar to aggressively target us."

Dutch chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "You see, Arthur, he desires the votes we are diligently cultivating for him, but he also harbors a rather strong aversion to losing his existing, comfortable interests in Guarma. So, he will wield Mr. Alberto Fussar like a blunt instrument, applying immense pressure on us, trapping us in a delightful little predicament where we can neither advance nor retreat."

Dutch spread his hands, a gesture of almost theatrical despair. "This way, Arthur, we are presented with two equally unappealing options: either we operate at a crippling loss, bleeding money until we go bankrupt, ultimately to be absorbed by their insatiable maw, or we remain stuck here in Saint Denis, tirelessly cultivating votes for his glorious family, unable to expand into Guarma! And between these two possibilities, my dear boy, the second, I daresay, has the highest probability. After all, Mr. Alberto Fussar is a remarkably… obedient man when residing in Saint Denis!"

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. "This strategy, Arthur, is deceptively simple: it's a brilliant delaying tactic. Dutch, in exchange for the Lemieux Family's 'assistance,' will help them expand their political power. But Mr. Lemieux, being the greedy sort, also covets Mr. Alberto Fussar's existing profits.

So, he will ensure Fussar gets wind of our plans, creating a convenient obstacle to our entry into Guarma. But on the surface, everything is settled, all smiles and handshakes. Dutch, if he wants to continue operating in Saint Denis and retain Mr. Lemieux's 'help,' must still diligently gather votes for the Lemieux Family. Yet, he cannot enter Guarma, remaining perpetually stuck here."

Dutch clasped his hands together, his eyes shining with a chilling clarity. "This way, Mr. Alberto Fussar's profits are secure, Dutch's votes are diligently cultivated for Mr. Lemieux, and the Lemieux Family itself profits handsomely from both sides, without having to lift a finger, save for a bit of 'mediation.' Is that not, Arthur, the very definition of maximizing profit?"

He offered a final, chilling assessment. "The absolute worst-case scenario, of course, is that Dutch is dragged down, utterly ruined by this relentless pressure. And then? The Lemieux Family simply steps in, gracefully inheriting the lucrative clothing business Dutch so generously cultivated. Another substantial profit, wouldn't you agree?"

Dutch's intricate, Machiavellian analysis left Arthur utterly dumbfounded. He just stood there, swaying slightly, his mouth agape, as if Dutch had suddenly started speaking in ancient Greek. He hadn't understood a single, convoluted word of it.

"OH, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!" Arthur suddenly exploded, throwing his hands up in despair. He clamped a hand to his forehead, his face contorted in a grimace of pure agony. "Stop talking, Dutch! Just… stop! I don't want to hear it anymore! I swear, trying to understand this… this stuff is harder than robbing a bank! At least when I'm robbing a bank, I know which end of the gun to point! Your damn ideas are just a monumental headache, Dutch! A throbbing, brain-splitting headache!" He even stamped his foot lightly in frustration.

This kind of intricate, multi-layered deception had become the bane of Arthur's existence recently. It seemed that everything connected to Saint Denis, everything Dutch touched in this city, had to involve at least three twists, seven turns, and a handful of backflips before it reached its final, infuriatingly convoluted conclusion. Damn it all! This is nowhere near as straightforward as a good old-fashioned bank heist!

"OH, FOR SHAME, ARTHUR!" Dutch roared, his own exasperation finally boiling over. He glared at Arthur, his hands on his hips. "Arthur Morgan, how on earth did you transform into such a… a scoundrel?! Damn it, you're becoming as stubbornly intractable as those greasy dog-skin plasters sold by those Eastern charlatans!" Dutch's face was a mixture of genuine fury and a deep-seated desire to wring Arthur's neck.

Arthur, however, remained utterly unfazed by Dutch's furious lecture. He simply shrugged, completely unrepentant, and even had the audacity to nonchalantly pick his nose. Life, he mused, was far, far better now than it had ever been.

Most importantly, Dutch, with his infuriatingly brilliant mind, bore the full, crushing weight of all the planning, all the pressure, all the responsibility. This, quite frankly, left Arthur's body and mind feeling gloriously relaxed, unburdened by the need to think so profoundly.

Anyway, as long as he dutifully followed Dutch's labyrinthine plans, everything always seemed to work out. No one's ideas, after all, were ever better than Dutch's. And that, Arthur realized with a contented sigh, was precisely why he was becoming more and more of a lovable, exasperating scoundrel.