The Shadow Tycoon
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 52: Director Johnson’s Choice
The director of the Sabine City IRS had an unremarkable name: Johnson.
Johnson had no distinguished background. In the old days, when people still believed ideals could be achieved through hard work, anyone willing to fight hard, show courage, and catch a little luck could still rise above the crowd.
But today, without outside help, becoming tax bureau director of a second-tier city was more or less the end of the road for Johnson.
What he had to consider now was how to preserve his highest-tier pension, and how to make his final years less painful.
Many people imagined that an IRS director, even the director of a small city office, ought to be some hidden rich man with large savings and real estate holdings. In reality, that was not the case.
Most Federation officials stuck in that neither-high-nor-low position lived more poorly than people imagined. It was the true grassroots personnel, the agents and field staff on the front line, whose income streams were more complicated.
A basic administrative manager who sat in an office all day and had already been placed on the Office of Internal Oversight’s inspection list, where exactly was he supposed to get dirty money?
Of course, the proper donations and social benefits still existed. Those were all legal income.
The Federation government gave them high salaries and top-tier social insurance precisely to minimize the chance that negative influences would affect their work and turn them into someone else’s claws.
Of course, that did not mean Johnson was poor. Sometimes poverty was not only a description of wealth, but also of power.
In short, compared with those above him he had too little, compared with those below him he had enough. If he could keep his pension, all the better.
At the moment, he was deeply troubled. The joint operation between the Federation FBI and the IRS had ended in failure, which meant he had no way to quickly calm the current situation. If headquarters truly became angry, his days ahead would not be pleasant.
Now he regretted how much he had indulged Michael. Precisely because he was nearing retirement and no longer wanted to offend people, he had gradually allowed the flaws of his subordinates to grow.
Just as he was scratching his head in frustration, the telephone rang. He frowned. From the signal light, he could tell it was an outside line. Since it had made it through his secretary, there had to be some reason to answer it.
He took several deep breaths, steadied himself, and picked up the receiver.
Later that day, Director Johnson informed the old woman at home that he had a business engagement that evening and would not be eating dinner there.
He and his children lived together in a community next to Michael’s. The environment was slightly worse than Michael’s community, mainly in terms of greenery and overall amenities, but the house was larger and could hold more people.
Thinking over those vexing matters, he drove to the Warehouse District, far from Downtown, and pulled over by the roadside not far from it.
About thirty feet away stood a chop house. It served only three things: patties made from chopped beef, whole-wheat rolls, and some fresh vegetables.
There were no whole-cut steaks here. The people in the Warehouse District could not afford them. Most of the meat was the same sort of chopped beef William had eaten when he lived with Eleanor, chopped again and pressed into patties.
Other things were mixed into the meat: whole wheat kernels, crushed nuts nearing expiration, and various cheap fillers.
Dinner time had just passed, but the chop house was still packed. For ninety-eight cents, a customer got a thick grilled meat patty, vegetables, and unlimited free rolls. It solved the nutritional needs of the Blue Straps after a day of heavy labor.
Almost all the Blue Straps in the Warehouse District ate dinner here, which made this nameless chop house well known in the area.
Johnson was not used to the environment. Everywhere was the sour reek of sweat, along with other odors he could not identify. The weather was getting hotter, and men who had done hard labor all day were certainly not going to smell fragrant.
He looked around. The Blue Straps deliberately kept some distance from him. Everyone could see his clothes were not cheap, and no one wanted to pay ten days, half a month, or more of wages because of one careless mistake.
Soon he saw William. William waved to him and asked the owner for another meat patty and another roll.
“This is what you meant by dinner?” Director Johnson said as he sat down, his expression still not pleasant.
William had called and asked him to come out to discuss recent events. Johnson had vaguely realized something.
By inclination, he did not want to make any compromise with William. Michael had been ruined this badly, and the IRS had lost face as well. But the pressure was now too great. He could only choose the option he least wanted to choose. Perhaps that was what maturity meant.
Although he had chosen maturity, he could still retain his attitude toward William. The two did not conflict.
William shrugged, unconcerned. He tore apart the roll in his hand, used it to wipe up some of the meat sauce on his plate, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed a few times, and swallowed.
He rubbed his fingers, letting some crumbs fall onto the tabletop, then cut off a piece of chopped steak with knife and fork. Smiling, he said, “It isn’t as bad as you imagine. You can try it.”
Just then, the owner’s wife, a woman in her forties, brought over a plate and dropped it roughly onto the table, along with a small basket of rolls.
Director Johnson silently watched the owner’s wife turn away, then looked at William. At last, he gritted his teeth and tore off a piece of roll as William had done.
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