"My God! These are… breathtaking!
"Look at the curve of this, the elegance! That hem… I can scarcely imagine a woman not appearing as a goddess in this gown!"
"Are these the Oriental designs? I heard whispers of such styles in the city. They are mysterious, yet they are so utterly classic, so refined!"
Seventeen pairs of eyes, wide with disbelief and wonder, were riveted to Arthur's intricate blueprints. The current fashion landscape, while "classic," felt stifling, hopelessly plain, next to the vibrant visions unfurling on the paper. The women, a cluster of eager anticipation, devoured every line and curve. Dutch watched, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, allowing the awe to simmer before he spoke, his voice cutting through the hushed excitement. "Well, ladies? With our equipment, can you bring these to life?"
Ms. Sandy, her eyes still tracing the ethereal lines, spun around, her voice ringing with newfound resolve. "Yes, Mr. Dutch! The Singer machines are more than capable. Buttons can be sewn by hand. We only need the raw materials!"
Dutch nodded, remembering his earlier directive. Arthur was for the outside world, a phantom name. Here, in the belly of his burgeoning empire, he was Dutch. The Van der Linde gang, a band of Blackwater fugitives, could ill afford the spotlight. Not yet. Not until his power truly dwarfed the law, a number he envisioned as ten thousand souls.
"Excellent, Ms. Sandy." Dutch surveyed the eager faces. "The materials are en route, but you will begin immediately with existing sample fabrics. All seventeen of you, to the machines! Craft these sample garments. And the rest of the female workers – they have three days. Three days to master the Singer. By the time our main shipment arrives, we will be ready. Production will begin the moment those bolts of fabric hit the floor!"
"We will not fail, sir!" Ms. Sandy's voice was a fervent vow, echoed by a chorus of determined assent. Work. Finally, work. The fear of this good fortune vanishing like smoke had been a constant, gnawing dread. Now, it was replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated purpose.
"Very good, ladies." Dutch's gaze swept over the blueprints. A sudden thought struck him. "Among these men's designs, two are uniforms. The one marked 'police uniform' – thirty of those. The other, the one with the distinct coat, will be for our gunmen. Fifty of those, ensuring every security man is clad. And for you, ladies, the 'work uniform' among your designs – that is yours, a gift from the factory. Begin with those."
A wave of choked sobs, of pure, unadulterated joy, rippled through the group. Some truly wept. Since their desperate journey on the train, a cold dread had clung to them, a fear that Dutch's grand promises were merely a cruel deception. But last night, the sight of their six-square-meter rooms, already furnished with bedding, had shattered all their cynical doubts, transforming them into an overwhelming tide of happiness.
These women had known only the grinding heel of poverty, a constant scramble for their next meal, a nomadic existence from one squalid slum to another. Now, each had a space, however small, that was unequivocally theirs. A home, freely provided, guaranteed so long as they worked with diligence. Their joy, their hope, was palpable, radiating from them like a tangible force. Children played nearby, husbands secured roles as porters or gunmen, solidifying their newfound stability. The only lingering anxiety, a phantom limb of their past, was the fear of idleness, of work not beginning, of this fragile dream dissolving.
Dutch concluded his instructions, then his eyes snapped to the gate. Hosea, escorted by five armed men, rode out of the camp. The black market. Over a hundred sewing machines, a potential ten thousand dollars in income – a scent that would draw predators like sharks to blood. Precautions were not a luxury; they were a lifeline.
He turned and strode back to the main house. Most of the gang was now stirring. Mac, Tilly, Javier, and Lenny were still gone, leaving only Davey, Arthur, and Bill as the gang's hardened core. Enough. For now.
"Arthur! Come here, kid. I need your eye again." Dutch's voice held a rare note of genuine camaraderie. "Your artistic touch… it's almost like an old acquaintance I never quite met, one who failed his exams spectacularly. Come on, we're not done designing yet."
Arthur, after ruffling little Jack's hair, picked up a cigarette and followed Dutch into his room.
Designing, for Dutch, was a simple matter of recalling the countless images of beauty and fashion he'd absorbed in another life. Over thirty styles already sketched, blending classic elegance with grandiosity, even fusing East and West into a seamless tapestry of vision. The ten designs he'd presented were just the opening salvo. A clothing store, his clothing store, would not be limited. Each week, a new product would be unveiled, a constant lure to draw customers into his web, transforming them into devoted patrons.
And yes, even bikinis and other modern intimate apparel would eventually follow. He would conquer hearts and minds, one garment at a time. He would make them all covet his creations.