The next morning. Walter Pharmaceuticals, CEO's Office.
Fat Tony sat in the leather executive chair that had once belonged to Old Walter, holding a cup of freshly mixed "Texas Tea".
"I gotta say, Victor."
Tony took a sip, a look of satisfied greed spreading across his face.
"This stuff kicks. My guy, Paulie, drank a cup last night and slept in the car like a baby for twelve straight hours. When he woke up, he asked if I had more."
He set the cup down and leaned forward, his imposing bulk instantly casting a shadow over Victor, who sat on the other side of the desk.
"But good product is one thing. Business is business."
Tony's thick finger tapped heavily on the desk, creating a rhythmic thud.
"I believe this stuff can sell. But tell me, how are you gonna turn this bottle of sugar water into three million dollars to pay me back? If you can't give me a plan, I'll have to scrap this factory for metal and take your high school sister as collateral."
Victor sat in the guest chair, his expression calm, his gaze behind the glasses steady and unflinching.
"Scrap the factory, and you get fifty thousand at best. That's killing the goose that lays the golden eggs."
Victor stood up and walked to the map of New Jersey on the wall.
"Tony, your current business model is too primitive. Collecting protection money? Hijacking trucks? That's blue-collar work. Exhausting, high risk, and you don't make the big bucks."
He picked up a red marker and circled a few points on the map: Newark, Jersey City, Trenton.
"What I'm offering you isn't three million in cash. It's a legal money-printing machine."
"Money-printing machine?" Tony scoffed. "You expect those street punks to line up at pharmacies with prescriptions to buy this?"
"No."
"That's retail. What we are going to do is wholesale and market-making."
He wrote a set of numbers quickly on the whiteboard.
$1.00 -> $5.00 -> $20.00
"Listen, Tony. This is the 'Long Con' structure we're building."
"Tier One: Walter Pharmaceuticals. I am the legal manufacturer. This 4-ounce bottle of Purple Drank costs me less than a dollar to make. I 'wholesale' it to you for five dollars. That four-dollar margin goes entirely to paying off your debt."
Tony narrowed his eyes, doing the mental math. "So I have to sell 750,000 bottles to break even. Too slow."
"Don't rush. The best part is coming."
"Tier Two: You are the 'Exclusive Distributor'. You push this product into your nightclubs, underground casinos, and pool halls. Your retail price is twenty dollars."
"Twenty dollars?" Tony's eyes widened. "For a bottle of cough syrup? Those niggas would have to be crazy to buy that! A joint is only a buck fifty!"
"Weed is for the poor. Cocaine is for the rich ($100/gram). We are right in the middle."
Victor leaned his hands on the desk, looking directly into Tony's eyes.
"This is 'Affordable Luxury'. More expensive than weed, representing status; cheaper than coke, representing value. For those street hustlers driving second-hand Cadillacs who want to imitate the big shots but are afraid of dying, this is their 'Holy Water'."
"And the most critical point is..."
Victor lowered his voice, delivering the killer blow.
"Regulatory Arbitrage."
"The current FDA is blind. They don't have a Prescription Drug Monitoring Program (PDMP). This means, legally, this is just ordinary cough medicine. Your guys get caught selling powder by the DEA, they get shot on sight. But selling this?"
"The cops catch them, and they can only stare. Because it's 'medicine', not 'drugs'. As long as they aren't caught mid-transaction, you're just helping community residents relieve their coughs."
Fat Tony fell silent.
He looked at the Purple Drank, then at Victor. The murderous look in his eyes gradually faded.
As a boss who had rolled in the underworld for years, he knew the value of a "legal cloak" all too well. No need to look over your shoulder for cops, no need to have shootouts with Columbians for turf, just put this purple sugar water in the clubs...
"Profit. I want 51% of the factory shares. Since it's a legal business, I want to be the majority shareholder."
"No."
Victor answered decisively.
"49%."
Tony's face instantly darkened, and the two bodyguards behind him immediately reached into their jackets.
"Kid, don't get greedy. Your life is still mine."
"It's precisely because I value my life that I can't give you control."
Victor showed no fear. He even pushed his luck by pulling a prepared share transfer agreement from the drawer and tossing it in front of Tony.
"Tony, use your brain. If you control this factory, and something happens in the future... sure, the factory is legal, but the IRS isn't a vegetarian. If they audit the books and find the majority shareholder is a man with a mob background, what do you think will happen to you?"
Victor pointed at the agreement.
"You take 49%. You only take dividends, you don't participate in operations. I am the legal representative. I am the majority shareholder. All legal risks, all regulatory scrutiny, I carry them."
"I am your firewall, Tony."
"Do you want money, or do you want to drop the soap in federal prison?"
These words extinguished Tony's anger and woke up his rationality.
He was a gangster; what he feared most were the IRS and FBI. Victor was right. The man standing in the spotlight was often the one who died fastest.
"Firewall..."
Tony chewed on the word, then suddenly burst out laughing.
"Hahahaha! Good! A damn good firewall!"
He slammed the table hard, making the Purple Drank ripple.
"Victor, how did I not notice before that you were this bad? You're more of a gangster than I am!"
He grabbed the pen on the desk and, without even looking at the clauses, signed his name in a scrawl at the bottom of the agreement.
*Rip—*
The three-million-dollar IOU was torn into pieces, falling to the floor like snowflakes.
"Six months."
Tony stood up, adjusting his collar, regaining the authority of a mob boss.
"I give you six months. I want to see this purple stuff flooding every nightclub in New Jersey. If I don't see the money, this agreement will be your suicide note."
"Deal."