Three Accounts Make Huge Profits, Frustring a Plot Against Workers

Chapter 387 Three Accounts Make Over 100-Fold Profits, Frustring a Plot Against Workers

On Saturday morning, Larry spent half the day at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange watching the market.

Trading in September wheat contracts remained very thin, but as spot wheat prices had been slowly declining, futures prices continued to fall.

Larry watched the market for a while, and seeing that it was already 10:30 and the price was still 58.5 cents, he went to the exchange's telegraph room and sent a telegram to Baruch instructing him to buy another 30 lots of wheat.

With a total of 90 long positions, the opponent should be able to smell the aroma of the bait, right?

Larry had estimated the timeframe; by the time the telegram reached New York and was executed, it would be close to the end of the trading day.

After sending the telegram, Larry hurriedly went to the Stone Company counter and instructed the Stone family's youngest son to close out all his positions.

After issuing the order to close the position, Larry sat to the side, took out a cigar, and smoked silently.

Fifteen minutes later, old Stone rushed out of the room. As soon as he saw Larry, he beamed and said, "Mr. Livingston, you've come in person? I've closed all your positions, and your account statement will be sent over this morning. Congratulations on such a large profit."

Larry smiled and nodded at him. "Mr. Stone, you've had a long day. I'm here to ask you something else—"

As he spoke, Larry took out a slip of paper, handed it to old Stone, and instructed, "After the market closes, put all my funds into this account —"

Old Stone picked up the note with a suspicious look, then a slight surprise appeared on his face. "Oh—okay, okay! You actually meant—"

Larry smiled and waved his hand, "I have some follow-up transactions, and it's inconvenient for me to keep them with you."

Old Stone straightened up and said, "I understand! It's not easy for others to find out if it's in an institutional account—but don't worry, Stone Corporation will also keep it highly confidential."

Although that's what he said, the disappointment in his eyes was undeniable.

Larry nodded, noticing the slight disappointment on the other's face, but still smiled and said, "Thank God! I was recommended someone as professional as you. Mr. Stone, rest assured, I'll have more deals to entrust to you in the future."

Old Stone chuckled and nodded in agreement. "Mr. Livingston! It is my honor to fulfill your request. I dare not ask for anything more from you. I will serve you faithfully."

In late trading, the September wheat futures contract closed at 58 cents, in a very quiet market. Besides Stone, Larry closed his short positions in his other two accounts and transferred all funds to an institutional account.

This time, I reaped a great harvest!

In Stone's account, the average cost of the 148 old short positions was $1.04 per bushel. The contracts were closed at 58.5 cents, resulting in a profit of 45.5 cents per bushel. The total profit for each of the 148 contracts was $336,700.

700手在68.5美分做空的新空单，每蒲式耳盈利10美分，700手共盈利35万美元。

If we add the account's previous profit of $46, the initial principal of $81875, and the subsequent emergency deposit of $13 in cash.

The total amount of money that can be transferred out of Stone's account is approximately $1,358,600.

Larry was extremely satisfied! Because this account, which initially consisted of just over $2 that he casually placed, underwent several bottom-fishing attempts, followed by Cargill selling 500 million bushels of wheat to short the market, a precise intraday trade, and that afternoon Larry betting all his remaining funds to open a new position of 700 lots—

Finally, the account grew from 2 to 135 million. This was a huge leap, and it was precisely this high leverage that made futures trading so appealing.

Larry had once been so poor that he could only borrow $500 to try his luck at a betting shop in St. Louis's "newbie village," but now he had earned a huge profit of $135 million from just one account at Stone Corporation.

This, perhaps, is life!

The other two futures companies' accounts were far less active than Stone's. Even after shorting at the peak, their accumulated positions were not as large as Stone's.

每个帐户做空了44手空单，平均成本在1.0825元，平仓价是58.5美分，每手盈利2487.5美元，总盈利是10万650美元。两个帐户合计纯盈利20万1300美元。

If we include the initial capital of over $20,000 in each account, a total of approximately $244,000 was transferred from both accounts.

In other words, the total principal and profits of the accounts handled by the three on-exchange brokerage firms amounted to US$1,602,600!

Profits exceeding 130 times.

This was not just luck, but a victory of his comprehensive application of market rules, human psychology, and spot trading channels. From accurately bottom-fishing, long-term short selling, to the final short-term manipulation, every step was precise and ruthless.

Most importantly, this isn't over yet! Larry is also hoping to use this money to leverage Chicago's massive wheat supply for a spectacular short squeeze.

Larry knew that if he continued his previous reckless and large-scale short squeezes, he risked angering the short sellers and prompting them to change the rules. After much deliberation, Larry decided that the only safe option was to follow Mr. Porter's old method and profit alongside Governor John F. Kennedy.

They are now depositing all their money into a temporary account set up by the governor, and they will also transfer their respective $50 investments.

Larry found himself a perfect cover, plus an account that wouldn't be coveted, which was the most important preparation before the squeeze!

Larry, feeling rather smug, suppressed his inner elation and returned to the hotel.

As soon as they entered the hotel, Mr. Brady approached them again.

The two went to the coffee shop on the first floor.

"The intelligence is in order!" Mr. Tiger leaned closer and whispered, "They'll set fires an hour after the workers' congress starts, but it won't just be fires. Dawson's men will mingle in the crowd and throw bombs—they'll use homemade gunpowder canisters. Once things get chaotic, another group will set fires from the north and west sides. Meanwhile, passersby will run to the police station to report seeing anarchists fighting among the workers."

A perfect frame-up!

Larry closed his eyes, and a scene of tomorrow night instantly unfolded in his mind: an explosion triggering a stampede, a fire spreading rapidly, and the "timely" arrival of the police arresting the "rioters."

Even if the fire doesn't completely destroy the shantytown, the government and police can still claim that "the labor movement has been hijacked by extremists" and justifiably clear the land in the name of public safety.

"Tell Matthew and Dunbar to get ready," Larry said, opening his eyes and smiling. "We need to make the troublemakers show themselves!"

In the backyard of St. Michael's Church, 20 newly hung gas lamps hissed, illuminating the newly erected wooden platform and the dark crowd below in a stark white light.

The edge of the wooden platform still exudes the scent of fresh pine wood, the result of 30 workers toiling away all day.

Debus stood on the stage, his brow furrowed as he surveyed the overly brightly lit room. Then, he pulled out the note he'd received that afternoon: "St. Michael's Church is too enclosed and easily surrounded. I suggest tomorrow night's meeting be held in an open area. But this suggestion should not be made publicly, lest it alert the enemy."

Half an hour before the meeting begins, a reliable person should suggest that the participants move to the newly built meeting place in the backyard, citing the hot weather and poor ventilation in the church. This would also facilitate the evacuation of the crowd in case of fire.

Remember, this suggestion must appear to be made on a whim.

The letter was unsigned.

This anonymous letter, delivered by a child, made Debs tense up, like a thorn stuck in his heart.

Just in case, Debs had already completed the arrangements as instructed in the anonymous letter—the strange thing is that someone actually set up a temporary meeting place.

It seems that someone is secretly helping him and the workers.

However, it is certain that the repeated emphasis on "fire prevention" in the anonymous letter must have a specific meaning.

"The People's Party's representatives have arrived!" a worker said to Debus.

"Okay! Let's go!" Debs put the anonymous letter in his pocket.

Larry Livingston sat in a closed carriage a street away, with a window ajar. Matthew, disguised as the coachman, sat high on the carriage roof.

"The meeting has begun!" Matthew said softly.

Larry didn't answer, leaning back in his seat and listening with his eyes closed. His fingertips tapped lightly on his knees.

He is waiting.

At 8:20 p.m., when the meeting was reaching its climax, unusual activity occurred.

Brady's voice suddenly came from outside the carriage, slightly out of breath, "They're here. There are six men carrying oil drums in the alley on the west side. Some are starting to blend into the crowd—"

"Mr. Dunbar, are you ready?"

"Ready!" Matthew replied.

"Very good!" Larry's lips curled into a smile. "Now, let the show begin."

8:35 p.m., backyard of St. Michael's Church.

Dunbar, wearing an old hat and a dirty coat, disguised himself as an old worker and mingled in the crowd, his bright eyes constantly looking around under the brim of his hat.

After a while, he found his target. A man dressed as a worker with a full beard, looking shifty, squeezed into the crowd, one hand still in his coat pocket.

Dunbar turned his head and nodded slightly to Luca, the Italian waiter.

Luca pulled a scalding hot coffee pot from under him and walked toward the man, calling out, "Excuse me!"

As Luca approached the bearded man, his hand trembled, and a pot of scalding hot coffee spilled onto the bearded man's chest.

The bearded man cried out in pain and jumped up. The homemade bomb he was carrying fell to the ground with a thud.

Suddenly, Marco on the other side yelled, "Scab! A scab has infiltrated!"

The crowd instantly stirred. The workers around turned around and saw a stranger jumping and yelling, with a homemade bomb right at his feet.

"Grab him! He's here to cause trouble!" someone in the crowd shouted.

The workers who were watching immediately realized what was happening and hurriedly grabbed the bearded man.

Just as another bearded accomplice was about to make a move, Dunbar kicked him in the back of the knee, and the man fell to the ground, dropping his pistol.

"There's another one here!" Dunbar shouted, then squeezed through the crowd amidst the chaos.

Debus, who was on the platform, had already noticed the strange situation. He quickly grabbed a megaphone and told the workers, "Everyone be careful! Strangers have broken in. They may be here to cause trouble."

At the same time, three shadowy figures crept up to the side of the church and knocked over two kerosene drums. Just as they were about to light them, six "workers" sprang out from the shadows. These six were construction workers who had helped build the wooden platform that afternoon.

At that moment, they gripped the arsonist's wrists, throat, and abdomen with their iron-like hands. On the other side, just as one man was about to draw his gun, he was struck on the back with a stick by another worker and immediately staggered to the ground.

The man tried to get up, but a sharpened wooden stick was pressed against his neck. Rattlesnake Cole growled, "Keep moving if you want to die!"

The man dared not move.

All of this happened within ten seconds. By the time most people reacted, several people had already been pinned to the ground, the kerosene can had rolled to the side, and the matchboxes used for arson were scattered all over the ground.

The hall fell silent for a moment, then erupted in a roar of anger from the crowd.

"Someone's causing trouble! Catch them!" Debus shouted.

The workers quickly tied up the captured arsonist and brought him before Debussy.

"Search them," Debus ordered.

A short while later, the workers found a business card in one of the men's pockets, with a note on it that read, "Call this number after the fire starts, say you're a reporter for the Chicago Tribune and have photos of the riots."

The crowd erupted in uproar. This was no ordinary disturbance; it was a meticulously planned stigmatization campaign.

The crucial point is that there was also kerosene; if they had been inside the church earlier, they probably would have been burned to death.

"Kill them! They tried to burn us alive!"

"Where are you from? Who assigned you these tasks?"

Some of the agitated workers had already thrown punches at a few troublemakers.

At first, the men gritted their teeth and remained silent after taking a few punches—Cool shook his head slightly, pushed the guy he was holding forward forward, and then stabbed the wooden stick hard into his back.

The man immediately let out a heart-wrenching scream—he rolled in the dust, reaching for the wooden stick behind him, but he couldn't reach it no matter what.

-

His cries of pain immediately drew the attention of those around him. Even the two troublemakers who had been caught and beaten by the workers stared at their accomplice with pale faces, wondering what terrible injury he had suffered.

"Stop hitting him—I'll talk!" Seeing the man immediately roll to his side, another person dodged to the right. "Taylor told us to do it!"

"Which Taylor?"

"That guy, H.S. Taylor, the one from St. Louis!"

Before long, the truth came out. The man confessed to Taylor's plan to set fire to the shantytown and his scheme to seize the land.

Debus jumped onto the wooden platform and shouted to the workers in the assembly, "Fellow workers, tonight some people wanted to burn us alive, slander us, and take away our homes. But they failed because we are not stupid, not blind, and not cowardly!"

But tonight, we cannot resort to vigilante justice. We will use the law and the truth to send these bastards to prison. We will expose their conspiracy in the newspapers, and now everyone must organize patrols to watch out for their other despicable tactics!

Larry nodded from inside the carriage.

"He was more clear-headed than I thought! He didn't resort to vigilante justice on the spot, thus giving the police no excuse to suppress him."

Matthew, standing beside him, nodded and said, "Most likely, he'll hand over this evidence to Attorney Dano and make it public through the media."

"Yes, that day we were in his shed, and he said he would use legal and media tactics—that's what Taylor and his people are afraid of."

"What should we do now?" Matthew asked.

"Let's go! Our mission is complete—" Larry glanced at the assembled workers through the crack in the carriage window, leaned back in his seat, and squinted. "What happens after this is none of our business—we'll come back for the workers next Monday; they still owe me a grain transport job!"

Matthew climbed onto the roof of the carriage and gently shook the reins. The carriage traced an arc and disappeared into the night in the blink of an eye.

Among the crowd, several companions saw the carriage leave and slowly withdrew from the crowd.

Ten minutes after Larry and his group left, the belated police finally blew their shrill whistles—seven or eight officers wielding batons...

Police officers with guns on their belts pushed the workers into the crowd, while dozens of other police officers with long guns subtly surrounded the workers' shantytown and church.

"I heard there's some rioting going on!!" The police officer's face was serious and businesslike, but his eyes were curiously looking around—wasn't it supposed to be on fire? Why is the church so brightly lit?

"Officer! You've come at the perfect time."

Among the workers, a tall man who was clearly from the south stepped forward. He met the police officer's stern gaze, but had a smile on his face.

"Someone attempted arson and bombing the workers' camp—we not only apprehended them, but also seized all the evidence!"

The officer's face stiffened, and he quickly said, "How could this happen? I'm taking him away!"

"Wait a moment, sir—" the Southerner said with a smile, "You've arrived just in time, as if you knew something was going to happen here, and you even brought so many fully armed police officers with you."

"It was just a coincidence; someone reported it to us," the police officer emphasized.

"Yes! It's really not easy. But—" The man deliberately paused before continuing, "You'll have to wait a moment. We've already notified the media reporters and lawyers. This matter is far from simple—we want to let all of Chicago..."

All of America knows who is plotting against workers with blood and fire behind the scenes!

The officer hardened his expression and emphasized, "No! I'm taking him away now. What if the criminal is subjected to vigilante justice if left here? Besides, maintaining public order is our job as police officers."

The man sneered, "You can't take these cursed criminals away without our permission. We insist on waiting until the reporters arrive and present their evidence before you can take them away."

The officer's face was full of anger, but seeing the other party's fearless attitude, he couldn't help but feel uneasy.

After a moment, the officer asked, "Who are you? Excuse me—"

"Tom Watson. Former Congressman from Georgia," the man added with an air of arrogance, "now the People's Party's vice-presidential nominee."