An abandoned shoe factory housed three men swathed in black, each standing side by side next to a large leather presser that had not been oiled or dusted for many years. One man held a smoking cigar between his teeth, puffing out the largest smoke rings in long, even intervals. The other two simply stood and waited, for something they have been waiting for since three weeks ago after they received word that their post had reached its destination.
Through grit-caked windows, a dim beam of light flashed the announcement of their guest's arrival. The hum of an automobile cut off along with its headlights, and the three men could hear the muffled slamming of car doors outside. After another two minutes, the sound of heels could be heard click-click-clicking through the desolate corridor, growing louder as they approached.
Then, the source of the footsteps halted, so that they were standing directly before the three awaiting figures.
"I shall assume you have made your decision," said the man on the left without preamble. There was no exchange of pleasantries, as none of the individuals present in this room were meeting on cordial terms. It was business, and a rather nasty type of business that would be forbidden to speak of on day-lit streets.
"Allow me to begin with this," said their guest, being the recipient of the encrypted letter containing a rather controversial request. He was a tall man of lean build, with a pair of silver spectacles perched over a thin, high-bridged nose. Behind the spectacles were two dark, intelligent eyes that scrutinized everything with a calculative gaze. "What you are trying to accomplish is very dangerous."
"And yet here you are," said the left man. "Surely your trip would have been long enough for you to change your mind and turn around, twice."
"Have you realized the extent to what this could become, should something go wrong? Everybody in the world knows his name, his enterprise. Is it truly worth the risk of becoming international fugitives?"
"Does this mean you wish to take his side?" asked the man holding his cigar. "How curious, given that we are standing before one another right now."
"I don't take sides, Mr. Prodnose," said their guest coolly. "I make investments. And clearly, there are quite a few out there willing to share and agree with your perspectives."
"Many confectioners have been forced out onto the streets," said the cigar man stiffly.
"So have bakers," countered their guest, "and grocers and toy-makers. So have hatters and chefs and dancers and shoemakers." He swept his gaze over his surroundings, at the mound of shoe soles shriveling in a shadowed corner. "I count time with the rise and fall of businesses, my good sirs; it happens every day. And it will continue to do so, with or without the world's biggest chocolate factory running in town."
"Out with it, then," snarled the right man. "If you're so keen on trying to prove all this to be unreasonable... are you here to help us or not?"
"I would not be here if I wasn't," said their guest calmly. "In fact, I came to settle the terms. I myself admit that I've never before been presented such an opportunity of this scale and, well, discussing it through the post would be hardly ideal."
"How much are you looking for, then?"
Their guest tilted their head, appearing to consider the question with care. "Half," they announced quite seriously.
"Cripes!" shouted the right man, leaping forward. "You are out of your mind!"
"Entirely unreasonable!" agreed the left man angrily.
"You're a fraud!" accused the fuming smoker.
"My dear gentlemen," said their guest, smiling coldly, "make no mistake; this is no meager errand. You are asking me to pay for a service offered by one of the most dangerous organized crime groups in the country. It is not all mine to keep.
"Besides, do look at the figures. What is only half of millions, perhaps even billions of fortune? There is still plenty for all three of you to split and indulge in for a lifetime."
Their guest waited with admirable patience as the three men shifted uncomfortably. They began whispering among themselves, heads huddled together in an attempt to reach an agreement.
"Think you can live with it?" asked one of them men suddenly, lifting his head from their hasty discussion. "It'll be a hefty profit all right, but it's quite the method to earn it."
Their guest laughed out loud, startling the other two out of their hushed arguments. "My good sir, this is not the first time I have been asked to fund a project like this, though I admit our previous target had been fairly... inconspicuous to put it one way. You mustn't worry for the sake of my conscience; I assure you it is quite unnecessary."
"Who was it?" asked another man curiously. "This previous target you mention."
"Some nameless housewife," their guest murmured vaguely. "A quaint little woman, she was. Pity she lost the fight."
"Against whom?"
"A Barrett M82," answered their guest, grinning.
The three blanched.
"While I'm sure these men you've employed possess equipment that is more than capable of handling a couple hundred yards and a glass window," he continued mildly, "it would be quite the unnecessary risk for both of us, if anything were to happen in the factory itself. Therefore, it'd be most wise for you to remove Mr. Wonka to a quieter place, where he and your lovely folks will be granted some... privacy."
"Don't you worry about that," said the cigar man sharply. "That is being handled as we speak."
"We will not have you monopolizing this mission," warned the right man. "You are to pay their fees only. Afterwards, you stay clear off until it's absolutely certain the transaction has been made, to all our accounts."
"Of course," their guest agreed, bowing. "Pleased to do business with you gentlemen. Do keep in mind that should you have tampered with the figures of my share, I will know right away. And I am not against paying your men for a little overtime, my sirs. Good night to you."
The three in black were alone again, in a factory that was silenced, cold, and devoid of life. There was one more factory that could join this one, they were all thinking darkly.
At last, they could finally begin to construct their rescue boat out of this sea of debt and profitless misery, and Wonka would become their plywood.