Chapter 107: It Might Just Be a Scam

Faced with the relentless pressure from the Hunter family, the Chicago trading market finally reached its limit. The face value of silver futures contracts was raised sixfold, now standing at six thousand dollars per contract.

To avoid forced liquidation, margin deposits had to be increased significantly.

At this juncture, many truths began to surface. Among a myriad of offshore accounts, desert tycoons held a substantial share, primarily concentrated in London. The Americans seemed somewhat slow to catch on.

This notion, however, required quotation marks—after all, John Bull was the staunchest ally of the Americans; how could there be any secrets?

The situation unfolded so abruptly that the Hunter family appeared bewildered. Imposing trading restrictions was like shutting the door to beat the dog, but raising margin requirements was akin to pulling the rug from under their feet.

The Hunters believed their opponents surely had further moves up their sleeves. The patriarch began dividing the family estate. Though determined to fight on, he knew he had to preserve the family’s foundation.

The odds of winning this battle were slim; one misstep could spell ruin beyond redemption. It was imperative to keep some cards in hand.

Meanwhile, White Oil received a fairly reliable offer.

“Unexpectedly, it’s Goldman Sachs? Planning to carve up the pie, huh?” William White mused with a hint of suspicion.

“Mr. Fu, this is our final price. No counteroffers. I want cash only.”

“Young master, should we investigate who the buyer is?”

“No need. Haha, it can’t be the Hunter family—they’re done playing and don’t have the time for this.”

William White’s curiosity was mild; he had no intention of digging too deep. If the buyer wished to remain anonymous, they must have their reasons.

“Boss, the other party has responded—no negotiation, cash only.”

“Hmm, did you ask who they represent?”

“No. They replied promptly, and the offer is valid for one week.”

“Alright, then let’s close the deal quickly. Give them the cash—don’t disappoint our clients.”

With oil prices currently high, this was indeed a considerable income. William White had no desire to hold onto these assets; exiting sooner was better.

The oil industry’s golden years were numbered. A prolonged downturn lay ahead, and it could soon become a losing game. Best to sell off and move on.

Being a fellow Texan, William White naturally wanted to understand the backstory. If memory served, the Hunter family had lingered on for many years, eventually losing their farms and oil companies. Though no longer top-tier tycoons, they weren’t left destitute.

A bizarre scene emerged—no trace, no clues.

No one knew who had dug this trap. The skill involved was extraordinary, ensnaring not only the Hunter family but a group of desert magnates as well.

Clearly, the mastermind was a cut above William White, who suspected he’d been outbid on a deal. That likely left the other party equally displeased.

A group of desert princes were frustrated; they lacked the cunning to cheat their way out and had no choice but to accept defeat.

The Americans, frankly, were somewhat shameless. At worst, they’d face margin calls, but no one chased after losses. The guarantee companies were expected to cover damages.

William White knew that when forced liquidations occurred, the Hunter family was heavily indebted.

In essence, America’s futures market was akin to Las Vegas—a place where losing was certain, but winning was elusive. William White was a savage, pulling out after a quick strike, leaving many others resentful.

“My friend was cautious, yet ended up with so much trouble. If all my capital were in the U.S., he might have been buried too,” William White admitted with relief. His original plan had been to quietly amass wealth, avoiding exposure until strong enough.

Now, the situation was clearly unfavorable. Feigning weakness would be the most foolish approach. Besides building reputation, a decisive strike was necessary.

The unveiling of the White Entertainment philanthropic fund drew widespread industry attention. Even the OSS in Los Angeles came to pay respects.

Listening to William White’s plainspoken speech on stage, reporters in the audience were somewhat bewildered. Those familiar knew he was a tycoon; others mistook it for a political address.

His unceasing flow of feel-good platitudes sent shivers down spines.

Don’t think Americans lack official jargon; in formal settings, this was just common sense.

“Mr. White, I’m a reporter from the Peanutton Post. How do you ensure the proper use of this fund?” The first question came as soon as he finished.

“Ah, excellent question. The fund’s accounts are public, open to media oversight. You can track every dollar’s destination.”

A ripple of astonishment swept through the journalists. Everyone understood what a charity fund entailed, but this was different—a concrete commitment!

“Mr. White, it’s reported your film made over a hundred million in profit. Such a large donation—are there tax considerations involved?”

“That’s an unfriendly question, prone to misunderstanding. I refuse to answer.”

Everyone knew he had a temper, but no one expected him to respond so bluntly.

Sensing unrest in the room, the host hurried to restore order. William White remained calm, showing no trace of irritation.

“Mr. White, I’m with the Wall Street Journal. Rumor has it White Entertainment earned at least two hundred million. Can you confirm?”

“Ha, you already said it’s a rumor. Currently, no. With subsequent ancillary profits, maybe around three hundred million. I’m fairly satisfied.”

“One point I must clarify: all these earnings have been taxed, including today’s charitable fund.”

Everyone knew there was substantial tax exemption and deduction potential here, but what they heard next was surprising.

“Stay calm, stay calm. It was a small accounting error we’re correcting. You can verify with the tax authorities—they’re formidable, and I wouldn’t dare challenge them.”

A wave of sympathy for the earlier reporter swept over the crowd. If the paper didn’t issue a prompt apology, public doubt would surely follow.

Was this all premeditated?

Watching the urbane man on stage, the reporters broke into a cold sweat. What a trap.

An accounting error?

No way. Underreporting taxes might be excusable, but this?

Overpaying taxes?

Might as well fly away if that were true.

The American tax system was peculiar. If you failed to file on time, sometimes you simply got away with it.

If unlucky, you’d just pay back taxes later. Unless you couldn’t pay, it wasn’t a big deal—many used this method to evade taxes.

Fail to pay, and you’d end up in jail—no negotiation.

“Mr. White, I’m a reporter from the San Francisco Daily. What are your plans for this large sum?”

“Large sum? Not really. I don’t have a strong concept of wealth. My farm produces plenty, and I don’t spend much. Money is just a number to me. I’ll use these numbers to create something cool, maybe buy some big toys. You know, making money isn’t all that hard for me.”

The reporters in the audience were dumbfounded. Could he be any more pretentious?

What did he mean by just a number?