Shane first turned on the heater in the car, then directly recharged all the piled-up loose change into the System.
On the System interface, the personal balance jumped rapidly.
Shane did a rough calculation. Today's turnover was $447.5, and subtracting the cost of ingredients from the morning, the net profit was about $380 (approx. ¥2600).
This number couldn't compare to the readers who earn gold daily, but it still made Shane's heart heat up.
Just this wave this morning had already earned back the cost of all the "entrepreneurial tools" he bought—microwave, oven, insulated buckets, etc.—with a surplus.
Future stalls would be pure profit.
"No wonder catering is so tiring yet so many people rush to do it," Shane muttered softly, leaning back in his seat.
Actually, selling this much was quite normal.
It was 2010 Chicago. Even in the South Side, a single breakfast sandwich or burger would start at two or three dollars in those chain fast-food restaurants.
A breakfast combo with a cup of coffee would basically cost three to four dollars.
And here, he offered sandwiches that looked substantial and attractive, plus a decent cup of coffee, pricing the combo directly at $2.99.
This price was a solid "wool-gathering target" for those office workers and students.
Overall, his pricing was not only reasonable but also carried a hint of "conscientious merchant."
His location was close to the main flow of people at the subway entrance, visible to passersby at a glance, so selling a lot was expected.
Of course, this $380 wasn't as stunning compared to Peggy's $25,000 or the $4,000-plus he picked up.
But those two sums were, frankly speaking, "accidental events," things that would only hit him on the head once by chance.
This $380 was different. This was money he earned from the morning rush hour crowd himself.
As long as his body didn't collapse, this kind of money could flow steadily.
Moreover, today was his first time in battle. He was flustered, under-prepared, and had several portions stolen midway, yet he still managed to sell $447.5.
If one day he really got the timing right, prepared enough goods, and fought the "tough battle" he expected in his heart...
"A base of 550 isn't excessive, right?" He calculated. "Add some other tricks, and hitting 600 isn't impossible."
Even calculating based on today's conservative 380—
380 a day, working a full 30 days a month, would be over eleven thousand dollars.
If he really gritted his teeth and worked for half a year, he could almost scrape together a year's college tuition (50 to 60 thousand a year), and it would be tax-free.
But to earn more, he had to find a helper.
In those two hours just now, facing the crowd alone, his hand movements were already fast like he was cheating, but he still couldn't cope.
Without thinking much, the first person who popped into Shane's mind was Fiona.
As for calling "shareholder" Kevin over?
Don't even think about it.
With Kevin's personality, standing at the stall surrounded by a group of people reaching out to him (to buy things), his first reaction would definitely not be to help, but to exclaim:
"Holy shit! Shane, we are surrounded by zombies!"
Or he would yell with his unique loud voice: "Special burgers! Special burgers! Come buy! One dollar each!"
By then, the eyes of the whole street would be attracted by him, and those patrol officers who originally turned a blind eye would also come over to inquire. That scene was "beautiful" just thinking about it.
Fiona was different.
She could keep accounts, shout at people, work while cursing, and take care of her younger siblings while collecting money.
Calling her to help would not only earn more but also rescue Shane from the state of "being waiter, cashier, and front of house all at once."
It could also help Fiona earn more and let her get familiar with the process in advance.
Because he planned to hand these over to Fiona to handle once the video side took off (he would still supply the goods), so this was letting Fiona adapt in advance.
Thinking of this, the corners of Shane's mouth couldn't stop rising. He hummed a completely out-of-tune tune and reached out to turn up the heater a notch.
As time went on, the flow of people on the street obviously increased.
After the morning rush, there would be fewer office workers, but figures like patrol officers would start wandering the streets.
The denser the flow of people, the higher the probability of being "seen."
If someone looked at him a few more times, noted down the license plate, or even called someone to check the license, it wouldn't end in "comfortably counting money."
"Time to withdraw."
Shane stepped on the gas, backed the car out of the alley, and slowly merged into the traffic flow.
But he didn't go home.
Because at past ten o'clock, he had a history test.
God knows what possessed that history teacher to insist on a big test before Thanksgiving.
Shane had already skipped several classes before. If he skipped again, even if the teacher knew Shane's ability would definitely get an A, he would probably print a big fat F directly on the report card.
So he had to go back to school.
Of course, not immediately back to class.
On the way back to school, he took a small detour specifically passing a newly opened construction site. This was one of his targets (people at long-term construction sites basically only ate at fixed catering points or food trucks).
At noon, this newly opened site would have a large group of workers finishing work to eat, but there were pitifully few small restaurants nearby.
If Shane parked the car at another intersection at the entrance of the construction site and specifically sold his filling and cheap burgers and chicken rolls, he might be able to pull off the "lunch business" in his plan.
As for why not go to the subway entrance?
At noon, the flow of people at the subway entrance wasn't so concentrated. Instead, it was the time when government personnel and patrol officers patrolled most densely. Setting up a stall at noon was purely seeking death.
As for the evening, the flow of people was large, but at that time all the shops were open. If he squatted right in front of someone's door, that would be nakedly cutting off someone else's wealth. It would be strange if they didn't mess with him.
"One order in the morning, one order at the construction site at noon. If I can make six or seven hundred a day, I'll be satisfied."
Shane calculated like this while humming the out-of-tune tune even louder, the car driving all the way toward the school.
---
Meanwhile, on the other end of the South Side of Chicago, the front door of the Gallagher house was pushed open.
Frank shrunk his neck, his cloudy eyes scanning around... the living room was empty, the TV wasn't on, and two jackets belonging to who-knows-who were thrown on the sofa.
He sniffed hard.
In the air, there was a faint residual scent of roasted meat patties. Not the cheap stuff from the shelter, but a solid aroma of food.
Frank took a few deep breaths and followed the smell to the kitchen. He wouldn't smell wrong; a dog's nose wasn't as sharp as his.
Sure enough, he saw a few leftover chicken roll stumps in the trash can, as well as some wrapping paper he hadn't seen before, printed with unfamiliar patterns.
"These little brats..."
He muttered, "Looks like they're living quite comfortably lately. Can afford burgers and chicken rolls now? And wasting so much?"
Frank glanced at the fridge door.
There were a bunch of new receipts and coupons stuck on it, as well as payment proofs for electricity and gas bills.
Thinking of the changes in the house recently: the overdue notices on the fridge door were obviously fewer, replaced by these new receipts and coupons; vegetables that didn't look like they were picked from dumpsters had appeared on the dining table several times recently.
Most importantly, Liam's diapers... fcking hell, they actually started buying them by the box!
Instead of scrambling to scrape money together to buy the smallest pack only when the last one was left, like before.
All these signs gradually converged into an exciting signal in Frank's mind: "The family has come into a windfall."
Frank grinned. The Gallagher family getting rich meant he got rich, and as the head of the family, he had to distribute the funds reasonably.
He first pretended to wander around the living room, then shouted with his broken gong voice as he walked:
"Fi—o—na—"
"Lip?"
"Shane? Debbie? Carl? I—an—?"
...
The only response was the echo from the stairs.
He went to the second floor to patrol once, then drilled to the door of Shane's basement to look around.
OK.
Confirmed, he was the only living person in the house right now.
The little bit of fatigue on Frank's face when he just entered began to slowly recede, replaced by a smile that would make other Gallaghers very uncomfortable at first glance.
His eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth picking up bit by bit, looking both shrewd and wretched.
"It seems—Daddy Frank's treasure hunt time begins again."