Around two in the afternoon, the Chicago sun looked listless, giving off light but no heat.
An old, dilapidated van wobbled along a main road in the South Side, its exhaust pipe puffing out white smoke from time to time.
In the driver's seat, Shane yawned as he drove, holding the steering wheel with his left hand and a cigarette with his right.
He tapped the ash, first glancing at the rearview mirror, then scanning the surrounding traffic. Confirming there were no police cars or patrolling traffic cops, he stepped on the gas a little more confidently, turning towards the Alibi Room.
"Fck," he muttered in his heart, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and taking a deep drag. "I'm really living the hard life of a worker + student + illegal small business owner all in one."
He crawled out of bed after five in the morning to make breakfast, busy from baking sandwiches and brewing coffee until the end of the morning rush. After packing up the stall, he had to rush to school.
As soon as the lunch bell rang, not long after he finished lunch, Karen dragged him into the car for a "friendly match" in the back.
The scene of Karen rolling her eyes back and digging her fingers into his back at the end was still lingering in his mind.
...Fine, it didn't seem like a loss.
Originally, he wanted to drag Karen to skip class in the afternoon and go to the construction site with him again, or do something else.
But Karen, lying on his back before she could even catch her breath, rejected him directly.
She said she had been targeted by teachers for roll calls recently and couldn't skip too much anymore. She still had to maintain the image of a "good girl" in the eyes of teachers and family, and ideally get into college with her grades.
Alright.
Shane understood then. Probably his various tossings during this period gave Karen a sudden sense of crisis about their future.
He didn't persuade her further, just kissed her sweaty forehead, helped her tidy her clothes, and waited for her body to calm down a bit before watching her get out of the car and walk towards the teaching building.
As for himself, he turned around and left the school, going to the construction site again.
Since he had already skipped class, he had to lay more foundations for the "future cash flow."
He planned to fully expand this business. Once Fiona got the hang of it, he would hand this business over to her, providing a fixed source of cash for the family so she wouldn't have to work multiple hard jobs every day.
When Shane arrived at the construction site, it was just past the workers' lunchtime.
Shane parked the car on the roadside, turned off the engine, leaned back in the seat, and observed through the windshield.
Someone came back carrying a McDonald's paper bag; someone held a Burger King wrapper, eating while walking; and a few Latino faces wandered back slowly from a distant street corner, holding burritos.
Occasionally, he could see a few workers sitting directly on the roadside steps, opening their own lunch boxes, containing either cold pasta or leftovers from the previous day, paired with two dry sandwiches.
Just looking at it killed the appetite.
But what was certain was that there were no fixed food trucks near this newly opened construction site.
"Looks like work just started recently," Shane bit the cigarette filter, calculating in his heart. "These people are still at the stage of eating on their own, and haven't formed a habit of unified ordering or calling for takeout."
But reality was harsh. This damn place in Chicago was strict about unlicensed mobile food trucks.
If you dared to set up a stove to sell food without a license, the municipal enforcement team could impound your car in minutes, issuing tickets faster than serving meals.
However, what was trouble for others was a window of opportunity for him.
At the subway entrance in the morning, it was already proven that his breakfast could attract fans. If he opened another stall at the construction site at noon, then...
Wonderful banknotes were right in front of his eyes~
---
But a problem had to be solved first, that is... how to set the menu.
From what he observed just now, the racial composition of this construction site wasn't simple.
Whites, Mexicans, Blacks, and even a few Asians mixed in.
This was just the impression he got from looking from afar in the car. Who knew the real internal ratio?
Different types of work would form different teams, and possibly different ethnic combinations.
And racial composition would directly affect food sales.
For example, whites might be more accustomed to classic American fast food like burgers, sandwiches, and fries.
For Mexicans, they definitely preferred burritos and tacos, and the sauce had to be spicy.
Blacks would be more receptive to oily and heavy-tasting things like fried chicken and barbecue, and the sauce had to be rich enough.
He needed to know which group made up the majority in this construction site to decide on the main product category.
Others could be sold on the side.
Otherwise, an awkward scene might occur: he busied himself for half a day to make a pile of things he thought smelled good, but as a result, whites found it too greasy, Mexicans found it inauthentic, and Blacks found it flavorless.
In the end, they would turn around and go back to McDonald's, leaving him alone in the car staring at his own burgers.
Other information also needed to be figured out:
Where did these guys like to eat usually? Which places did they dislike for being expensive and bad? Most importantly... did they have money in their pockets, and were they stingy?
Were they the type who pinched pennies to the extreme, or were they willing to pay an extra dollar or two for good food?
These things couldn't be found out just by wandering around outside.
Shane shifted gears, and the car slowly drove away from the construction site.
He held the steering wheel with one hand and flicked the cigarette butt out the window with the other. He already had a target—the classic Alibi Room.
The Alibi Room, the intelligence exchange center of the South Side, the shabby living room of the South Side community. In Kevin's words:
"Sit here for an afternoon, and you can hear about all the crap that happened in the South Side in the past week, and even predict the moths that will fly out in the coming week."
The personnel here were complex. Only what you couldn't imagine, not what you couldn't see. Even if you saw an alien here one day, there was no need to be surprised.
Moreover, for them, alcohol was the best lubricant. Two glasses of horse piss down the hatch, and everything poured out.
Here—
Unemployed men would complain about unions and the government; old workers would talk about which construction site owed wages; junkies would brag about how pure their last hit was; some Mexican uncles would mention in passing which restaurant in the area had generous portions and which one even dogs wouldn't eat at.
For example, if you wanted to know who contracted the work for this construction site, just grab Tommy for a chat, and you couldn't go wrong. That small contractor was always well-informed about such news.
If you wanted to know where these workers usually ate lunch, ask that Mexican uncle who often did odd jobs in restaurants. Treat him to the cheapest drink, and his mouth would definitely work better than a jukebox.
...
Before long, Shane drove the car into the back alley.
Shane moved the car against the wall, parked firmly, turned off the engine, and pulled out the key.
This afternoon's task was clear: figure out the racial ratio, spending habits, and taste preferences of the construction site.
Then, open for business at 5 a.m. sharp tomorrow morning, and go to the construction site for a big hustle at lunchtime.