"Is there a problem?" Lip's voice pitched up slightly.
Outside the van doors, the middle-aged man in the dark jacket flashed his badge again: "Chicago Department of Public Health. We've received multiple complaints from nearby businesses about an unlicensed mobile food truck operating illegally long-term, affecting environmental sanitation and the rights of legitimate businesses. Is this your vehicle?"
"My vehicle?" Lip put on a "you've got to be kidding me" expression and waved his hand dismissively. "This is my uncle's van. I'm just watching it for him while he went to buy something. He'll be right back."
The middle-aged man looked inside the van at the ovens, warming boxes, and the clearly grease-stained microwave. "What are these cooking appliances and warming boxes for?"
Lip's tone was entirely self-righteous, laced with the impatience of someone being unjustly questioned: "These are just leftovers from our family picnic. We haven't had time to clean them up yet, we were just about to take them home to wash. Is there a law against keeping kitchen supplies in your own car?"
But the middle-aged man was completely unmoved by his excuse. He stepped half a pace forward: "We need to see your ID and the registration for this vehicle right now. Please cooperate."
"ID? Of course I have it, but my uncle has it all." Lip's tone rapidly became much more sincere, carrying the urgency of a teenager facing authoritative questioning. "He really is coming right back, seriously, just around that corner, a few minutes. Why don't you guys wait a second? When he gets here, everything will be cleared up."
"Now," the middle-aged man emphasized, "I need your ID. Please present it."
"Fuck!" Lip cursed internally, directing it at this asshole middle-aged man, his own reliance on a fluke, and this damn situation.
His brain went into overdrive: "Minor + driving without a license + operating an unlicensed food truck". Adding these up, the best case scenario was the Department of Children and Family Services getting involved, deciding the Gallagher household wasn't a safe environment for minors, and then taking all the underage kids away. While they had been through similar things before, nobody wanted to go to those foster homes where you never knew if you'd get a good one or a bad one.
He put on a face of total submission and raised one hand. "OK, OK, my ID is in my metal box. I'll get it for you."
He turned around, using his body to block their line of sight. He quickly grabbed the pieces of paper detailing their recent cash flow and accounting, crumpled them up, threw them into the cash box, and snapped it shut.
Just then, he caught a glimpse outside the van out of the corner of his eye. The middle-aged man's attention seemed to have wandered; he was looking around.
A chance!
Lip pretended to rummage around, slowly reaching his hand toward the spot covered by the old jacket—the exact location of his laptop bag.
But before his fingers even touched the jacket—
"Hey, what are you doing!" the middle-aged man shouted, his eyes locked on Lip's hand.
In America, when dealing with law enforcement, any sudden or sneaky movements are an absolute red line.
"Step out of the vehicle right now! Let me see your hands!" The middle-aged man's tone turned severe. One hand was already on his radio, looking ready to call for backup at any second.
"Hey, I was just trying to grab my—" Lip tried to explain.
"Grab what? Hands where I can see them, and step out of the vehicle immediately!"
As the middle-aged man yelled his command, a skinnier inspector walked over, holding a camera. He snapped a picture of the license plate first, then stood with the older man, waiting for Lip to get out.
Lip felt like everything was going to hell! Even if he gave them a fake ID number later, if they got his face on camera, that face would be permanently tied to this junk van registered under Kevin's name. And then what? They'd track down Kevin, then Fiona who always went to the bar, and finally, the Gallaghers...
In a split second, Lip made a decision.
He tucked the metal box full of today's earnings under one arm and raised the other above his head in a gesture of compliance. He slowly walked toward the back of the van.
"Alright, alright, I'm coming out. Don't get excited." He obediently shuffled outward.
But the moment one foot hit the ground, with his body half out of the van and the distance between him and the two men closing to less than an arm's length...
Now!
The hand Lip had kept raised suddenly swung down, swatting the skinny inspector's camera right out of his hands just as he was about to press the shutter. Simultaneously, Lip pushed off hard, driving his shoulder fiercely into the middle-aged man in front of him.
"Gah!" Caught off guard, the middle-aged man stumbled backward from the sudden force, nearly falling.
Riding that momentum, Lip didn't look back. He bolted toward the alley exit as fast as he could, the cash box clanging under his arm with every step.
"Stop! Grab that kid!" An angry, shocked yell erupted behind him.
Lip turned his head slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the skinnier inspector already in a dead sprint, chasing after him.
Run! Run! Run!
Run like hell!
Lip burst out of the alley and dove headfirst into the busy Monday morning street. He scrambled awkwardly between pedestrians, newsstands, and trash cans. He didn't know how many people he shoved into, drawing screams and curses.
But he didn't dare slow down for a second. The only sounds in his ears now were his own panting and his heartbeat.
And one other, much clearer sound: the rapidly approaching footsteps of his pursuer.
That skinny inspector was clearly in good shape. The distance between them was closing fast.
Lip kept running, his eyes locked on the street corner ahead.
Right, the corner! He remembered it. Once he rounded that corner, the alleyway next to it was a maze of intersecting paths—perfect for shaking a tail.
But the inspector was practically on top of him. He could see the skinny guy's hand already reaching out, about to grab the back of his collar!
Right at that critical moment...
"Hey! Watch where you're going, kid!" A familiar voice suddenly rang out nearby. It was Marcus, pushing his food cart!
Marcus had been packing up to go home. Hearing the startled cries of pedestrians behind him, he turned around and saw Lip being chased.
Just as the skinny guy was about to grab Lip, Marcus's hands seemed to slip. The food cart jerked sideways, blocking the path of the inspector who couldn't brake in time.
Crash—clatter!
A muffled thud, followed by the sound of things smashing onto the pavement.
Completely unprepared for the obstacle, the skinny inspector tripped hard over the cart and slammed into the sidewalk. His radio flew out of his hand, and he let out a pained groan.
Lip heard the crash behind him, but he didn't dare look back to check, nor did he have time to shoot Marcus a grateful look. He knew that "accident" was definitely no coincidence.
Clenching his jaw, Lip maintained his breakneck speed, took a sharp turn, and disappeared around the corner, charging into the labyrinth of the deeper alleyway.