People in America: My Uncle Don Quixote

Chapter 95 Is a shoebox full of money enough? (Paying off debts 3/10, requesting monthly votes)

"Throw the gun away, Kevin!" Michael, ignoring his weakness, rushed forward to grab his brother's wrist. "We need to call the police or an ambulance, God! You shot someone—"

"Call the police?" Kevin looked at him like he was an idiot, shoving Michael's hand away. "This is the fucking South Bronx! It'll take the police three hours to get here, and then they'll arrest me without even asking any questions. You won't get away either. They don't care about fair law enforcement. Do you want Mommy to bail us out? Do we have the money?"

As he spoke, he kicked the robber lying motionless on the ground with his toe. Once he was sure the robber was no longer moving, he grabbed Michael by the collar with his thin frame and dragged him into a nearby alley filled with garbage.

"My dear brother, don't be naive," he said with a laugh. "What's the use of studying medicine in this place if you want to turn your life around and become a doctor? A drug dog with a broken gun can corner you like a dog."

"No, that's not it," Michael shouted weakly. "I will take you and Mom away from here and let you live the life that real people should live."

"Oh, come on, brother," Kevin's voice was even louder. "Stop giving me empty promises, Michael! What am I supposed to do? Wash cars? Or work as a cashier? People like us can't go anywhere but on the streets."

"Perhaps the school protected you too well," he shook his head in disappointment. "This is a jungle; some people eat meat, and some people eat grass."

He pulled out his pistol, took a deep breath, and said, "Admit it, Mike, if it weren't for a scoundrel like me, my whole family would be dead in the South Bronx a long time ago."

After saying that, Kevin didn't look back at Michael again, but turned and disappeared into the darkness deep in the alley.

He arrived at the meeting place as usual, where Scarface and a few members of their small gang were, as always, warming themselves by the fire.

"You're late, Kevin," Scarface asked. "What happened?"

"It's nothing," Kevin said, unwilling to admit that he did it to save Michael. "On the way, a black guy tried to rob me, and I shot him."

"Don't go there these next couple of days," Scarface, the leader, casually said before changing the subject. "Today, let's discuss the drug market on the next street."

"Are we finally going to take over the Italians' territory?"

"Boss, it's time. I've been observing for a long time, and no one can take over this street in one go. The drug dealers inside have started buying from us. I've increased the price by 5%, and people are already scrambling to buy from us."

After the Italian drug dealers left, the drug addicts on the entire street went crazy because they had nowhere to buy drugs. Many even risked exposure to go outside and buy from unfamiliar dealers.

Increase by 20%, 30%, or even 50%.

They'd do anything as long as they could get a puff.

The surrounding gangs had been eyeing them for two months, initially thinking that the Italians' departure was a joint operation by the FBI and DEA, or an internal struggle within other Italian mafia groups.

As a result, he endured it for two months without anything happening, but now even with a scar, he can't sit still anymore.

This is a street that generates millions of dollars in net profit every year.

"Okay," Scarface took a deep breath, "Kevin, go for a walk on the street tonight and test the waters."

Upon hearing this, the other gang members were dissatisfied and began to shout.

"Boss," one of them said, "isn't this inappropriate? Kevin is clearly the youngest among us. Are you sure you can trust him to go?"

Kevin's heart was pounding with excitement.

This is a lucrative job; just add a little something extra, or divide the goods, add some lime...

Pepper powder and the like, just sell it at the original price. Those poison dogs are like sharks that have smelled blood now. No matter what kind of blood it is, they will come up and take a bite.

"Shut up," Scarface said calmly. "Kevin isn't a greedy kid, and I trust him to do things."

""

He pulled a small square, no bigger than the palm of his hand, tightly wrapped in newspaper from his pocket: "Here, this is two 0.2-ounce packets, divided into 100 small bags. Go to the corner of that street and try it."

"Also, remember, Kevin, this is just a test," he stared intently into Kevin's eyes. "If you spot any Italian informants, or if any other gangs are staking out the area, just dump the goods and run. You can always get more goods, but if you get caught or die, you'll lose everything."

"Also," Scarface added, "the price will follow the usual rules. Since Little Rich said he can sell it even with a 5% markup, you can add a little more, but don't be too greedy."

"Got it, boss." Kevin took the paper package, stuffed it into his crotch, tightened his jacket, and disappeared into the night.

New York winters are fucking cold.

As Kevin stood on this street, now a no-man's-land, the cold wind blew across the intersection, like the Grim Reaper's scythe piercing straight into his heart.

As soon as he reached the shadowy corner, he saw several withered zombies wandering in front of the closed shop shutters. Some were yawning, some had snot and tears streaming down their faces, and others were hugging their knees and shivering violently in the cold wind.

Kevin whistled briefly, like a drop of blood falling into a pond teeming with piranhas.

The zombies instantly looked up, their empty eyes locking onto Kevin. They then rushed forward, surrounding Kevin completely. If it weren't for the pistol in Kevin's hand, they probably would have already swarmed him.

"Do you have any? I need size 7," a woman rushed to the front, clutching a handful of crumpled coins. "Please, I have money, I have money..."

Kevin swallowed hard. "$15 a small packet, standard quantity."

The original price was $10, but he increased it by 5%.

I originally thought this price was high enough, but I didn't expect that these people would treat it like it was free.

The people at the front quickly bought up half of the 100 packs of stock.

More people emerged from different corners and surged toward Kevin in unison.

Suddenly, a bold idea popped into Kevin's mind.

Since we can add 5%, could we... add a little more?

These people in front of him dared not offend him, and since they were the only ones who could sell this type of drug, he could make a fortune.

For every pack of goods sold, Scarface gives them a $1 commission. Once they sell 100 packs, they'll earn $100.

But what if he calls $16? It makes no difference to these drug addicts, but he can double his money today.

If he sells it for $17 a pack, he can earn $300 today.

Anyway, Scarface doesn't know either...

"I'm not bringing much today," he shouted, "the price has gone up, now it's $18, no, $19 a pack!"

Prices were almost double what they usually were, but the endless stream of drug addicts didn't seem to care about the cost. They continued to wave their loose change, old jewelry, and other valuables, just to satisfy their fleeting pleasure.

Soon, Kevin sold half of his stock, leaving him with just over 20 packs.

Since it was $19, they didn't react much even when the price doubled...

"There are 23 packs left," he took a deep breath, "$30 a pack."

A moment of deathly silence fell over the crowd, followed by a commotion.

"Thirty dollars! Are you robbing us?" roared a burly man in a tattered work jacket. His eyes were sunken, but his anger made him look somewhat frightening. "It was 19 a moment ago, and now it's 30? Are you trying to mess with us?"

"That's right! You little bastard!"

"Hand over the goods!"

Anger spread through the crowd like a lit fuse. Several men, driven mad by addiction, began to approach, their greed turning into murderous glints as they stared at the thin Kevin. In the face of drugs, morality and reason had long been cast aside.

Kevin abruptly pulled up the hem of his jacket, revealing a pistol that had just been stained with blood. He placed his hand on the grip and swept his fierce gaze over the men in front of him.

"Some idiot who tried to rob me just now, his brains are probably frozen solid by now," he spat and said viciously, "Anyone want to be next? Come on! Let's see if my gun is any good!"

The man in overalls who was leading the group immediately deflated. On this street, killing for a few dozen dollars was nothing new; no one was willing to lose their life for a moment of pleasure.

The crowd cowered, their earlier momentum vanished.

A gaunt-looking woman squeezed through the crowd, wearing only a cardigan.

"Handsome young man... don't do this," she offered a fawning smile, one hand intentionally or unintentionally pulling down her collar to reveal her chest covered in needle marks and large patches of purplish-blue skin. "I only have $20 left, the rest... I can give it to you in another way, you can have whatever you want, just one pack... just one..."

Bag..

'

Kevin took a half-step back in disgust: "Get out of my way! I only want cash!"

"Please!" the woman suddenly wailed hysterically, picking up a sleeping baby with a face red from the cold from a tattered stroller behind her. "Look at this child! How am I supposed to take care of him if you don't give me some relief! For God's sake, for the child's sake, please give me a discount!"

"It's a child!" someone shouted from the crowd. "If you sell the child, you'll have money, won't you?"

As Kevin looked at the baby, for a moment, he suddenly thought—maybe this is how he and Michael were raised by their mother?

But looking around at the menacing people, he realized that each of them had a pitiful side. If he showed any weakness, he might be devoured by these people.

"Get out if you don't have money," Kevin said coldly. "This isn't a charity. If you really want what's best for the child, use this money to buy formula."

The woman's expression instantly shifted from pleading to venomous resentment. She glared at Kevin, tossed the child back into the stroller like trash, and began frantically searching her person for any possible hiding place for money, all while cursing.

"Forget about everyone else," a withered hand shot up, "I want it!"

"Me too! Save one for me!"

The deadlock was broken. Once the first person compromises, the rest will rush in out of panic.

In less than two minutes, the remaining 23 packages were sold out.

"This is insane," he thought. He had managed to sell goods that were originally worth $1000 for nearly $2000, while, as far as he knew, the purchase price of these goods was less than $300.

One hundred packages can only satisfy the current population for one or two days. There are at least 20 times the current population of poisoned dogs on this street.

He walked towards the stronghold with a lot of loose change in his pocket.

When they met Scarface again, he had already divided the money.

"Boss," he handed Scarface a wad of cash, "I followed Little Richie's advice and raised the price to $15 a pack, and it sold out in two hours."

"So fast?" Scarface chuckled as he took the money, counting it as he spoke. "Looks like those fish are starving. Take more when they've recovered their senses in a couple of days. Bring 20 ounces this time. Want Little Richie to come with you?"

"No need," Kevin said immediately. "I can handle it on my own. I'm a grown man now."

Scarface laughed heartily, counted out $150 from the $1500, and handed it to Kevin: "The extra $50..."

This is a bonus in US dollars for your pioneering work. Keep up the good work, and when I get old, this street will still be yours.

"Thank you, boss!" Kevin said with delight.

Kevin took the money, thanked him profusely, and left.

When he reached the stairwell, he pulled out another wad of crumpled banknotes from his pocket—$482, which he had secretly kept hidden away due to the price increase.

He earned more than $600 in just two hours that evening.

When Kevin reached his front door, he stopped and turned to look at the upper right corner of his door frame—there was a crown pattern with spikes, the symbol of their gang of more than 10 people.

On the streets of the Bronx, this is a territorial declaration and a warning: "This house is under gang protection; our people live here." Moving here is tantamount to declaring war on the entire gang.

When you first joined the gang, was it to oppress others, or to avoid being oppressed?

Kevin scratched his head. He couldn't remember anymore. Years of drug use had made his memory unclear, and sometimes when he woke up, he would briefly forget where he was.

Fortunately, he didn't forget the way home.

He quietly opened the door and slipped inside.

Kevin's mother was asleep in the master bedroom next door. She was a nurse at a hospital, and her long shifts had made her sleep very poor. Kevin didn't want to wake her up from her precious sleep.

In his and Michael's room, Michael was already snoring heavily from the lower bunk.

Kevin climbed onto the top bunk, and by the faint moonlight streaming in through the window, he tremblingly reached into his coat and pulled out all his money.

The stacks of crumpled banknotes covered his pillow, and with his previous savings, he now had more than $700 in his hands.

In the past, he would have needed to steal several bicycles or sell goods for several days to save up the money, but now this is just the result of two hours of work.

He found an old shoebox hidden deep inside the bed, smoothed out each bill, and neatly stacked it inside. With each bill he smoothed out, his confidence grew stronger.

After doing all this, he stuffed the shoebox back into the corner, then pulled a small...

A calendar with curled edges.

It was a free wall calendar given away by a car repair shop, with sexy bunny girls and cars printed on it.

Kevin flipped to March of next year, where a date was drawn in mid-March: Deadline.

Kevin had no idea about the American college admissions process, nor did he know the difference between pre-med and a real medical school. But in his simple and stubborn mind, Michael's grades were among the best at Franklin High School. If he wanted to be a doctor, he had to go to the best school, and going to school required paying a lot of money.

Michael didn't tell him the exact amount, but Kevin overheard his conversation with his mother and knew it was an astronomical sum.

"When I fill the box with money, will I have enough?" he thought smugly.

I'll throw the money right in Michael's face, so he'll never be able to lecture me again and will never be able to hold his head up in front of me again.

He closed his eyes, his mind filled with images of the drug-using thugs frantically buying up drugs that night, and the baby's face, purple with cold in the wind. Those images filled him with a flicker of fear, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the "scent of hope" emanating from the banknotes in the shoebox and the gun in his hand.

Just pull off a few more heists, and be careful not to get caught by the boss.

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