Chapter 51: The Wooden Door and the Wooden Table
Chapter 51: The Wooden Door and the Wooden Table
Morning arrived, and Ennio and a few friends met outside his home, their faces alight with genuine smiles. Yesterday, they had wrapped up two deals, earning a total commission of eleven dollars. While eleven dollars might not seem like much, considering the times, it was significant.
Illegal immigrants renting work cards from others often ended up with only a little over ten dollars in actual income. To put it into perspective, eleven dollars was roughly equivalent to a month’s income for an illegal immigrant, yet they had made that much in a single afternoon. The speed of earning money like this could make anyone envious.
Lance ensured immediate payment, distributing commissions right away to motivate his workers. In this world, nothing was immune to the lure of profit. If it didn’t work, it simply meant the incentive wasn’t high enough. For these young immigrants without stable jobs, eleven dollars was more than enough to get them to work hard for him.
Ennio handed out cigarettes to his buddies. Today, he bought a pack for twenty-five cents, a rarity for them as they usually smoked homemade rolled cigarettes. Those were not only harsh but stained their teeth yellow. The small-packaged cigarettes, in contrast, were smoother and didn’t yellow their teeth as much.
During this time, all cigarettes were made from raw tobacco. Flue-cured tobacco wasn’t widely available yet, as the market for female smokers hadn’t grown enough for cigarette companies to take notice. When women began linking smoking with the fight for women’s rights, cigarette companies would start promoting smoking among women. But that was still far in the future.
The group of young men stood at the street corner, puffing away. Passersby instinctively veered off to avoid them, a silent show of resistance or even disdain. Yet, to these youths, this avoidance was a sign of their “power” and “coolness.”
The area was predominantly populated by immigrants from the Empire, so most locals were familiar with one another. As the group chatted about who in the neighborhood might need a loan, a small, silent figure named Morris suddenly spoke up. “I know a place where people definitely need money.”
Morris was short, only about 1.5 meters tall even with shoes on. At seventeen, he was unlikely to grow much taller. He looked malnourished, his hair yellowed, and he wore an old, battered cap. His clothes were hand-me-downs from his brother, faded from too many washes.