Hollywood Taxes: A Tycoon in TV Land

Chapter 18: The Fried Chicken Brothers

"Good luck."

Jack let out a quiet sigh of relief as he saw Ron's attention fully diverted toward the drug cartel. Hopefully, that meant he wouldn't be interfering with O'Conner's operation anymore.

And it seemed Jack's strategy had worked—Ron was now thoroughly fixated on this mysterious drug kingpin. It was like choosing which crop to harvest: on one hand, you had a newly sprouting seedling, barely poking out of the soil; on the other, a fully grown field ready for cutting. Any fool would know which one to harvest first.

Of course, that didn't mean Ron had abandoned his original "little seedling." As far as he was concerned, all crops would get harvested—just one at a time.

"So, what actual evidence do you have that this drug lord even exists?" Ron asked, licking his lips. "For all I know, this could just be some imaginary figure you cooked up to keep me busy. I don't chase ghosts without proof."

Jack pulled open a drawer and tossed a small plastic bag of powder onto the desk. "Take a look. This is the most widely sold drug in our area—purity level: 90.45%. And it's not just here in California. This exact product—with the same composition and purity—has been found across the country."

"You should know," Jack continued, "drug labs aren't automated factories. There's no standardized production process. Everything depends on the chemist's method. Even in the same lab, drugs cooked by the same person can vary slightly in purity. But this stuff? Identical. Down to the decimal."

Ron nodded slowly. That much, he understood.

"So, you're saying all these identical drugs come from the same distributor. But how can you be sure this guy is based in L.A. and not somewhere else? Like, say, New Mexico?"

New Mexico had always been a hotbed for DEA activity. Thanks to its proximity to Mexico, and years of economic exploitation by U.S. capital, much of its agriculture and industry had collapsed. Many locals turned to cultivating drug crops to survive—then shipped those drugs north across the border.

In the end, the U.S. government ended up spending billions annually trying to stop a drug problem it had, in part, created. Even someone as sharp as Ron couldn't quite figure out who was losing more in that equation.

Jack chuckled. "You still don't understand how the modern drug trade works. New Mexico traffickers deal mostly in traditional drugs—things like marijuana and heroin, stuff extracted directly from plants. But this"—he pointed to the powder—"is methamphetamine, a synthetic drug."

"We've traced the pattern," Jack went on. "Every shipment of this particular meth first appears in Los Angeles. From there, it spreads outward—fanning across the country in a clear geographic progression. That's why we're certain the source is here in L.A."

"And based on the consistent quality—purity levels always between 90.41% and 90.52%—we know the manufacturer is highly skilled. Before this guy came along, the best meth on the market rarely hit 85%."

As Jack gave his thorough analysis, Ron casually flipped through the FBI's files. Everything checked out. It seemed he really had stumbled onto a major fish.

"Impressive," Ron muttered. "Sounds like this guy's also got a well-oiled nationwide logistics network. No wonder he's been so successful. Do you guys have a codename for him?"

Jack nodded. "We do. Around here, we call him... 'The Fried Chicken Brothers.'"

Ron blinked. "The Fried Chicken Brothers?"

The name didn't sound like a criminal alias at all. It sounded more like a fast-food chain. Actually... it was familiar. Ron was sure he'd heard it before.

Right—he had heard of that name from Mr. Tuohy. It was apparently the name of the biggest rival to Tuohy's own restaurant chain. While Mr. Tuohy had just recently managed to expand across California, Fried Chicken Brothers had already opened locations in every single state across the U.S.

"So that's why you used them as a metaphor—because they've gone national? That's actually brilliant," Ron said with genuine admiration.

"Exactly. One of my guys, nickname 'Turtle,' came up with it while eating their takeout. Said it just felt right, and well… it stuck."

"Genius. I'd like to meet him someday—he sounds like a character," Ron chuckled.

Jack gave a wry smile. "Afraid that'll have to wait. I recently sent him undercover to infiltrate a cartel in New Mexico. Once he's back, I'll make sure you two get introduced. But for now, is this intel enough for you?"

"Oh, more than enough," Ron said, standing to leave. But after taking just two steps, he turned back.

"By the way, what's the name of that little sketch artist of yours? I want to have a word with him."

---

Meanwhile, at the small diner where Max worked, she was having a bit of a rough day.

"Hold on—you pissed off Paulina? Please, just promise me you won't hire another newbie, okay? I've been doing everything around here anyway. Let me at least get a raise so I can help out at home," Max pleaded after learning that yet another server had quit.

Her boss, a short Asian man named Han Lee, replied seriously, "No. You need help."

"I don't," Max said flatly.

"Everyone needs help," Han Lee said earnestly, raising one finger like he was about to deliver a life lesson.

"I don't. I've waited tables my whole life—diners, bars, you name it."

"I've already hired someone. She used to work at a top-tier restaurant in Beverly Hills. I even gave her Paulina's uniform," Han Lee said with a helpless shrug.

In the break room, the new hire, Caroline, walked out gingerly holding the uniform with two fingers like it was toxic waste.

"Hi, Mr. Lee. I think someone already wore this uniform—like, just now. Can I get a brand new one instead?"

Caroline, a fallen princess from the wealthy part of town now stuck in the real world, clearly wasn't used to uniforms covered in stains and mystery odors.

Once she was finally off to start her shift, Max couldn't hold back anymore and vented her frustration to Han Lee.

"Oh my god, this diva is definitely in the wrong place. Where do you even find these people? First that Russian ex-stripper, then the junkie chick…"

"She has golden hair. Shiny. That's good luck—for wealth and prosperity," Han Lee said, trying to play it off, though clearly out of patience. "Besides, you can train her. I'm the boss."

Honestly, Max was already starting to miss the junkie girl. Say what you will, but she was great at cleaning—probably because she'd had a lot of experience covering up crime scenes.

---

Elsewhere, Ron was driving toward the address Jack had given him. The farther he drove, the more familiar the streets became.

After a long loop around the city, he realized something odd—he had somehow ended up right back near the diner where Max worked.