“Isn’t ‘Butterflies’ produced by the Harborfield Tobacco Factory? How could it be out of stock?”
A whole carton of cigarettes cost only $3.50, and Whitaker Scarlett could definitely afford it.
Although she had the foresight of someone 30 years ahead of her time, she knew little about the cigarette market in 1983. Tobacco was a state monopoly. Take ‘Butterflies’ as an example: the Harborfield Tobacco Factory had a fixed annual production quota. The cigarettes weren’t sold solely in Harborfield or even the state but were allocated across the entire country. Ironically, people in Harborfield could barely get their hands on the cigarettes produced in their own city.
It wasn’t impossible to buy them—you just needed connections and were prepared to pay extra. For locals, even buying one or two packs of ‘Butterflies’ was difficult, let alone a whole carton. Cigarettes weren’t sold by the carton unless a government department was hosting a meeting and had received special permission to purchase them in bulk.
Cigarettes from the factory, like ‘Great Front Gate,’ also sold for $0.35 per pack. Scarlett’s uncle, Whitaker Albert, smoked those, and in Larkspur Village, that was already a sign of status. ‘Great Front Gate’ was famous nationwide, being a bestseller from Zoriville. Yet Scarlett could buy ‘Great Front Gate’ in Harborfield but couldn’t get ‘Butterflies.’ This sparked an idea in her mind: tobacco resale must be incredibly profitable. Once the thought occurred, she couldn’t suppress it.
With millions of cartons produced annually and distributed across the country, the cigarette industry had a strong regional character, apart from a few well-known brands, smoking preferences varied by location. Harborfield residents favored the three local brands from their tobacco factory, while nearby cities might prefer their own local brands. While ‘Butterflies’ was hard to find in Harborfield, it might be sitting unsold elsewhere.
What if she could bring the ‘Butterflies’ allocated elsewhere back to Harborfield to sell?
Scarlett’s mind raced with possibilities, leaving her slightly dizzy.
“Are you buying or not?”
The sales clerk’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Scarlett nodded. “Then I’ll take a carton of ‘Great Front Gate.’”
A carton of ‘Great Front Gate’ was available.
However, Scarlett didn’t have the required tobacco coupons. Instead of the listed price of $0.35 per pack, she had to pay $0.50. This was only because ‘Great Front Gate’ had a large production volume—otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to buy it at all.
Carrying the cigarettes she had talked her way into buying, Scarlett took a while to calm down.
Yes, the tobacco business was lucrative, but only if she could find the right connections. It wasn’t something individuals could trade privately; official approval was necessary. While Scarlett couldn’t achieve that in the short term, it didn’t mean she couldn’t eventually develop the right relationships. Her starting point would be Lawerence Hughes, as recommended by Bruce.
Her initial goal was to find buyers for her yellow eels, but that didn’t mean she had to sell eels forever.
Scarlett got on her bike and headed west.
The western suburbs had once been barren land, but since the 1950s, large industrial plants—like those for cotton, abrasives, coal machinery, and dyeing—had been established there. As a result, the Harborfield city council decided to build new office buildings in the area. Alongside the relocation, they constructed a city council guesthouse. Completed in 1963, the guesthouse building had aged well over the past 20 years. The five-story structure was surrounded by colonnades and featured overhanging eaves, creating a layered look. The glazed tiles and decorative carvings added an air of sophistication to its grandeur.
The area had developed over the past two or three decades and wasn’t as desolate as Scarlett had imagined. Locals still referred to it as the “western suburbs” to distinguish it from the old city center. However, the area lacked the liveliness of streets filled with food stalls or bustling farmer’s markets. Those who came to the city council guesthouse were usually attending meetings, on official business, or employed by government units.
Scarlett arrived by bike, without a referral letter. Despite her striking looks, she was dressed like a farmer.
The guesthouse didn’t explicitly ban farmers, but eating or staying there without a referral was out of the question. Scarlett claimed she was there to visit a relative, and the staff directed her to wait by the back entrance.
After a while, a short, stocky man in his thirties came out. He looked no different from others Scarlett had encountered in this era except for his noticeably plump build. In an age when most people were undernourished, the sight of a fat man was rare—a testament to the cushy nature of his job as a procurement officer at the city council guesthouse.
With his round face, his eyes appeared particularly small.
