Chapter 8 Price

The next morning before dawn, despite the severe cold of winter, Dean got out of his warm bed.

The reason for his enthusiasm was, of course, to check the results of his all-night efforts.

Upon opening the floppy disk on the computer and seeing the five or six numbers recorded inside, Dean swung his fist vigorously.

But now was not the time to be happy, he wrote down the numbers from the floppy disk on a piece of paper, then quickly got dressed and ran downstairs.

"Dean, finish your breakfast before you go out!" Aunt Rachel's voice came from behind him.

"Aunt Rachel, I'll be right back."

Without time to explain to his aunt, Dean found the nearest public phone booth on Bruce Street.

As for why he was at the phone booth, of course, it was to check the balance remaining on the phone cards represented by these access codes!

Five minutes later, Dean walked out of the phone booth, whistling and looking relaxed.

Not too bad, two $50, two $30, and one $20 cards. There was also one that had been used, with just a few dollars remaining.

Dean had carefully researched the day before. During the first step of entering the telephone company's dialing number, a string of digits represented different series of phone cards.

Phone cards also come in different thematic series, such as those tied in with entertainment stars, games, etc.

So to try out the latest, unused card codes, one just needed to look up the recent phone card series released by the MCI company.

By filtering during the first step of dialing, there was a high likelihood of finding unused phone cards, and indeed this proved to be the case.

With these usable card codes, the next step for Dean was to figure out how to convert them into cash.

This step was not easy and was a bit troublesome. If not handled well, it could easily lead to a visit from the FBI, so careful planning was needed.

Of course, the automatic dialing software on the computer would not stop; it would still activate at night and continue until the morning.

These numbers that had been tried out, they were an invisible fortune. Dean wouldn't find them a burden, no matter how many he had.

To put it plainly, the series of actions to crack card codes was not new and had been done by others long before.

The most famous were probably the two Steves of Apple Inc., although there were some differences between them.

What Jobs and his partner used back then was a blue box to simulate dial tones to make free phone calls, a physical means.

But as telephone companies upgraded their communication technology, this audio method was gradually phased out.

To deal with increasingly complex communication principles, Dean naturally chose the computer to assist in completing this work, a software approach.

Although the ultimate goal of both was the same, to freeload off the telephone company, the specific solutions were different.

In fact, with these access codes, Dean could even enter the telephone company's server and perform higher-level operations, but he chose not to.

He just wanted enough money to solve his immediate troubles, rather than relying on these methods for long-term profit.

Besides, this kind of opportunism would not last long. Once companies like Bell or MCI detected anomalies with the phone cards, they would definitely patch the vulnerabilities promptly.

If not cautious, they might trace it back to the source.

So it's enough to taste the fruits, without being greedy.

...

"Aunt Rachel, I need to see a doctor today."

"A doctor?" Rachel looked up, "Dean, are you sick?"

"No, just chatting with a psychiatrist."

"A psychiatrist?" Rachel's voice involuntarily rose, "Dean, if you're having thoughts, don't do anything foolish!" Before she could finish her sentence, she turned to her husband, "Frank, shouldn't you say something?"

"Aunt Rachel, seeing the doctor was lawyer Wedner's suggestion; he thinks the person might be able to help with Dad's case," Dean explained, realizing his aunt had misunderstood.

As for Frank, who was drinking coffee, he shrugged and continued to read the "Youngstown Guardian" after shrugging his shoulders.

"All right, everyone knows the plan, and I'm the only one kept in the dark, huh?" Rachel figured it out; clearly, the two had talked it over already.

"We hoped you could have some undisturbed rest since you've been working the night shift these past few days," Dean responded.

"Exactly," Frank nodded in agreement.

"But for something this important, you should at least consult with me," Rachel was still somewhat discontent.

"Aunt, you've already done plenty for me and Dad," Dean looked at his aunt sincerely.

"Oh, child, we are family," Rachel came over and hugged Dean, her expression relieved.

The Prices were not native Youngstowners; they had few relatives to depend on here, so Rachel cherished their family bond all the more.

"Frank, have you found a suitable tenant for Dean's house yet?" Several days had passed since the decision to rent out the house, but she had heard no news from Frank.

Frank put down his newspaper, getting ready to head to work. "Not many people are looking to rent lately, though I did turn down some guys from the Youngstown Black Gang who were asking about it," he said.

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"It's such a pity, we'll just have to wait and see," Aunt Rachel lamented not about Frank's decision to reject the black man, but about the low number of renters.

Without a doubt, Rachel was a kind woman, but that didn't mean she was willing to see black people move into her neighborhood.

Once black people moved into a white neighborhood, it wouldn't take long before some odd characters appeared.

Then the neat walls would start to sport graffiti, white people would move away, and as the security deteriorated, more black people would arrive.

This outcome was not new in Youngstown; Rachel and Peter used to live in the east of the city when they were young.

Back then, the east side wasn't a black neighborhood like it is today but was a mixed-race area.

In Rachel's memory, when they lived in the east side, their neighbors were Italians, across the street were Hungarians, and Puerto Ricans lived in the blue house.

There were also some black people around, but not many; overall, there were more white people.

However, since the late '70s, a large number of white people left the east side and migrated to the south and west of the city.

The reason was the increasing number of black people in the east side, which is also why Peter insisted on buying a house in the south side despite the high interest rates in double digits.

Since no suitable renters had been found, waiting was the only option. If necessary, placing a rental advertisement in the paper in a couple of days would also work.

Of course, that was the last resort since even advertising cost money.

After breakfast, Dean prepared to head to a place near the east side to meet with Dr. Sean Murphy.

Hopefully, the doctor introduced by Wedner was an easygoing person, at least someone who could help with Peter's case.

As Dean was about to leave for the nearest bus stop, Aunt Rachel chased after him.

"Take this, Dean, you'll need it."

"No, Aunt, I can't take your money."

"Dean, listen to me," Rachel looked at Dean, "I know you've put in a lot of effort for Peter's situation, but this isn't your responsibility alone. Don't forget, we're a family, ah?"

"Aunt, I will pay you back," Dean didn't refuse this time, accepting the two hundred US dollars Rachel handed out to him.

"No, it's Peter who owes me," Rachel corrected him.

"Right," Dean laughed.

...

The biggest difference between the east side and the south side was that the streets here were messier, there was more rubbish on the roads, and of course, there were more African Americans.

Passing an intersection, Dean even saw a wooden sign that read "Youngstown Black Gang."

Some uninhabited houses, due to the ravages of time, had their exterior wall panels peeling off. But the most conspicuous was a leaning house, its blackened facade indicating it must have suffered through a Molotov cocktail or two.

Soon Dean stopped in front of the burned house, unsure if he was at the right place.

It didn't look like a psychological consultation clinic, especially not with a few black vagrants beating up an Asian not far from where Dean stood.

Although the Asian man was beaten to the ground, Dean had no intention of intervening.

Because in those brief seconds, he had heard three "fuck's" burst out from the Asian man's mouth.

As for why he was being beaten, Dean guessed it was because the African Americans mistook him for a Japanese person.

Japanese steel companies had bought several local factories in Youngstown, and Packard's electronics had suffered from the invasion of Japanese cars, with profits declining over the past two years.

So it was not unusual to Dean for Japanese people to be beaten in the streets. The problem was that it was easy to mistake someone's nationality since, to many Americans, all Asian people looked alike.

"If you're planning to watch all morning, why don't we go next door, buy a couple of beers, and watch together? To be honest, even though I don't like niggers, I hate Japanese people too."

"He's Korean," Dean replied without looking back.

"Korean? Can you tell the difference between Koreans and Japanese?"

"Of course..." But Dean stopped mid-sentence as he realized someone had joined him.

Disheveled white hair piled atop his head, a jacket casually flung open. The middle-aged man stood with his hands in his pockets, smiling amiably at the brutal scene not far off.

Seeing Dean not responding, the middle-aged man turned his face and made a familiar nod, "Sean Murphy."

"Dean Price."

"Price?" "Wait, Dr. Murphy?"

"You're here to see a doctor, but I think you look quite well mentally," Sean wasn't surprised Dean had heard of him, considering he was the only psychologist in the east side.

"No, Mr. Wedner referred me," Dean quickly took out the business card Wedner had given him.

"Ah, that guy." Sean nodded in understanding, "You're here to ask about another Price, a young man?"

"What?" Dean looked up in surprise, to his knowledge, there weren't many people named Price in Youngstown.

"One or two weeks ago, another Price came to see me. He seemed in a pretty bad mental state," Sean shrugged.

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