Chapter 362: Chicken Brothers
After failing to persuade Frank, the staff member returned to the counter and reported the situation to the manager, occasionally glancing over at Frank and Castle's table.
The manager said a few quiet words, and after that, no one came to bother them again.
It was as if they didn't exist.
The employees went about their closing routines—mopping floors, wiping surfaces, counting inventory, preparing for the next day.
Click. Click.
Most of the lights were turned off. Only the area around Frank's table and the counter remained lit.
One by one, the staff changed out of their uniforms and into their own clothes.
A male employee looked toward the manager, silently asking if they should throw the two "troublemakers" out.
"You all head home," the manager said.
After everyone left, the manager walked over to Frank.
"Please, sit," Frank said calmly.
The manager pulled out a chair and sat down across from him.
By the time the restaurant was empty except for the three of them, Castle had already moved. He stood near the entrance, positioned so he could monitor both the outside and Frank at the same time.
"You've got a very capable man," the manager said, glancing at Castle.
"Goodman was right," Frank replied. "You're cautious. Patient."
During the day, this same manager had been in the restaurant the entire time. He had even approached them, casually asking if everything was to their satisfaction.
He hadn't hidden at all.
If anything, he had been observing them in plain sight—walking past them, standing nearby, watching.
"I'm curious," the manager said. "How did you figure it out?"
"You've been to plenty of fast-food places, right?" Frank said, seemingly off-topic.
"…Yes."
"I used to be poor," Frank continued. "Fast food like burgers was how I survived. So I know what these places are usually like."
He looked around the spotless restaurant.
"This place… is too clean."
In the West, fast food was mostly for the lower class—not exclusively, of course. There were always exceptions, like certain billionaire playboys who still craved burgers.
But generally speaking, cheap, filling food was what the poor relied on most.
And most of the poor hadn't received much education.
Unlike in the East, where basic education was widespread, many in the West grew up without structure—skipping school, drifting through life. In places like the South Side, dropping out early was common. Teenage pregnancies weren't unusual either.
As a result, many customers lacked basic habits or discipline.
And fast-food restaurants reflected that.
Sticky gum under tables. Stains that never quite came off. Messy, worn-down environments.
Even the staff often came from similar backgrounds. Fiona and Sammi had both worked in places like this.
Fiona managed fine.
Sammi… not so much. With her temper, she'd snap at customers without hesitation. Service quality was the last thing on her mind.
But this place?
It was immaculate.
That was why, earlier in the day, Frank had asked Castle about the environment.
And why they had visited other branches—to confirm.
Those other "Chicken Brothers" locations were clean too—certainly cleaner than the ones back in the South Side.
But this one?
This one was on a completely different level.
After all, as a nationally recognized fast-food chain, "Chicken Brothers" had strict hygiene standards. And this wasn't the South Side—a chaotic slum filled with troublemakers.
Even so, if you really wanted to nitpick, you could still find flaws in the other branches—whether in cleanliness or service.
Only this location—the one managed by this man—was perfectly clean.
The staff didn't slack off. Everyone worked diligently, like model employees.
That alone was abnormal.
"I didn't expect to be exposed over something like this," the manager said with a faint, helpless smile.
"Well," Frank replied, "you are their boss. The owner of Chicken Brothers—Mr. Gustavo Fring."
Fring didn't deny it.
"You know," Frank continued, "a simple search online brings up your name. Your photo's right there."
Frank had only discovered this after looking up the brand out of curiosity. That was when he realized—the "manager" in front of him was actually the founder.
And suddenly, everything made sense.
If the boss himself was standing there watching, who would dare slack off?
But that led to another question.
Why would the owner of such a massive fast-food chain be here—in a small city—working alongside his employees instead of simply inspecting from afar?
Did he really have that much free time?
Then Frank thought back to what Goodman had said—the "mastermind," the meeting arranged in a noisy fast-food restaurant.
And it clicked.
Gustavo Fring… was almost certainly that man.
More than that, Frank could even guess how Fring's smuggling operation worked.
Fring had expanded Chicken Brothers across the country, much like Frank had built his factory—not for the business alone, but as a cover.
The difference was, Fring had done it on a far grander scale.
He used the chain as a transportation network.
Wherever there was a Chicken Brothers location, his goods could move.
At the same time, the business provided a perfect front for laundering money. Fast-food operations made it easy—cash flow was constant, records flexible.
The money got cleaned through the business…
Then reinvested to expand the chain even further.
A perfect cycle.
Efficient. Scalable. Invisible.
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