Chapter 3: Hustle in Chicago

My name is Mason Clark, and I’m a locksmith. Tonight’s job was already my forty-seventh of the day.

I know, forty-seven sounds crazy, but sometimes I count the little jobs too—fixing a latch here, popping a lock there. That’s life when you’re hustling in Chicago. I used to dream about something bigger, but for now, I’m the guy you call when your keys betray you.

The lock on Apartment 1404, Building 4, Maple Heights—the one I was about to fix—was the very same lock I’d tampered with earlier that afternoon.

I remembered the hallway’s faded carpet, the smell of takeout, and the faint sound of someone playing country music behind a closed door. I’d made it quick—no one saw me, not even the nosey guy down the hall who always watches through his peephole.

Honestly, it’s pretty simple. You just stick a toothpick into the keyhole, then snap it off so only a tiny piece remains inside. The key can’t be fully inserted, and even a small obstruction like that will keep it from turning. The owner either won’t dare to force it, or, if they do, the key will snap off in the lock. Either way, the door won’t open.

I’d learned the trick from an old-timer, a guy who swore by these little hacks. A single toothpick—so harmless, so invisible—could throw someone’s whole night off. Most folks panic and call for help, too worried to jam the key and risk making it worse. I banked on that fear.

That’s when I, the locksmith, come to the rescue. Not only do I unlock the door, I also persuade the customer to replace the lock cylinder. Service fee, unlocking fee, replacement fee—if you can’t manage this whole chain of charges, you’re not a real locksmith.

It’s the art of the upsell. People are rattled, grateful, and just want to get inside. I’m always polite, never pushy, but I make sure they see the value in a fresh lock and the peace of mind it brings. In this city, safety sells.