I bought a prison in the United States.

The times have led businessmen to shift from "making quick money" to "making slow money," jumping from one extreme to another.

Those who performed well became prominent local families.

If you don't do it well, you'll be back to square one after three generations.

"Actually, I've heard about the prison business too; there are people doing it in Texas."

Peterson took a sip of his coffee.

"They lock up undocumented Mexican immigrants and charge the federal government per person; I hear they make a good profit."

"But their reputation isn't good; the newspapers call them 'shelter tycoons,' which isn't a compliment."

Lin Ge did not respond to that question.

He knew that private prisons would become a huge industry in the future, and he also knew that it would cause great controversy.

But now he doesn't need to defend the entire industry; he only needs to manage his own small prison with a little over a hundred beds.

"However, Tulsa is different from the border."

Peterson himself changed the subject:

"The private prisons on the border rely on illegal immigrants, while Tulsa can only rely on local prisoners."

"The number of local prisoners is limited, and state prisons are also expanding."

"Your competitors aren't other private prisons, they're state prisons."

"Why should the state government spend money to send prisoners to you instead of keeping them in its existing prisons?"

This is a precise question.

The accuracy was so remarkable that Lingo realized that the round-faced, broad-shouldered middle-aged man in front of him was far more astute in business judgment than he appeared.

Moreover, it seems that the other party also has some curiosity about private prisons, and did not simply come to talk to Lingo to mock him.

Lin Ge revealed a calm smile:

"Mr. Peterson seems to be unaware that the operating costs of state prisons are at least 30% higher than those of private prisons."

"The prison guards are members of the civil service union, and their salaries and benefits are much higher than what I can offer."

"Purchasing has to go through the government procurement process, and the same items are 20% more expensive than the market price."

"If I can prove that my prison has lower operating costs and can enable inmates to engage in productive labor, the state government will be motivated to send more inmates to me."

Peterson nodded, and the emotion label above his head changed from "neutral" to "somewhat interested":

"How much lower can your costs be compared to state prisons?"

Lin Ge did not reveal specific data, but only highlighted his advantages:

"My prison guards are paid more than 20% less than those in state and federal prisons, and there are fewer of them."

"My cook prepares meals for seventy people by himself, while the state prison kitchen has at least three people."

"My prisoners can repair machines themselves and manage other prisoners themselves, so I can save money in every aspect."

When Lin Ge said these words, his voice was calm and neither humble nor arrogant.

This is what he learned from two bankruptcies in his previous life: when you really understand the numbers, you don't need to talk loudly.

Those intelligent collaborators will speak up for you.

Peterson's gaze became more serious, and the "slightly interested" comment above his head turned into "worthy of attention."

"This is my business card."

He took out a leather business card holder from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Lin Ge.

The business card was made of thick, off-white paper with dark blue lettering printed on it:

Ronald Peterson, President, Peterson Equipment Rental Company.

Address, telephone number, and fax number.

Simple and elegant, without any unnecessary decorations.

Lin Ge took the business card and also took out his own business card from his pocket and handed it over.

His business card was made a few days ago at a quick print shop in Tulsa; it was on white cardstock with black lettering and only included his name, the name of the prison, and a phone number.

Placed next to Peterson's business card, it's like a man in a secondhand suit standing among a group of businessmen in bespoke suits.

Peterson took the business card, glanced at it, and put it in his suit pocket.

"I have a few old industrial sewing machines that I got from a closed garment factory. I originally planned to disassemble them for parts."

"If your prison needs it, we can rent it to you cheaply."

"If your prison is up and running, remember to contact me first whenever you need pumps, generators, or any other equipment."

Ringo nodded; he was well aware of this unique way of interacting among Midwestern businessmen.

I won't say I want to be your friend, I'll only say:

"I have a batch of used sewing machines here that I can rent to you cheaply."

Good intentions must be presented as business deals, otherwise both parties will feel uncomfortable.

This is a remnant of Puritan ethics in business culture, where any relationship must have a practical, quantifiable basis.

Simple expressions of emotion are often viewed with suspicion.

After finishing his conversation, Peterson picked up his coffee cup and walked toward another group of people.

Lin Ge watched his figure disappear into a sea of ​​dark suits.

He looked down at the business card in his hand, turned it over, and found the back was blank.

Some people like to print their company's business scope and strengths on the back of their business cards, but Peterson did not.

Someone who is confident enough in their business doesn't need to write "GG" on the back of their business card.

He put the business card away and began to slowly walk around the conference room.

The attendees at the Chamber of Commerce's annual meeting were divided into several distinct circles.

People from the oil industry gathered on the left. Most of them were burly, spoke loudly, laughed loudly, and wore loose-fitting suits, a traditional style for Texas and Oklahoma oilmen.

People from the banking and finance sectors gathered on the right. They were thinner, quieter, and wore more tailored suits. They spoke in low voices, as if they were always discussing things that no one else could hear.

The manufacturing workers are scattered throughout the country; they are neither as flamboyant as oil makers nor as reserved as bankers.

However, they all shared a sense of weariness; they were a group of people who had been walking against the wind for a long time.

Lingo held his coffee cup, trying to find someone to talk to in the crowd.

But he soon discovered a problem.

His nameplate.

At the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce's annual meeting, people's eyes scan each other's nameplates before shaking hands.

Company name, job title, industry.

This action was so fast it was almost imperceptible, but it determined the tone of the conversation that followed.

When their eyes swept over the words "McLean County Correctional Center," most people would pause for a moment.

Then their gaze would move from the name tag to Ringo's face, and then to the seam of his suit on his shoulder, the slightly ill-fitting crease.

Then, in most cases, their expression would shift from polite curiosity to a subtle distance.

They weren't deliberately discriminating.

It's something more subtle; they don't know how to integrate it into their existing social framework.