Chapter 17 - What Gangs Mean to Me
Knock, knock.
The next morning. We were having breakfast as a family. Someone knocked on the door.
"Mrs. Graves, are you there? This is the police."
Clatter.
At the same time, my mother and I both dropped our spoons.
"Mom, big brother. Are you two feeling sick?"
Roa picked up the spoons that had fallen to the floor, while Liam clenched his fists, his face stiff.
He looked tense, as if he knew something.
Honestly, I was even more anxious right now.
Knock, knock.
"Mrs. Graves?"
"Ciaran…"
The knocking grew louder and louder.
My mother looked at me, her face on the verge of tears.
This doesn't make sense—everything was perfect.
Even if someone saw me in the early morning, there's no way they'd have seen my face.
"Why is everyone just sitting here when the police officers are at the door?"
Unable to stand it any longer, Roa dashed over and opened the door.
Holy shit.
My mother and I frantically shook our heads, but Roa was unstoppable.
At this rate, she'd open up even if a gang knocked on our door. I really need to teach her better later.
Click.
When the door opened, we saw two uniformed police officers. Roa greeted them energetically.
"Good morning, officers!"
"Hello, young lady. Sorry, it seems we're interrupting your breakfast."
The officer in his mid-thirties glanced at our table and gave an embarrassed smile.
It doesn't seem like they're here to arrest me.
Or maybe they're just putting on an act for young Roa's sake?
Do such kind police officers really exist in the Lower East Side? That's what I was wondering.
"What brings you here so early in the morning?"
My mother asked calmly.
Her voice and expression were incredibly composed, a stark contrast to how anxious and nervous she'd just been.
"It's nothing else. There was a major incident last night at a warehouse near the East Docks. A large number of sewing machines were discovered there."
"S-sewing machines?"
Thank goodness.
The police were here to confirm whether the sewing machines matched the ones taken from the basement workshop.
The only reason they'd come to see my mother among all the workers was simply because, like the officers, she was Irish.
"No matter how you look at it, they seem to be the ones from your basement workshop, but the higher-ups want to make absolutely sure."
"I'll gather a couple coworkers right away."
My mother's voice was tinged with excitement.
"It might cause a scene if too many people show up, so just bring two more with you. The scene has been preserved as is, so there's no need to rush."
The officers said they'd wait on the first floor, then left.
"You guys can handle eating and cleaning up, right?"
"Of course! Go ahead!"
Roa's reply, as always, was loud and clear.
Smiling brightly, my mother grabbed only her coat and headed out the door.
As soon as the door closed, Liam looked at me, still holding his bread.
"Hey…"
"Why, what's up?"
He glanced at Roa, then shook his head.
"It's nothing."
"Big brother, are you really going to change your mind mid-sentence?"
"Yes, I am. Just eat your bread."
"Ta-da! Roa already finished hers, you know?"
She held up her empty plate triumphantly, crumbs falling everywhere.
"What are you doing?"
"Don't worry, I'll eat those too."
"Ugh, that's disgusting."
"Then give me yours, big brother. I'm still hungry."
Without a word, I pushed my plate over to Roa.
She stared at me, her eyes wide in disbelief.
"Am I still asleep? Is this a dream?"
"Yeah, it's a dream. So eat up and hurry up and grow."
"That's right. Roa is the smallest among her friends."
Smallest, seriously?
It's all because she hasn't been able to eat enough meat.
One day, I'll catch something and let her eat until her stomach bursts…
No, this isn't the time to be thinking about that.
"I should head out too."
I left the cleaning up to Liam and Roa and went downstairs.
Mother looked startled and quickly signaled for me to come back inside, but
I insisted I was fine.
The police didn't pay any attention to me.
To them, I was just a curious boy—nothing more, nothing less.
The scene of the incident.
Police, reporters, and onlookers crowded around the warehouse and the area nearby.
"Ladies, please come over here and check if these are your sewing machines."
There were no bodies scattered inside or outside the warehouse anymore, only large bloodstains on the floor hinting at what had happened here.
Mother and the other women inspected the four sewing machines set out atop the bloodstains.
Their positions were all different, left where the men carrying them had been shot and killed.
They were Singer sewing machines, a brand that pretty much dominated the market.
That alone wasn't enough to prove they'd been taken from the workshop.
They opened the drawers.
Because the sewing machines had been confiscated without any warning, the drawers still contained belongings of the employees who used those particular machines.
Scissors, knives, bundles of thread, buttons, and so on.
Mother and the other women could immediately recognize whose things they were.
"These belonged to Mrs. Monica, no doubt about it. This machine came from our workshop."
"How many machines were taken that day?"
"Thirty-two.
" "The numbers match up. Everything checks out. You can all head home now."
Just check and leave?
"Aren't you going to tell us what happened?"
"Why are our sewing machines here, and what happened to those loan sharks? We have a right to know."
With slightly awkward wording, the workers fired off their questions.
Seeing this, Mother glanced at me briefly, then walked over to the row of sewing machines and began opening the drawers one by one.
While she was doing that, the police started explaining the incident to the women.
To sum up.
There had been a shootout in the warehouse last night, and all the loan sharks were dead.
"So, what's going to happen to the sewing machines?"
"The ownership will naturally return to the families of the deceased. The machines were taken in exchange for the debt owed to the late boss."
"We had debts with him too!"
"That matter has already been settled, hasn't it."
After the owner died, the employees went to the police station and claimed a portion of the rights to the sewing machines as compensation for their unpaid wages.
Of course, they were denied.
The reason was that a legitimate sales contract existed.
Even if I tore up the contract I have right now, nothing would change.
As soon as the owner died, the police declared the contract valid through proper legal procedures.
If I want to turn things around...
"Here, I've found something important!"
Mother was waving letters and account books in both hands. The police, sweatshop workers, and reporters all rushed over.
This was the moment when the owner's entire scam would be exposed.
I don't know how things will unfold from here, but one thing is certain: the question of who owns these sewing machines will become a raging controversy.
But aside from that, what I need to do is...
Suddenly, someone placed a hand on my shoulder
"Hey, you. Come with me for a minute."
That familiar voice.
Tanner Smith was here?
A little ways away from the scene of the incident.
Tanner, with a rope tied around his waist, stared intently at me.
"Eight people died in the warehouse. And every single one of them was a Hudson Dusters gang member."
I didn't respond.
"Do you know who the police are pointing to as the suspect?"
"I'm not sure."
"Mike Costello."
"Who's that?"
"He's the real leader of the Hudson Dusters, now that they're falling apart."
Looks like they've caught wind of what those guys were up to last night.
Well, they were galloping around on horseback at dawn, after all.
Did I smirk without meaning to?
Tanner scowled and leaned in, his face threateningly close.
"You showed up at my place yesterday and told me straight up you were going after the Hudson Dusters."
And then, that's exactly what happened.
Every single one of the people killed and all the suspects from last night were members of the Hudson Dusters gang.
"Does that make any sense?"
"Why wouldn't it?"
Tanner's face turned bright red in his agitation, and his voice grew rough.
"Damn it, how the hell did you pull that off? Wait, are you admitting it just now? If that's the case, I should go straight to the police and tell them."
"Do you actually believe me?"
Tanner looked up at the sky, then eventually shook his head.
"...No. I don't."
"Then do you think the police would believe it?"
Proving with words alone that "I did it" was ridiculous, and talking in circles like this would never get us anywhere.
I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket and held it out.
"And what's this supposed to be now?"
Tanner impatiently took the paper and unfolded it.
As his eyes scanned the document, they started to waver.
It was the sewing machine contract—the one Stumpy had made with the manager, both of them in on the scheme together.
This was hard evidence, something you could only have if you'd actually been at the scene.
Mouth agape, Tanner tore his gaze from the contract and looked at me.
At the same time, he looked as if he couldn't understand why I was giving this to him.
"What if I take this to the police?"
"You're asking the same thing again. If you show them that, who do you think they're going to arrest?"
His eyes drifted upward for a moment.
Then Tanner, seeming to get it, nodded at me.
"...You're right. I'd be the one screwed."
The former boss of the Marginals, now preparing to fight the Hudson Dusters, versus a seventeen-year-old shoeshine boy.
If someone brings a contract like this to the police, who do you think they'll be putting in handcuffs?
For about a minute, Tanner didn't say a word.
Then finally, he spoke up.
"So, what was your vision again? Or wait—was it that you wanted to make a deal?"
It felt like I'd taken a step closer to Tanner.
Sooner than I'd expected.
***
On the way home from the scene of the incident.
I walked a little behind my mother's coworkers, side by side with my mother.
As if she'd been waiting for the right moment, she quietly asked me.
"Did you go to the warehouse for that job?"
"Yes."
"And you did it all by yourself?"
"Who would've helped with something like that?"
My mother stroked her lips, then asked another question.
"You just… killed people, yet how can you act so calm about it?"
"They weren't people."
She nodded in agreement.
Then, as if trying her best to understand me, she let her anger simmer and rise again. And I encouraged her.
"They deliberately went bankrupt just to dodge paying wages, then pretended to be loan sharks and stole the equipment."
"What kind of person does that? They got what they deserved."
"Exactly, they did."
My mother repeated my words to convince herself.
The fact that she changed the subject was proof enough.
"The sewing machine where you hid the evidence—it was the one I used. Did you pick that one on purpose?"
Of course not, it was just a crazy coincidence.
I'm just as surprised as you are.
But really, there's no reason to deny it.
I simply answered with a smile.
My mother smiled and handed me a photograph.
It was a picture of my parents when they were young.
"When I went to Joseon as a missionary, your father and I took this photo. I was so upset that I couldn't save it that day…"
Saying that she had gotten the photo back because of me, my mother suddenly linked her arm with mine.
"I'm anxious, worried, and things aren't like they used to be, so it scares me... but I trust my son."
"From now on, a lot is going to change. For the better, of course."
Smiling, my mother continued, though her voice was tinged with worry.
"But, son... even if the evidence is revealed, I don't think it'll be easy to get the sewing machines back."
"I think so too."
It was clear the boss had committed fraud.
However, there was still controversy over what kind of deals had gone on with the loan sharks and whether the contract itself was valid.
"But at least we now have a reason to fight because of all this. It's come to light that we suffered at the hands of a swindler, hasn't it?"
"You'll need to take care of that, but you should start preparing for other things too."
"Like what?"
Taking over the workshop, creating new lingerie designs, finding new clients to supply…
"Is it really okay to use that money? People might think it's suspicious…"
"You'll need to say it's an investment someone made in you."
"Who would invest in me?"
"There must be someone around you… someone wealthy and generous…"
A pushover.
Tanner Smith came to mind, but he didn't have any money.
My mother went back to walking alongside her colleagues, discussing what lay ahead, while I followed behind, mulling over the conversation I'd had with Tanner.
So, what's your big vision? he had asked.
I'd talked about making a fortune during Prohibition.
About securing a warehouse for smuggling and bribing harbor officials—making a move before anyone else.
Dramatic, right?
Of course, Tanner had seemed unimpressed.
Guys full of hot air always talk like you do.
They make it sound like Prohibition's going to turn up a gold mine or something.
But tell me, when is that damn law actually going to pass?
No, is it even going to happen?
Don't you read the newspapers?
Wait, there's been an announcement?!
No.
Damn it… Never mind. Why don't you talk about something else instead?
Didn't you say you wanted to do business with me?
Because of what I'd done last night, the Hudson Dusters had taken a serious hit.
Everyone who died in the warehouse or was framed as a suspect was a member of the Hudson Dusters.
Tanner, as if congratulating me on my accomplishment, told me to name what I wanted.
Everything I wanted was connected to Prohibition, but since the law hadn't actually passed yet, it was still too early to make big moves.
For now, what I needed to do was start building my own crew in preparation for that day.
'I'd like to set up a Marginals sub-unit. How about putting me in charge of a part of it?'
'Do you think that makes any sense? I quit all that a long time ago. Even if I were still the boss, it's not something I could just decide on my own.'
This was something different from the crime organizations I knew from the future.
Members of the Marginals Gang weren't locked into a strict hierarchy. If they didn't like something, they could quit at any time or switch to another gang.
There were no strict rules or retaliation involved in the process.
"So who would want to take orders from a seventeen-year-old?"
Tanner suggested that maybe I should start from the bottom instead.
"This isn't something you can rush. I'll make some recommendations—pick from these."
Rookie: A newcomer who learns all kinds of criminal ways by following the senior gang members.
Scut Work: Responsible for cleaning the hideout, maintaining weapons, and other trivial chores.
Dipper: Picks pockets and commits theft.
Back Up: Supports fights or criminal operations.
"And also—"
"No, that's enough. Let's talk again soon."
You want these quick hands of mine… just to pick someone's pockets?
To watch the door or guard the rear?
Did I join a gang just for that kind of petty work?
"I'm aiming for something much bigger."
"Yeah, everyone your age has big dreams. I was the same, kid."
Tanner said my ambitions at seventeen were nothing but wild fantasies.
But before we parted, Tanner left me with something worth thinking about.
'You could be a hell of a fighter on your own, but one bullet and you're dead. If you really want to build a gang, you need to win over your people. Make them trust you and follow you—that's how you become a true boss.'
He's right.
But the kind of gang I want isn't like that.
Why did gangs form in the first place?
Immigrants who couldn't rely on the law banded together for protection, creating their own communities of power—that's how gangs began.
Let's go back to the beginning.
A gang that protects itself and those around it.
The gang I want to build will be more like a vigilante group.