Chapter 88
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 88
Chapter Title: Boardwalk Empire (1)
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Yushin Kim—no, Kim Yushin—dragged himself out of bed just as the morning sun was rising.
Around the time other kids his age were agonizing over college applications, Yushin suddenly found himself being called "President."
Not that he was complaining. Ever since that damn brother of his had shipped off to West Point, inheriting the family business had fallen squarely on his shoulders anyway.
But the family business he'd imagined was just a modest little shop, not the presidency of a massive corporation employing hundreds, if not thousands.
People get used to anything if you give them enough time, sure—but just when he thought he was getting the hang of it, his lunatic brother would drag home some bizarre new idea, screeching like a banshee, and suddenly Yushin's workload was shooting straight up like a New York stock chart.
Take what happened two days ago, for instance.
"Hey! Hey, hey, hey! Kim Yushin!"
"What fresh hell do you want me to handle now?"
"Look at this! Check this out!"
"What is it?"
Dad had mentioned in a letter that he was coughing a bit, and this idiot brother of his had immediately torn across the continent to San Francisco like a human tornado.
Yushin might not have much to say if you called him an unfilial son, but crossing the entire American landmass wasn't exactly a walk in the park.
Anyway, the brothers had gone out together for the first time in ages and stopped by the pharmacy, but instead of grabbing the cough syrup they'd come for, his brother was clutching something weird.
"Mouthwash? What's this for?"
"Let's buy one of these."
"You saying my breath stinks?"
"No, you moron. I'd have just asked if you'd jammed a sewer pipe down your throat. Why beat around the bush?"
"Fuck. Thanks a bunch, really touching."
"Buy the company that makes this."
He tossed out the insane idea like it was nothing.
"You joking?"
"Nope. Dead serious."
His brother had always been a nutjob, but every now and then he'd spot some random thing on the street and go off like, "Holy shit, this is it!" Then he'd casually drop, "Think we could buy the company behind this?"
"Got it. I'll look into it. Probably hand it off to Miller."
"Acquire it outright if we can. If not, snag some shares at least."
"Sigh... Fine, fine."
At least so far, none of the companies his brother had insisted on buying had turned out to be total disasters, so Yushin didn't bother refusing.
That day, Yushin had to ring up the mouthwash—Listerine, it was called—along with whatever else his brother grabbed.
After washing up and wolfing down breakfast, Yushin headed straight to the office.
Orders for the Grease Gun were still pouring in, even though the war was over.
"France wants to buy 30,000 units."
"Check the terms and see if we can meet the delivery timeline."
"Got it. And they've also requested a license for domestic production—"
This damn submachine gun had to be one of his crazy brother's brainchildren. Repairs cost more than a brand-new one, the price was insane, but the sheer convenience and firepower were unmatched.
At first, people would scoff, "What kind of ugly piece-of-shit gun is this supposed to be?" But thanks to his brother's relentless global promotion, demand kept climbing.
His brother was dying to peddle this magic squirter to mailmen, base guards, close-protection details—anyone. He'd been buzzing around California like a fly these past few days... God, please don't pile on more work.
With Yewin—the guy who'd been helping out—announcing he was heading to college, Yushin's load had only gotten heavier.
Ditching the sacred duties of the Korean people and the Kim family for school? The traitor deserved to be torn limb from limb. But Dad, of course, doted on the baby of the family.
"Son, shouldn't the youngest get to do what he wants?"
"What did big bro say?"
"Your brother was all for it."
Unbelievable. That demon setting a slave free?
"He said there are jobs that need college grads. Can't argue with that."
Yeah, that tracks.
His brother wasn't cut out to be a soldier—he was born to be a boss. If he'd come along a few decades earlier, he might've dominated American history as a mega-slave trader.
As his secretary briefed him on the Detroit trip, a sigh escaped Yushin's lips.
The M1917 tank had skyrocketed Ford's sales.
Selling tens of thousands had turned Ford's tank subsidiary into a golden goose, and with their stake and royalties, the Kims had been swimming in cash.
But the wartime boom was over. Ford Tank Company had slyly rebranded to Ford Tractor Company, pushing the Fordson tractor as their new flagship.
Trip to Detroit meant handling the Fordson distribution network for western farms, steel supply chains—tons to do. He'd be stuck there at least a week.
Meanwhile, his brother was scheming some nefarious plot with young Ford. Cross-shareholding or whatever... He'd overheard Miller yammering about stakes and stock prices. Whatever it was, it wasn't sane, so good-guy Yushin decided to tune it out.
By the time he'd wrapped up the major business items, the sun was setting. How did a full day of work not dent the pile at all?
"Secretary Kim."
"Yes, sir?"
"Where's that da—... ahem, where's my brother?"
"At a funeral. Probably still at the parlor."
The words "funeral parlor" hit like a migraine.
What the hell was a funeral parlor anyway? If it was a proper Korean funeral, you'd at least throw up a thatched hut. Otherwise, it was church services. Funeral parlor? That was just a bar.
"Let's head there."
"Right away. I'll get the car ready."
"I'll go alone—you head home first. Just prep the driver."
"Understood."
His secretary fought back a grin as she replied.
Yep, I'm not like my brother. If it were him, he'd be like, "Trying to clock out while I'm still working? Hell no!" clinging like a drowned rat.
Yushin consoled himself like that as he headed to the source of his headaches: the funeral parlor.
[Ubok]
The funeral parlor "Ubok."
It had been months since the place opened.
It used to be a building without even a sign, but now it sported a modest one. And they still denied it was a bar.
The name Ubok wasn't some fancy invention either.
"Je-Sa says it's what Koreans call a bar?"
"Nah, Je-Sa means funeral in their language."
"Funeral's just window dressing anyway. So what's it really called?"
"Uh, that. I heard from the Korea expert—Umbo? Ubok? Something about getting a free meal at funerals."
Hardly any of those big-nosed folks could pronounce "eumbok" right, so it got mangled. Now, California's elite all had "Korean funeral parlor = legal bar = Ubok" etched in their brains.
Just seeing that made Yushin's neck ache, but his brother had raided Chinatown, dragged in some Qing dynasty official, slapped on a fancy title, and made him the head mourner.
"Bro, who's that old guy?"
"Him? Uh... funeral director? Something like that."
"What the hell is that, and why do we need one?!"
"My dear little brother, every wedding, funeral, rite in this world piles on procedures to make it all proper and formal."
His brother made an O with thumb and forefinger, smiling.
"These rootless Yankees go gaga for 'tradition.' Can't resist a taste of 5,000-year-old ritual. Gotta sweat the details to stand out from sketchy illegal joints. Differentiation, baby."
"We're here."
"Thanks. You can head out."
A few minutes' walk from the road to the parlor.
A couple guards with Grease Guns slung over their shoulders approached him.
"You're here!"
"Hard at work as always. How's business today?"
"Same as ever—customers lining up."
This damn funeral had turned into a full-blown business.
Because it was a funeral parlor, no obituary meant no entry. Absolutely not a members-only bar. Strictly welcoming guests of the invited only. Yeah, right.
And the obituaries were sent out by the current head mourner, who was deep in his three-year mourning period. Three years of filial piety, straight from Confucius—no skimping. Not planning to shut down after three years, nope.
Getting an Ubok invite was now the benchmark for whether you were a big shot in California. What a circus.
No way to vent about the tangled mess, so Yushin just sighed and stepped inside the shop—no, the parlor.
"Evening, President."
"You're working hard."
First, pay respects to the head mourner per protocol, then bow to the deceased's spirit tablet.
Then straight down to the basement.
"Fifty, plus fifty more."
"Call and raise."
"Wait, you're seriously following?"
"Why? Scared? You know what to do if you are."
"Bro."
"Whoa, shit. What're you doing here?"
"What do you think?"
His damn brother, who was staring holes into the poker spread, startled and hurriedly covered his hand.
"Oh, right—introductions first. This gentleman is Governor William Stephens."
"Pleased to meet you. I've heard you're the rising star of the Korean community—been dying to meet you."
"Yushin Kim. I've long admired you too, Governor."
His tongue was getting slick even with governors now.
Sure. He'd met Henry Ford, Congressman Curtis—what's a governor?
He got introduced to the others at the table too—all top dogs in California.
"This a game? Is this a game?!"
"Heh. Why'd you follow then? Undefeated on the battlefield, but a total fish at poker?"
"No way this happens. They called me West Point's Devil—me, fleeced like this? Yushin, grab a hand? Come fill my wallet?"
Yushin naturally took cards for the next round.
As they played, talk turned to country, politics, business—everything under the sun.
"Time to ban Jap immigration for good, no?"
"Absolutely. Every time relations sour with Japan, riots brew. No more Japs."
"Ahem! General Kim's right here—sure about that?"
"Me? Hell yes, I'm all for it. Historically, Japs are untrustworthy scum."
"Really?"
"Come on, cards up. Even I turned those blacks into patriotic heroes, but Japs as soldiers? No confidence."
Yushin realized he was paying more attention to the chat than his hand.
The governor and his pals wanted to clamp down on Japanese immigrants, and Eugene was chuckling along while slyly seeding, "Instead of unreliable Japs, why not bring in more Koreans?"
"Koreans love the law and order's virtues, unlike Japs or Chinks. Fewer numbers, later arrivals, but look at what California Koreans have achieved. My brother and I prove how badly Koreans want to blend into America, right?"
"Spot on. Nothing proves it like solid work!"
"Bet you this—as long as my bro and I are around, Koreans and riots won't mix. Instead, you'll get a stream of second Eugene Kims shining for America. Now, queen-high pair. Chips, please."
"Kings pair."
"Shit game! Total bust!!"
Poker wrapped hours later. Flushed from booze, they piled into cars and scattered.
Yushin watched the staff clean up, then approached his brother, who had a cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Bro, didn't you lose a ton today?"
"Lose?"
"Hundreds of bucks down the drain."
"Obviously. That's what I sprinkled to let 'em win."
What the hell?
"Think about it. Feels better winning a hundred at the table than getting a thousand slipped in your pocket, right? They'll figure it out anyway. 'Oh, that guy's throwing the game.'"
Yushin wanted to crack his skull open. Did years of army chow rot your brain like that?
Still, brother was a genius, no doubt. No wonder Dosan raved about him as the nation's hero nonstop.
"I oiled 'em up good today, so push that Grease Gun state contract hard. After all that sweet-talk, they'll buy a few crates. So, you seeing any girls?"
"Teasing me now? Quit dumping work on me first!"
"You think I had time for Dorothy? We met once, pen-pals for years, then married. Gotta put in the effort."
Never mind.
Hero or not to outsiders, at home he was just a damn nuisance.