Chapter 89
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 89
Chapter Title: Boardwalk Empire (2)
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I'm dying here.
I once thought it would be great to have two bodies, but that was wrong. Four bodies would be more like it.
In this mad era, one misstep, and everything goes up in smoke. The pressure was driving me half insane.
Sure, there were easy ways to make money. Just buy up stocks in Alcoa or US Steel and hold on tight—no thinking required—and you'd be sucking on sweet honey right up until the Great Depression.
But my goal wasn't just making money, was it?
"General, sir. Here's today's schedule."
"How much time's left on that 'general' title anyway? Call me! Hey, call me Lieutenant Kim!"
"About half a year? I can see right through you—you're just slacking off. Get to work."
"You heartless bastard. I've raised a tiger cub."
"Riding around in the division commander's car, guns blazing across the Amiens fields? That'll make anyone's guts grow."
Oh my, listen to that backtalk. Scary, scary. Next thing you know, he'll kidnap me in the dead of night to make me work.
But I'm a good adult, so I decided to behave and get to work. Not because he struck a Heavenly Demon stance or anything. Just fulfilling my duty as a soldier.
This soldier gig really made public activities a hassle.
Take me—I was juggling roles in politics, business, and the Korean community. Yet I couldn't even keep a secretary without issues. I couldn't dump this on my aide, Hodge, either.
Thank goodness Dorothy handled support after hours; otherwise, the workload would've been inhuman, and I'd have hanged myself long ago. Ah, still pissed that no status window popped up. With a god damn status screen, I wouldn't be suffering like this!
As I grumbled through the work, happy quitting time finally rolled around.
"Good night, General."
"You too. Head on in."
Stepping out of the new staff car, I entered my happiness-filled home. I'd parked the Black Lotus in our garage myself—a true keepsake, nothing else like it.
The moment I got home, the light of my life came toddling over excitedly.
"Welcome hooome!"
"Oh my. Henry's even coming out to greet me now!"
"Me! Me! Buy me a toy!"
Damn. That's why he came running.
Kids had freakishly sharp instincts. They didn't know the guilt that flickered in their dad's eyes every time he saw their faces, but they sure knew tugging on Daddy's pant leg got them treats and toys.
"Didn't I say no begging Daddy?"
"But! But!!"
"Now, now. Good children don't throw tantrums at Daddy. Honey, you've got a pile of telegrams and letters again—check them out."
"Right."
I headed straight to the study without even changing, sorting through the letters one by one.
The most urgent was the funeral home expansion.
We were adding Woobok locations in Los Angeles, Detroit, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., and New York.
Contrary to my assumptions, the big cities of 1920 hadn't fully evolved into megapolises yet. So location mattered for real estate value—ensuring solid profits even after Prohibition's boom faded.
I'd been diligently greasing palms, and fruits were ripening soon at a few spots.
This was a win-win for everyone. The big shots got classy spots to booze up, Koreans got dignified funerals and elite condolences, I got cash, and my vet buddies got jobs.
If that wasn't noblesse oblige, what was?
Then there was the The Sun matter.
Acquisitions of new stocks and company shares.
The Democrats' massive infighting, and the cutthroat Republican power struggle over the presidency that was theirs for the taking. Time to meet Congressman Curtis.
I told Dorothy to bring Henry and visit her father, but her reaction was lukewarm.
"Why Dad?"
"Hm? What's wrong with seeing your father who's right nearby?"
"You're lying. It's work again, isn't it?"
"After lighting that big a fire, you think his eyes wouldn't spin?"
Dorothy pondered, then sat beside me.
"Getting into politics?"
"Crazy talk. Why would I do politics? Only someone like General Pershing could pull that off."
"You've seemed awfully interested in the political scene lately."
"I'm not into politics, but politics is super into my life."
Toppling Wilson had plunged America's political stance into chaos.
The acting president—the VP—had basically abandoned domestic policy, aiming only to maintain the status quo until the next election. Betrayal by Wilson must've been gnawing at him.
A good chunk of those smug D.C. congressmen were itching to restrict immigration. Chinese were already barred; now they wanted to slam the door on Japanese, Asians, Eastern and Southern Europeans, boosting WASP—White Anglo-Saxon Protestant—immigration.
But Attorney General Palmer, the loudest on new immigration laws, had crashed hard, the administration was on life support, and the bill vanished.
My goal? Carve Koreans out of those restrictions. If not, Plan B: route them through Hawaii to the mainland.
Success meant absorbing many Koreans fleeing to Manchuria or the Russian Far East in despair. Public good and personal gain aligned perfectly.
Strengthening my father-in-law's political power would help, but that was tricky...
"Oh, and something else."
"What?"
"Big bro contacted me. Wants to meet."
"Come to think of it, I've never met him. What does he do?"
"He left home ages ago. Huge fight with Dad."
"What over?"
"Went sailing. Guess he's back since he reached out."
Another family headache.
And a master strategist like me never fights easy battles on unknown fields. Gotta sidestep.
"You should see him at least."
"W... well, yeah."
But sometimes you had no choice but a head-on clash. More questions for the father-in-law.
I wrapped up the talk and pulled out the thick next letter—a report from the trading firm I'd "invested" pocket change in.
Cover, of course. Really, it was a channel to Syngman Rhee and the Provisional Government.
Solid company operating in Asia, with Filipino staff—including one from Senior Vicente Lim's neighborhood. They were thrilled with the investment.
Syngman Rhee was following orders to the letter.
He'd set a clear 20-year timeline, and with Wilson fallen—his strongest backer—Rhee ditched diplomatic independence upon hitting Shanghai, switching to power-building.
"Why, when national self-determination was declared, do Koreans groan under Japanese bayonets while Ireland eyes independence? The heroic Irish struggle!"
But their fight's been going 800 years—why now? Full backing from Irish-Americans in the States!"
"100,000 troops! Feed, clothe, arm them, give them artillery—that's independence! First, plant Korean capital roots beyond Japanese reach!"
"Unam, didn't you push diplomatic independence? Admitting you were wrong all along?"
"Of course not! Paris Peace Conference taught me: Czechs, Poles, Arabs earned promises fighting our allies' foes! Diplomacy needs merits to flaunt before world powers!"
To activists, independence methods were sacred beliefs, unyielding.
To politicians, campaign promises changed thrice daily. Who could out-debate Rhee with words? With dollars backing him, he seized the Provisional Government smoothly.
He'd last 10 years easy. Post-Prohibition, I'd fund anew; whoever ruled, regaining influence was simple.
Like Putin with gas valves, I'd tighten money spigots—they'd listen.
I'd handle politics; Yusin focused on business. Yuin... well, one dreamer per family was fine.
Yusin pretended otherwise, but he'd always loved money. Only he sold drinks outside church Sundays among us brothers.
His grumbling? Bad habit. Embarrassed to admit he liked girls like Jipsuni, so he played coy despite his balls.
Buy a mega-corp, nail him CEO for 20 years, and he'd say, "Never knew chatting with bro was this happy!"—fixing that mouth. Wonder why our family spawned that mutant.
Processing tasks, sunset came.
Damn, was my life just gonna end buried in work? Had I bitten off too much?
Night deepened before I escaped the study.
Then dawn commute, work, home, study repeat. Thought future knowledge and skills meant easy honey—didn't know it was in a wasp nest.
Changed to pajamas, hit the bed—Dorothy was awake, rare.
"You okay? You look beat."
"Sleep'll fix it."
"Don't overdo it. Fretted you'd die in war; now it feels like here."
"Sigh... but so much to handle."
Her warm hand touched my cheek.
"This isn't a battlefield. Skipping a day won't kill you."
"...Yeah. True."
"Weekend off for fun? Movie?"
"Anything you wanna see?"
This era's films? No thrill when Hollywood blockbusters played in my head. Black-and-white silents fell flat.
"Something heavy'd rot your brain more. Light fluff? New Charlie Chaplin flick—hey, where? Back to work?!"
"Just a sec! Five minutes!!"
"I can't live like this! You monk! Die with your work!"
No way—Chaplin's name dropped? No spitting on Hollywood without prepping.
I bolted to the study.
A new idea had struck.