A Milkshake and the Whole Street

The moment he caught a taxi, the driver turned in his seat.

"Where shall I take you?"

"Royal School, please."

"Oh! A Royal School boy, are you?"

Tennessee gave him nothing. He only turned his face to the window, and the driver, taking the hint, quietly laid a hand on the gearshift.

The engine rose. While the taxi gathered speed, Tennessee sank without a word into his own thoughts.

But of course. If not for my help, what great undertaking could a pack of drifters possibly manage?

He had not meant it. Park Jihoon, the one it concerned, had not even heard. And even if he had, so long as there was business in it, the boy would surely have understood. Tennessee knew all of that.

And still, something in his chest sat wrong.

Surely not. Was he actually thinking of the boy as a real friend?

He flushed as if he had committed some enormous crime.

A friend. Was there a more mortifying word in the world? Right. He had only wanted a stake. The lie had left a bad taste, that was all. A friend? Please.

Wh-why did I go and say a useless thing like that.

He was pushing his lip out in a pout when his stomach betrayed him, loud enough to shame a man. Loud enough that even the driver stole a glance at him in the mirror.

Hm?

Come to think of it, he had eaten nothing since morning, and even that had been half a sandwich, if it had been that. And then, of all things, a McDonald's sign, one block over.

He swallowed. His ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠throat bobbed, hard.

"Pull over there."

"The burger place?"

"N-not the burgers. The bookstore. If you'd just stop in front of that bookstore you can see."

It was full night, the street dark. Even so, Tennessee did not step into the shop until a hat was on his head and sunglasses over his eyes.

"What can I get you?"

At the employee's question he regarded the menu with a face of absolute gravity. For Tennessee, this McDonald's was a harder door than a three-star Michelin. Perhaps that was why the choice had to be made with care, and then with care again.

What had Park Jihoon ordered?

He searched his memory and opened his mouth with caution.

"One Big Mac... and a large fries."

"Is that to go?"

"Ah—and a milkshake."

"The milkshake to go as well?"

He nodded. And nodded again. While he held the money out, he was still turning it over.

A little extra salt on the fries, please.

He wanted to add it. He did. Whether it was a nobleman's dignity or something worse, the words would not leak past his teeth. Park Jihoon said that sort of thing without a hitch.

Tch.

In the end Tennessee swallowed the regret and took one step back.

A moment later the order came up. He looked left and looked right, and, lest anyone see, crammed the bag deep into his backpack. The salt might be a little short.

But I have a milkshake.

He got out of the shop on a faint smile. Perhaps it was the warmth of the bag, still whole in his hands. For Tennessee, there had never been a night more satisfying.

The next morning, in the dormitory, Tennessee came to my room from the very start of the day.

A boy whose looks had never given anyone a thing to criticize. And yet.

"Your face looks a bit swollen today."

"...What?"

"Eat something late and then go to sleep?"

His pupils jumped, wide. But as ever, he put on a face of perfect calm.

"Didn't know you paid so much attention to my face."

I shrugged, and he shifted his expression and went on.

"Enough small talk. Let's talk business."

Well, well. That confidence—so it had worked?

Sure enough, he drew a map from inside his coat.

"This is the place you meant, right?"

A red circle. Dead accurate. London's own Cheongdam-dong, the street where money went to be seen.

Tennessee continued, face unruffled.

"From the start of the crossing up to just before the Barclays building. No limit on the lease, and..."

"Hold on."

"Why?"

What do you mean, why?

"Don't tell me you're leasing me the whole of it."

"You said you needed it."

I had said I needed it. I had! Who swallows an entire street like some brute with no sense?

But Tennessee, it seemed, had a word of his own. His face said that if a single building had been enough, I would have gone to an estate agent—so why come to him?

Ha! And so? You simply assumed I meant the street?

There had been a misunderstanding, yes, but not one that would turn into a problem. We haven't even signed a contract. A little give on each side, and the thing would settle where it ought to.

And then—well. Perhaps it was the sudden jump in scale. The businessman's blood I had forgotten in the middle of rugby began to twitch again, and my head spun hard and fast, with no regard at all for what I wanted.

Once I get like this, even I can't talk myself down.

The belated jab—who would be crude enough to take a whole Cheongdam street—came back around and pricked me. A mad thing no one else would so much as imagine. Yes. Maybe you had to go that far if you meant to bring a giant like Harris to its knees.

If this is actually possible... It would mean taking a business that could only have lived in a dead factory in Manchester and unfolding it in the very heart of London. The fine print will have to be worked through with Yang Eokgwan. But the picture was already coming clear, and once you had the picture, what remained was obvious. What to do with it. Give a chance to designers who had the skill and none of the capital.

I'm not doing this just to be nice to other people.Design's Hyeongang. If I meant to lock fast the next generation Grandfather had declared, a policy that stood with designers was not optional. The problem was how to pay a rent that size. Handing over equity will only stretch so far. In the end, the cleanest way was to divide whatever the shops themselves brought in...

A grand epic was busy writing itself in my head.

"How long am I supposed to wait?"

Tennessee's question hooked me back to the room. That face of his, puffier than usual. Ask the boy for a building and he goes and grows the job on his own.

A lucky charm really is a lucky charm.

Instead of an answer, I lifted one corner of my mouth.

Meanwhile, at the Grosvenor Estate.

After Tennessee had come and gone, the Duke's interest fixed upon his son's partner in business. An unpublished da Vinci, brought to light. Admission to Royal School on the Queen's recommendation. Beyond the things already known, the household tutor seemed to have gathered a good deal more.

The Grosvenor Duke looked down a long while at the first issue of Queensman, then asked,

"You are telling me he wrote this magazine himself?"

"Yes. At the start he composed every piece with his own hand. Only of late, it seems, has he found contributors."

Call it a magazine if one liked; it would not have been shamed to be called a book of letters. The insight into art, in particular, was startling. The boy was supposed to be Tennessee's classmate. How did a child come by an eye like that?

To the puzzled Duke, the tutor added an explanation.

"They say that at barely ten he swept the literary contests of the major dailies, more than once."

"Did you say he is ten now?"

"Yes."

That was not the only astonishing part.

"Which is to say he has already made his place."

The tutor held his peace.

"Then why should he need a partnership with Tennessee?"

"When I looked into it, this Park Jihoon appears to have made an enemy of the Harris chain."

"An enemy?"

James Paver had refused to go over to Harris. After that, the tutor explained in full, he could not open a shop anywhere in London.

Cannot open a shop. So that was why the boy had asked for a street. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠And hard upon it came the next question.

"To my ear, that sounds as though my son is being used. Have I misheard?"

Anger had gathered in the Duke's eyes, and still the tutor did not fluster.

"From all I have been able to learn, it is plainly a partnership."

The tutor's case ran thus. Queensman had been sold on a marketing of pure mystery.

They had printed a single line and called it a hint to the shop. A hint, if one were being kind. In truth it was a promotion meant to do nothing but provoke the curiosity.

"And yet on the very day the magazine appeared, the young master sought out the Queensman shop, and they even ran a photograph announcing him as the first customer."

Impossible, unless he stood on the inside. Common sense was to take it for a piece of theater, staged so that a name might travel.

"Of late, I am told, he has even telephoned Peru to secure vicuña wool. A mere investor would hardly..."

"Have cause to throw himself in so far?"

"That is my judgment."

Even so, a thread of worry remained in the Duke's eye. This ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠boy, Park Jihoon... Might he not have come first, angling after the renown of the house?

"From what I have learned, young Park Jihoon is the son of a considerable family."

The tutor held out one file more. Inside it, packed tight, was the whole of the matter: the structure by which Hyeon-gang was ruled, and Park Jihoon's present place in it; the fact that the boy held most of the semiconductor stake, the core of Hyeon-gang's business; even the truth that he had fled into study abroad because he did not want the company handed down. All of it, line upon line.

"He has gone so far as to leave the businesses he already ran in the hands of a professional manager."

"Then why is a boy like that raising ventures in Britain?"

"This is nothing but my own surmise..."

The Duke's silence bid him on.

"Might it not be that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the young master, having taken the measure of Park Jihoon's ability, was the one who pressed him to the business?"

"Tennessee?"

"Yes. As the young master himself has said—one may have the idea, and still need a practical hand to bring it into being."

And truly. At that age, to hope for anyone abler than Park Jihoon was not a reasonable hope at all.

Then it really is a partnership?

The Duke sat a moment with his thoughts. Now that he considered it, reports on Tennessee had been climbing his desk of late. That the boy had stood for president of the student council. That he had taken up rugby again. He had wondered what wind had struck him. Perhaps this Park Jihoon had stirred him more than a little.

He set his thoughts in order and lifted his head.

"You told me he came from Korea?"

"Yes."

When the report had reached him that the da Vinci had passed into Hyeon-gang's hands, he had ordered measures fit to call a crisis down upon Korea.

"Well. What of the matter I spoke of before?"

"We are searching out the proper hour. Once Southeast Asia has been brought down, then, naturally..."

"Set it aside."

"Sir?"

The business had begun, after all, over a da Vinci. If the painting could only be got into his hands, there was no need to raise a commotion.

Bloodless and tearless the man might be—yet a change in his son, it seemed, was welcome even to him.

Whether he had read that inward weather or not, the tutor went on.

"As it happens, there is word that Chairman Park Yonghak of Hyeon-gang will soon come to London on business."

"Why London?"

"In name, to call upon Rolls-Royce and Bentley. It seems rather more likely he is coming to watch his grandson's match."

Had they not said the da Vinci lay in Chairman Park Yonghak's hands?

"Shall I arrange a meeting?"

To the tutor's question, the Duke gave a smile in place of an answer.