I'll Handle It

Had I ever restrained myself this much in my entire life?

At last, my patience hit rock bottom.

What did a second chance at life even matter?

I would live according to my true nature.

Of course, I had no intention of being hauled into a courtroom like in my previous life and leaving my fate in the hands of some judge.

As discreetly as possible.

Fiddling with the knife in my pocket, I set off after those bastards.

Finding four men in fedora hats along Wall Street—barely six hundred meters long—was no trouble at all. They carried chaos with them wherever they went.

"I told you not to sell this goddamn paper!"

"Should we just burn the whole damn lot? Huh?"

The sluggers stopped at every newsstand they could find and tore the place apart—dumping certain papers onto the pavement, ripping them up, grinding them underfoot.

At this point the police should have shown up, but none were in sight.

Even as the stands were attacked one after another, the cops simply watched the sluggers run wild. I began to suspect they had no will to intervene—or were deliberately looking the other way.

By the time the sluggers hit the last newsstand, evening had already settled in.

As darkness draped the streets, the lamplighters came through one by one, lighting the lamps and bringing the avenue to life.

Electricity was spreading at a rapid clip, yet gas lamps and electric lights still mixed side by side, and every one of them had to be turned on and off by hand.

Watching the streetlamps flare to life one after another only stoked my anger higher.

Why else would a pack of slugger scum—men with no real profession to speak of—crawl out in the late afternoon and rob me? They had waited until the money I'd earned polishing shoes had piled up nicely. They must have been holed up somewhere all day, only to saunter out and reclaim my earnings as if collecting a deposit.

Didn't that make them worthy of death?

Darkness swallowed the streets with startling speed.

Once they left Wall Street behind, the sluggers grew even bolder.

"What are you looking at, you sons of bitches!"

"I'll gouge those eyes right out!"

They picked fights with anyone they passed, snatched fruit from street vendors' stalls and ate it as they pleased. Once, in a shadowed stretch of road, they threatened a pedestrian and robbed him of his money.

Night belonged to them.

Whatever frayed thread of reason they had managed to cling to during the day burned away completely, and these pieces of garbage strutted about like the lawless kings of the street.

They headed north along Pearl Street. Near a certain abandoned building ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠they ran straight into another crew.

Fortunately, not the same outfit.

"Fuck! Scatter!"

A dozen or so men poured out of the ruin in a rush, and the sluggers took off at a dead sprint. This was clearly not their first time; they split naturally into two groups as they fled.

A jungle of eat-or-be-eaten.

I became the hunter, chose one group, and raced after them through the Manhattan night.

Beekman Street, linked to the East River that flowed along Manhattan's eastern edge.

A few years earlier, special units of the NYPD had shattered the gangs; the remnants had scattered like seeds and kept up their trade. They hired themselves out as sluggers to newspapers, companies, and unions, or ran gambling, opium, prostitution, and robbery.

The men Kieran was tracking were exactly that sort. They still fought the surviving gangs over territory in a vicious cycle of predation.

James and Mike, still on the run, finally stopped in an alley beyond the reach of any streetlamp and dragged in ragged breaths.

"Those Marginals bastards. They really treat us like fucking nobodies now."

"Sons of bitches. Looks like they changed hideouts. How about we gather the boys and hit them tomorrow?"

"Let's wait till Robert gets here and talk it over. He already said he was thinking about teaming up with the Pearl Buttons anyway."

The days when their gang had ruled Lower Manhattan were long gone, but James and Mike had never forgotten that era—the high of roaming the night streets without restraint, narcotics humming in their veins.

"While we wait, roll us some smokes."

Steadying his breath, James pulled the makings from his coat. He laid tobacco on the paper, shook a little powder from a small envelope into the mix, and rolled it tight. He finished one first and held it out to Mike.

"I'll watch the front for the others."

Cigarette in his mouth, Mike stepped out of the alley and leaned his back against the wall of the building on the right. He lit up and exhaled; smoke drifted out into the dark street.

He had taken maybe two puffs when a shadow approached at a slow, deliberate pace—hat pulled low, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched high.

Mike narrowed his eyes and scanned the surroundings. No one else in sight. The street wasn't that narrow, yet the man insisted on walking right past his nose. Irritating.

What an insolent little shit.

Mike blew a lungful of smoke ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠straight into the stranger's face and flicked his cigarette-holding fingers in a casual summons. When the man hesitated, Mike's hand drifted toward the knife at the small of his back and he stepped forward himself.

"When I say come, you come, you son of a—"

In that instant the other man closed the distance with a sudden stride. His right hand, already free of the pocket, shot out like a lightning bolt and slashed.

Shhhk.

Something razor-sharp followed the wide arc of the hand and grazed Mike's throat. Heat bloomed as if the flesh had been seared.

A thin red line appeared across his neck; the slit of skin opened wider and wider.

"Guh—!"

While Mike clutched at his throat, the unknown assassin snatched the knife and bolted into the alley.

Mike collapsed. Blood poured from his body at a terrifying rate. His gaze fixed on the mouth of the alley.

What miserable bastard was this?

Before he could even confirm it, the man was already attacking his partner.

"Wh-what the hell are you—!"

James's shout, a groan, the sound of a body falling—all of it rose from the dark alley. Then the deep shadow walked back out again.

Fortunately, Mike lived long enough to recognize the man who had attacked him.

No—better if he never had.

The shoe-shine boy, now wearing James's fedora, seized Mike by the legs and dragged him into the alley.

I rummaged through the corpses' pockets and took anything of value.

The spoils from finishing off the two of them were decent enough: thirty-eight dollars and eighty cents, two knives, a small quantity of opium, and even one of those common fedora hats.

The dead men seemed to have been waiting for the rest of their scattered crew to reassemble in this alley. No one appeared before I left.

I had already recovered more than what had been stolen from me. I saw no reason to wait around for the others. Better yet, I could pin the whole thing on a rival gang and let them tear each other apart. That was one more option on the table.

It was nine o'clock at night.

The heat of the adrenaline that had flooded my body began to cool, replaced by cold, clear reason. On top of that, a quiet loneliness stirred something almost sentimental in me.

I might have seemed like a psychopath, yet the lyrics of a Queen song I had once loved—"Bohemian Rhapsody"—drifted through my head.

It wasn't that some brand-new sense of guilt had suddenly appeared—something that had never existed even in my previous life. A man as blackened as I was could not have retained anything like that.

Still, I found myself worrying, just a little, about how my actions might affect my family: a delicate mother I could not quite treat as a complete stranger, the adolescent Liam, and the still-childish Roa. If any of them ever became targets of retaliation and came to harm, the responsibility would be entirely mine.

I almost wished I had been an orphan; it would have been easier on the heart.

Of course, I had no desire to step outside the frame of family. My previous life had been free, but lonely. This one came with restraints, yet it also came with family. The latter felt like the more meaningful existence.

I lifted my head and looked up at the sky.

Across every age, the moon never changed. The only thing that changed was the person looking at it.

"Galileo, Galileo…"

Oh, Mama Mia, Mama Mia.

Mama Mia, let me go…?

Humming the tune, I reached the intersection of Hester and Eldridge Streets.

They must have chosen today of all days.

When I arrived at the tenement house where I lived, the entrance was pure chaos.

"Fuck off already! If you've got a problem, take it up with your boss!"

Men were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hauling sewing machines up from the basement while a crowd of furious women tried to block them. Italian and Jewish immigrant workers whose English was still rough.

"Who doesn't know you're threatening Blank to take everything from him?"

"We have money coming to us too! That sewing machine is ours!"

"If you come to someone else's country, at least speak English, you idiots! What the hell are you even saying?"

By that logic they should have been speaking Indian languages themselves. Watching fellow immigrants discriminate against other immigrants twisted something in my gut.

In any case, the workers were desperate to hold on to the equipment in place of the wages they would never see. Whether they sold the machines or took on piecework themselves, as long as they had a sewing machine they could still make money.

But the ruthless loan sharks had already finished the transfer papers with Blank.

"Fuck, I showed you the contract, didn't I? Why so much talk? Go find that bastard Blank at his house if you want. Any more of this and—"

"I don't want to hear it! It's ours!"

An agitated woman threw herself at one of the machines. It was Jane, the mother of five who lived on the floor below.

"Crazy bitch—get the hell out of the way!"

One of the men blocked her and backhanded her across the face. He kicked the woman where she had fallen and stomped on her. When the other women rushed forward to stop him, he drew a gun.

Click.

"You damn bitches can't understand plain English! Interfere any more and I'll kill every last one of you—kids, families, the whole lot. Stay the fuck out of it."

At the word "family," the women flinched, abandoned their resistance, and stepped back.

And so they could only watch as the sewing machines they had worked beside for years were carried away—without a single cent of the wages they were owed.

My mother was among them.

Bloodshot eyes glistening with tears, she stood with her fists clenched. There was no way to collect the back pay, and she had suddenly lost her job as well. The boss himself was nowhere to be seen. She was swallowing that rage whole.

We can't go on living like this, Mother.

How long do you intend to stay in a place that feels like it will make you sick just by breathing?

Some people claw their way out of the gutter and succeed, of course—but there is no guarantee our family will be among them.

Even I, living a second life, have no easy answers.

What we need now is change… Hm?

All at once my mother started walking, heading into the tenement house.

Keeping my distance, fedora in hand, I followed her up the stairs.

On the third floor a single door stood open in the narrow hallway—our door.

I approached quietly and stopped in front of it just as my mother came out. To my surprise, she was holding a gun.

Mama Mia.

What in the world—

She hastily hid the weapon behind her back; our eyes met.

Where had she gotten a gun, and why was she carrying it at this hour? Where was she going?

I was stunned. At the same time, the sight of my mother holding a firearm and looking so fierce brought a strange sense of calm.

I broke the brief silence.

"…What are you planning to do with that?"

She chewed her lip, glancing toward the room where Liam would be lying. Then she closed the door, faced me in the hallway with a grim expression, and spoke.

"I'm going to find Blank."

She poured out her fury—how the boss had sunk into gambling, borrowed from loan sharks, and swallowed every last paycheck. Rather than throw herself recklessly against the men outside, she meant to go after the true root of the problem: the boss himself.

Impulsive, yes—but she had a plan of sorts.

I found myself nodding before I realized it.

Misreading my reaction, she hurried on.

"I shouldn't let ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you see me like this, but the situation is too serious. At this rate, we really—"

"It doesn't seem like a bad idea."

"…What?"

She flinched and looked up at me.

"You're right—settling things with the boss makes more sense than dealing with the men outside. But even if you find him, getting the money will be hard. Unless you're prepared to kill him, he'll just look down on you."

"If I have to… I can."

She forced down the rising anger and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Even in front of her son she showed no hesitation.

Watching her, I became certain of two things.

She would do anything for her family.

And no matter what I did, she would stand behind me.

My heart grew even calmer.

Inwardly, I accepted my mother's commission.

This job—I'll handle it myself.