If They Steal From You, Steal Even More

First things first—I had to calm Mother down. She was still holding the gun, all wound up.

“Give me what you’ve got hidden behind your back.”

I held out my hand. Mother ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shook her head hard.

“Hand it over.”

“...That isn’t something for you to touch.”

“I know. Just give it to me for now. I’m not a kid.”

In this era, seventeen made you a grown man.

After a tense standoff, Mother let out a small sigh and held the concealed object out to me.

“Handle it carefully. But… Kieran?”

Her eyes locked onto my bloodstained sleeve and hand. Her gaze shifted to the fedora tucked under my arm, then her eyes went wide as she asked,

“What on earth happened?”

“I’ll explain later.”

Leaving her trembling hands behind me, I gently took the gun.

“This is Father’s old piece.”

“H-how did you know that?”

“Colt M1892 revolver. You can tell by the year.”

Truth was, the year didn’t matter. If it hadn’t been Father’s keepsake, Mother’s nature would have had her selling it long ago just to stretch the household money. Even a well-used secondhand one would fetch at least eight dollars.

Leaving her startled eyes behind, I ran my fingers along the time-worn barrel as if under a spell.

The Colt M1892 was a swing-out cylinder double-action. I pulled back the recoil shield mounted on the left side of the frame beside the cylinder and gave my wrist a light flick.

Click.

The six-round cylinder swung out. Three cartridges sat inside.

Rattle.

I nudged the cylinder with a finger; it spun counterclockwise. Most revolver cylinders turned the other way—this was a quirk unique to the Colt M1892.

I tilted the barrel and dumped the three rounds into my palm. Flat-based, round-rim rimfire cartridges. Caliber: .38 Long Colt.

Specs confirmed, I thumbed the rounds back in and snapped my wrist.

Click.

Cylinder locked home again. I hooked my index finger through the trigger guard and spun the revolver in a clean trigger-guard spin, then offered the grip cleanly toward Mother so she could take it easily.

She made no move to accept it. She just stared, eyes round, unable to form words.

This was the moment the family had to change. Time to drive the stake in.

“The toolbox I bought yesterday got smashed again. Everything I earned all day was taken too.”

“······.”

“So from now on, I plan to live a little differently.”

What “differently” meant—I held out my bloodstained sleeve to her.

“I took back what was stolen.”

This time I pulled the money from my pocket and showed her. Mother’s eyes skimmed the bills, then fixed on me in disbelief.

“That’s… an awful lot for something that was just stolen, isn’t it?”

“If they steal from you, you steal back even more. That’s how the world works, Mother.”

“······.”

She stared hard at my face, then brushed my cheek with a trembling hand.

“Are you really… my son? My Kieran?”

“Who else would I be? If you really don’t like it, maybe I should just leave home—”

Smack.

Mother’s backhand of justice cracked across my spine. My back prickled with heat.

“Leave? You’re not going anywhere.”

She clenched her teeth.

“Whatever you do, your mother is on your side. Even if you become a murderer and die horribly in the electric chair, you’re still my son.”

Electric chair? That was a bit much…

“But Kieran—the ones who took your money…”

I sent them to the Lord’s side. I couldn’t quite say that much. Hitting her with everything at once would backfire.

“Nothing to worry about.”

“I thought you were timid and kind. These past few days you’ve done nothing but startle me.”

“Late, but I’ve adapted to the world.”

“Blood tells, they say. I suppose there’s no helping it.”

Mother sighed, as if setting down a weight stacked layer upon layer for years.

Kieran was Kieran, and I was me. But “blood tells”? Who exactly was I supposed to take after?

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Someone came hurrying up the stairs. One of Mother’s coworkers from the shop.

“Nora! We’re going to see Boss Blank tomorrow morning—can you join the meeting right now?”

“Of course. I’ll be right there.”

The woman gave me a weary smile and headed back down. Mother, who had to follow, pressed the money back into my hands and told me to hide the gun where my younger siblings would never find it until she returned.

“We’ll finish this talk when I get back, son.”

I watched her back as she moved from the hallway toward the stairs. The instant ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my eyes fell on the gun and the money in my hands, something inside me began to stir.

If they steal from you, steal even more.

If they were going to see the boss tomorrow morning, I would meet him first.

Mother hurried down the stairs. I opened the door of our flat, stashed the money in a tin, left behind my gloves and usual cap, and took only the fedora. The gun, of course, came with me.

Just as I was about to leave again, Mother’s scarf hanging on the doorknob caught my eye—the one she always wore around her neck at work. I was stuffing it into my pocket when I felt a sharp gaze on the back of my head.

In the dark living room, Liam was watching me.

“Why are you taking Mom’s scarf?”

“Just stepping out for a bit.”

“Now? It’s night.”

I turned my back and waved a hand.

“When Mother gets home, tell her her eldest son went out for some exercise. You go to sleep.”

In Kieran’s memories, Father had been a brave man—devoted to his family. Toward the affairs of his homeland, though, he had been passive. Choosing Manhattan over Hawaii or San Francisco, where more Koreans lived, said as much. Changing the family name to Graves, erasing every trace—Kieran had never even known his true surname. It almost felt as if Father harbored a grudge against the old country.

Sifting through Kieran’s memories, I came down the stairs and stepped out the entrance. Outside was still in uproar. With the basement workshop—the sweatshop—shut down, some thirty women had suddenly lost their livelihoods. Children either wept with their sobbing mothers or stood lost, not knowing what to do. Mother, who had gone to meet with beaten Aunt Jane, was nowhere in sight.

I pushed past the people and out onto the main street—and nearly walked straight into two uniformed cops with nightsticks on their belts. They only watched the tenement entrance from a distance, showing no interest in intervening. If anything, they looked as though they’d seen something they wished they hadn’t, and moved on. Thorough bystanders, every one of them.

I tugged the fedora lower and headed north along Eldridge Street.

Who had put a gun in Mother’s hands?

In the late nineteenth century the garment trade had surged, centered on New York. Sewing factories sprouted across Manhattan like weeds—and with them came the sweatshops. Low wages, endless hours, wretched conditions. The daughters of poor Italian and Jewish immigrants poured out their blood and sweat. Employers chained the factory doors shut to stop walkouts, breaks, and theft.

In 1909, twenty thousand voices finally broke. Women workers stood together for thirteen weeks in the Shirtwaist Strike. The bosses answered by calling in labor sluggers—gangsters under a new name. They used violence to break the strike and terrorize the workers. The police cooperated, looked the other way, or even helped.

Then, in 1911, the worst disaster struck Manhattan. Fire tore through the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, which occupied the eighth, ninth, and tenth floors. Sixty-three people jumped from burning windows to their deaths; the rest burned alive behind locked workroom doors. Of the 146 dead, 123 were women and girls.

Punishment for the owners? After the courtroom battle, acquittal. Seventy-five dollars apiece tossed to the dead. And under new names they still ran factories to this day.

Government and law alike were powerless. Even when a crooked boss gambled away the wages, or handed everything over to loan sharks, the law never quite applied.

No matter how I look at it, it doesn’t add up. Gambling out of nowhere, loan sharks… putting even the machines up as collateral? The boss isn’t that stupid. He’s sharp with numbers…

Mother had doubted him. Even if he carried loan-shark debt, she was certain he had tucked his own share away somewhere. That was why she had taken up the gun.

And I, in her place, meant to reclaim the rightful share earned by sweat—and more besides.

The intersection ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of Grand Street and Forsyth Street, heart of the Jewish quarter. Streetlamps at all four corners lit the crossing. Fewer people than by day, but even at nine at night the traffic remained steady. No women or children in sight.

In the past, Kieran had delivered finished goods to the boss’s house a few times at Mother’s request. One block from the intersection, in a quiet residential stretch where middle-class Jewish families lived, stood a four-story brownstone townhouse. The second floor was Boss Blank’s. He lived alone, apart from his family. Twenty dollars a month just for the rent. The entire floor—vast compared to the cramped hole I called home.

I watched the lit second-story windows, then slipped around to the rear of the building. No streetlamps back here; moonlight alone. I pulled the scarf I’d taken from home up over my nose and mouth. Mother’s scent—sweat from a full day’s work—rose strong, but it didn’t repel me. If anything, it sharpened why I had come: to take back the rightful price of her honest labor.

I studied the rear layout. When the moon slipped behind cloud, I vaulted the low wall behind the townhouse. An iron fire escape clung to the back wall for emergency exit; climbing it would reach the rear door. But those doors were usually locked from inside. Instead I chose a window left slightly ajar, a little farther off.

I climbed the iron stairs without a sound. At the second floor I gripped the decorative stone molding beside the landing and eased toward the window, then slid my body through.

Inside lay a sewing machine like the ones from the factory and bolts of fabric for cutting, scattered in disorder. I strained my ears, cracked the door, and peered into the living room.

The boss was moving about in a hurry, packing. More precisely, stuffing things into a checkered trunk. Leaving first thing in the morning, was he? The bastard.

I watched. After five minutes or so the right moment arrived. He quenched his thirst from a glass on the table, then walked straight toward the room where I waited. The reek of alcohol drifted in. The instant he opened the door I yanked him close and locked my arm around his throat.

“Urgh—!”

Pressure on the carotid floods the head with blood and slows the heart. I counted the seconds to unconsciousness under my breath. When his thrashing body went slack I eased the hold and dragged him into the living room.

I laid him in the middle of the spacious floor, stuffed cloth into his mouth, and used the rest to bind him.

“All right. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

On the table sat a fair stack of papers not yet packed. Among them was a thick notebook—the boss’s own account ledger. Sales, overhead, labor costs for the sweatshop were recorded in meticulous detail; too tangled to study properly just then. But it was solid evidence of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fraud, that much was certain.

Next I rifled through the scattered mail and found two interesting letters—one from a real-estate firm, one from a lawyer.

First, the real estate:

A man hounded by debt starting a new company?

The lawyer’s letter made it clearer still.

“What the hell is this bastard up to?”

The picture came together. Deliberate wage theft, followed by deliberate bankruptcy. After the bankruptcy, reopen under a fresh company name. And the “loan sharks” were partners in skimming the assets.

“The whole thing was a fixed game of hwatu.”

Just as Mother had said—the boss wasn’t stupid. He was simply a swindler. Swallowing the wages meant for his workers, claiming he’d gambled everything away and fallen into loan-shark debt—all of it a lie. The boss wasn’t broke.

So where was the money?

A man who’d filed for bankruptcy would never leave cash in a bank. I upended the trunk, packed near to bursting. A pistol tumbled out, and beneath it dollar bills cascaded free.

“Urrrgh—!”

Maybe the smell of money had brought him around. The boss groaned around the cloth stuffed in his mouth. I walked over slowly and lowered the scarf. When he saw my face his eyes flew wide. The pupils jerked.

“Don’t look so surprised.”

Thud! Thud!

I drove my boot into his face, then stamped on his curled body.

“I was going to try talking, if it came to that.”

Conversation with garbage? Pointless. I muttered as if to myself.

“If they steal from you, you take even more. Including your life.”

I drew the Bowie knife I’d taken earlier and whispered low.

“You set the board up nicely. I’ve got a bit of talent that way myself.”

Shunk.

“Uuugh…!”

I drove the blade slowly into the boss’s heart. Blood welled and soaked the carpet. I dabbed some onto his index finger.

Even the mail on the table would let the police piece together the full fraud he’d staged. But that alone wasn’t enough. I had to erase myself and point the suspicion at the loan sharks. And the sewing machines those men had taken—if I could take them, I would take everything.

With the bloodied fingertip I scrawled a crooked clue across the carpet. I pulled the cloth from the dying boss’s mouth and whispered,

“Curious what I wrote?”

Took all.

“How do you like the board I set?”