Welcome to My World

On the second floor of the twin buildings sat the business magazine The Ledger.

It was the journal Kieran had founded, aiming to be a high-quality business magazine covering information on companies based in New York.

Editor-in-Chief Ida and Deputy Editor Raymond Kane had spent considerable time recruiting experienced magazine veterans and hiring reporters. At present, ten people were on staff—printing specialists, journalists, and seasoned professionals. Among the reporters were even former Pinkerton detectives who had once worked alongside Raymond.

Inside The Ledger's conference room, a meeting for the inaugural issue was in full swing.

Editor-in-Chief Ida sat listening to a briefing from Richard Hall, a man with five years of industry experience. His official title was Chief Researcher.

"As a monthly magazine, the biggest business event of that month has to be the centerpiece. And since the inaugural issue is how we introduce our concept to readers, we also need to cover the past and present of New York business."

Richard Hall began organizing the list for the first issue on the chalkboard. True to his experience, just looking at the list made the entire structure of the magazine clear at a glance. Raymond, scanning the board, posed a question.

"The magazine format looks solid, but which parts of that are valuable or interesting enough that readers will actually pay for it?"

"Broadly speaking, two things: war and business, and unions and companies."

"That sounds like the same content we'll be covering every month once the war starts. Even if the subject is the same, we need something compelling."

Richard Hall gave a wry smile.

"Readers of business magazines want current market information, analysis, and forecasts. Sensational articles are for the yellow press."

At those words, one reporter's face darkened sharply. It was Ruben, the journalist who had been forcibly transferred from the Flea Market to The Ledger.

Maybe I should just quit.

The seniors at the Flea Market had been intimidating, sure, but he had managed to adapt. Write a good article and the bonuses were generous. But this place was...

Then Ida, who had remained silent throughout the meeting, cut in.

"What if we pull the forecast section out and handle it separately?"

"That's risky. Forecasts can be wrong, so the rule is to write them vaguely throughout the articles."

It was, he explained, how journalists protected themselves from reader criticism—enough ambiguity to claim, looking back, that the article had been right all along. Ambiguity was a virtue.

"Then if the forecast turns out correct, we can aim for the opposite effect. Let's run this in the inaugural issue."

Ida handed over a draft she had prepared in advance—material Kieran had given her before the meeting.

But after skimming it, Richard Hall furrowed his brow.

"This is far too exaggerated. The war ending this year? How can you be certain of that? And the flu as well—claiming a storm is about to sweep the entire world. Come on, we can't start the first issue like this."

"It doesn't matter. Just proceed. Have Ruben write the article."

The corners of Ruben's previously downcast mouth lifted. Exaggerated articles? He was more confident in those than anyone.

"Leave it to me!"

Richard Hall smacked his lips and continued the meeting. Only after assigning the overall structure and every staff member's tasks did the long session finally end.

"So Ruben will handle the war and the flu. The rest of you, start by investigating what major events are happening in New York this month."

At last the meeting was over. Quitting time.

Ida shot up from her seat and went straight downstairs. By the time she reached the first floor, then basement one, then basement two, a rhythmic thumping sound drifted up.

She opened the tightly shut ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠iron door, and gunshots leaked out into the hallway.

Bang!

Bang!

Ida puffed out her cheeks, closed the iron door, and slipped on the ear protection hanging at the entrance to the range.

As usual, the two regulars were there. Anthony waved casually while collecting spent casings. Kieran, lounging on the sofa and fiddling with a gun, acknowledged her.

"Meeting over?"

"Just now. But aren't you going to say hello?"

"Oh my, you're here?"

Boss Hazel sat at the counter, wiping down a gun with a cloth. After that half-hearted greeting, she grumbled,

"I see you several times a day. Why bother saying hello every single time?"

"I can hear everything, you know."

"Oh? Guess I need better earplugs."

Ida snorted and held out a two-dollar bill. Hazel pocketed it and gave her a sunny, eye-crinkling smile.

"Looks like you took some real stress. Meeting that boring?"

"Enough chatter. Just give me a gun and ammo."

"Today I should give Ida something that suits her..."

"If you hand me a Gatling, you're dead."

"Hmm. Next time, then."

Ida took the Colt M1911 and magazines Hazel offered and settled into the stall beside Anthony.

"I'm changing the target now. Absolutely do not shoot."

"You don't trust my shooting?"

"Nope."

Anthony nodded vigorously and backed away while keeping his eyes on Ida. Once he had swapped the paper at the target and returned, Ida squeezed the trigger.

Bang!

Bang!

Amid the gunfire, Hazel propped her chin in her hand and watched Ida's back.

— If you want to crawl out of the gutter, take it.

— I don't know... how to shoot.

— Simple. Aim for the head, and pull the trigger.

Bang!

Bang!

Kieran and Anthony watched Ida with their eyes while their hands kept polishing guns with cloths.

It had become daily ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠life ever since the shooting range was built.

Delancey Street townhouse, second floor.

When I came home, Roa and Liam were working out in my fitness room.

"Big Brother, perfect timing! Check Roa's form!"

"Mine too."

My siblings were doing squats without missing a single day. Liam's thighs were getting thicker, and Roa...?

"Roa, I think you've done enough."

"Absolutely not. I can't lose to Little Brother."

"You'll regret it later."

"There's no regret in Roa's dictionary."

"Good attitude."

"Is Roa's form good?"

I gave their form a rough once-over and changed clothes.

Mother's quitting time was late—she had a lot of work. I headed to the kitchen to cook for my siblings.

I was in the middle of slicing meat when Roa, finished with her workout, came scampering over, waving a piece of paper.

"Big Brother, Roa's summer vacation is almost here!"

"Already?"

"You mean 'finally.' There's still a whole week left. Anyway, after we eat, Big Brother has to help Roa with her vacation schedule."

"That's something you should do yourself."

Roa shook her head hard, declaring that wouldn't do.

"Roa can't just decide the Coney Island schedule however she wants."

"...Hmm. We're going again this year?"

"Of course. We also have to go to the Bronx Zoo with Grandpa and Grandma."

"Roa's the busiest one of all."

"I know. Vacation is way too short. I can't waste a single minute or second."

Roa sat at the table with a deadly serious face and began planning her summer vacation. That was when the front door opened.

"It's Mom!"

"Sorry I'm so late."

"It's okay, Mom. Big Brother's cooking right now. We get to eat something delicious!"

"Are you trying to make Mom feel left out?"

Roa flashed a bright smile and scampered over to sit in a dining chair.

A short while later, Mother's brief prayer ended and the meal began. Roa, chewing on meat, suddenly tossed out a question.

"Big Brother, nothing going on these days?"

"Why?"

"We've been eating dinner together every night lately. Is there really no work?"

"Ah, you mean the money-making kind of work?"

"Yeah. Then what kind of work is it?"

Roa looked at me with worried eyes.

"There's plenty of work. Enough to buy Roa meat."

"What about Coney Island? The zoo?"

"Enough for those too."

"Yay."

While Roa cheerfully chewed her meat, Mother spoke up.

"Oh, Kieran. Are you free Saturday evening this week?"

"Nothing particularly busy these days."

"Then come with me to Union Square. I've been invited to an event."

The host was the ILGWU—the International Ladies' Garment Workers' Union—and it was an informal women's leadership network gathering. Attendees would include factory workers, women social activists, garment factory owners, and fashion industry patrons. Mother had been invited after being selected as one of the notable women of the year.

At the impressive news, Roa's eyes went even wider.

"Is Mom getting an award too?"

"Well, I don't know about that. The invitation doesn't mention anything of the sort."

Mother showed us the invitation. It contained grand greetings and the reasons for the invitation:

"Amazing. Mom, you were at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this level?"

Liam reread the invitation two or three times as if he couldn't believe it, while Roa gave a big thumbs-up and beamed with joy.

"I'm so proud of Mom. When Roa grows up, she's going to be just like Mom!"

"Our daughter will be far happier and more successful than Mom. You know what you have to do for that, right?"

"Yeah. Eat lots of meat!"

"No. You have to study hard."

"If I eat meat, good grades will follow on their own."

"I-is that so?"

You would think she would be getting tired of meat by now. Apparently Roa was still hungry.

After the meal, Mother brought up a deeper conversation.

"I heard Anne Morgan is also attending this event. That means quite a few prominent people will be there."

Mother's eyes sparkled. If there was anyone among the attendees who could help with my work, I was to make their acquaintance. That was why she wanted me to go with her.

"And while we're at it, I'm thinking of returning the money I received from Anne Morgan. It's been exactly one year."

"The three thousand dollars?"

Mother had received a three-thousand-dollar investment from Anne Morgan. The term was three years, with no interest.

"You should fill out the full three years. If she invests that money elsewhere, she can make it grow further."

"If Anne Morgan finds out about our company's revenue, won't she think it's strange?"

Mother was this naive. Would a multimillionaire even notice a mere three thousand dollars? Of course, defaulting was a separate matter. Being rich was no reason to overlook a crime.

"If it really bothers you, just repay a thousand. Just because revenue has increased doesn't mean the company is sitting on a mountain of cash."

Mother ran the numbers in her head and nodded.

"All right, son. We'll fill out the full ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠three years. Better to invest the spare funds in stocks. A lot of people are into stocks these days."

The current atmosphere was a quiet boom. Wartime demand for materials had put military industries, steel, railroads, chemicals, and shipbuilding-related stocks on an upward trend. That said, the risks of wartime had shaped investment sentiment toward stable dividend stocks.

The important part was the end of this year.

I had never once received a Pepero stick in my life, but I clearly remembered that the armistice of the First World War fell at 11 a.m. on November 11th.

And after the war, the American economy would enter a great boom.

Automobiles, steel, real estate, aviation, radio, Coca-Cola, DuPont, and so on. There was no shortage of companies worth investing in.

"Stocks aren't a bad idea either."

"Right? While we're on the subject, I should talk to Brandon."

"Brandon?"

"Your cousin. Have you already forgotten?"

I remembered.

Brandon O'Connell, second son of Uncle Noh. Age twenty-five. Smooth talker, straightforward personality.

"He dropped out of high school and went straight into a securities brokerage firm. So he has quite a bit of experience."

Hard to believe, but the barriers to entry in the financial industry of this era were low. With a college enrollment rate under five percent, connections and field experience mattered more than academic credentials. That was why the image of rough traders, dealers, and middlemen was so strong.

"But Brandon worked at a securities firm? He told me he worked at a restaurant."

"That's right. He quit a year ago and worked at an Italian restaurant. But lately he's been looking into securities firms again."

I happened to be looking for someone to entrust investments to. I had posted job notices at the Flea Market and conducted a few interviews, but handing money over to strangers was not easy. None of them had been satisfactory.

If possible, family was better.

The next day.

Early in the morning I went to SCL and met Uncle Noh.

"I heard Brandon used to work at a securities firm?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, that's right."

Uncle Noh's expression was awkward.

"I happen to need someone with securities experience. What do you think?"

"Hmm. Sorry, Kieran, but you'd better look for someone else."

"He doesn't fit with our side?"

"No, it's not that. He caused problems at the company."

Insider trading using internal company information. Involvement in gang money laundering and stock manipulation. After an internal investigation, the crimes came to light and he was thrown out.

The more I heard, the more he sounded like talent, didn't he?

As long as he didn't do it to me.

What was the problem?

The corners of my mouth rose on their own. Seeing that, Uncle Noh went pale and shook his head hard.

"Just find someone else, Kieran. Who knows what that kid will pull next. He's a precious son to me."

In that moment I understood Uncle Noh's feelings. Leaving crime aside, his worry as a father lay elsewhere.

"You don't think I'd shoot my cousin, do you? Or use a knife? Please put in a good word for me, Uncle."

"...... How much am I supposed to tell him?"

Two days later, Brandon came to my office.

Neatly combed-back brown hair, horn-rimmed glasses. Whatever Uncle Noh had told him, he looked a little tense.

We wouldn't get a proper conversation like this.

To help him relax, I changed locations.

"Th-there's a shooting range in the basement!?"

Welcome to my world.

Brother.