Why Is the Gang Boss Looking for Me?

“What a bastard. Even in death, that man belongs in hell!”

“Not a man—trash. He’s not even worth the air he breathes.”

Mother agreed, working off her anger with me. Then, suddenly, as if something still didn’t add up, she turned and asked,

“Why did you bring this back? If you’d just left it at the scene…”

“Because I don’t trust the police. And leaving it there wouldn’t have changed much anyway. The boss definitely ran a scam, but the sewing machines are a separate problem.”

I already had something else in mind—a way to get the machines back and pin the whole mess on them as clear ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠suspects.

“Anyway. What do you want to do with this money?”

Fourteen hundred dollars. Too large a sum to simply swallow whole, and part of it belonged to Mother’s coworkers. The weight of it seemed to sit heavy on her as she carefully chose her words.

“We can’t just split this money with the workers right now, can we?”

“Well, unless your son wants a seat in the electric chair.”

“Don’t even joke about that…”

So the money had to stay thoroughly hidden for a while. No sudden increase in spending. Moving house would have been a solid option, but it went against Mother’s conscience. The best path was still to grow the money—start a business, invest—and eventually pass the returns on to her colleagues. It would take time and carried the risk of failure, but at least it would ease the guilt.

“Wasn’t there something you’ve always wanted to do?”

“Me? Beyond keeping this family fed and well… nothing, really.”

“Come on. There has to be something that feels worth doing, or that you just want to try.”

Mother thought for a moment, then gave a bitter little smile.

“The only thing that comes to mind is sewing. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“Well, you’ve been at it a long time. The clothes you make are…”

“Underwear.”

“Ah—corsets and the like?”

“Can’t make those these days. The government restricted production because iron’s scarce. So mostly slips, drawers, and girdles.”

Slips fell to the ankles; girdles reached the knees—light, floating undergarments. Drawers were cotton underskirts that doubled as panties, also reaching the knees.

That aside—

“Iron’s so scarce they restricted corset production?”

“It’s the war in Europe. Everything’s chaos.”

Most of the iron produced domestically was going into weapons and ships, or being exported to Europe.

“Corsets use that much iron?”

“They do. They used to use whalebone for the boning, but it was expensive and hard to get, so they switched to iron.”

The feminine ideal of the age demanded a large bust and hips with an impossibly tiny waist. A corset used several thin strips of iron set vertically to force that ant-waist silhouette…

And then a single word flashed through my mind.

“What about… brassieres?”

“Hm? How do you know about those?”

I’d lived a lifetime as a bachelor, so I knew better than most. My head was full of the glamorous lingerie I’d seen in countless videos. Anyway.

“So brassieres exist?”

“As a matter of fact, more and more women are looking for them these days. Corsets are expensive and hard to make, so they’re using those instead.”

It was tied to the rise in women’s social activity. The glittering Victorian age of the British Empire was fading, and fashion—once so ornate and cumbersome—was changing with it. The brassiere was a prime example.

“Could I see one?”

“Honestly…”

Mother shot me a sidelong look. I waved my hands, clearing up the misunderstanding.

“No, no—I’m just curious how they’re made.”

“Well. Your mother’s only wearing ordinary drawers right now, so I’ll explain it in words.”

She laid two handkerchiefs on the table, set them at an angle against each other, and folded the middle.

“You join two pieces like this, then attach straps at the shoulders and under the arms. That’s it.”

That was a brassiere? Crude and primitive. And more importantly—

“What about the hooks?”

“Hm?”

“The ones you just pop open with a finger…”

“What are those?”

They didn’t have them?

I slapped the table. Mother flinched.

“That’s it. We’re going into the underwear business.”

Not just luxurious lingerie for women—men’s underwear too. I had a hundred years of future undergarments stored in my head. And, truthfully, there was a personal motive mixed in. I wanted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out of what I was wearing as soon as possible. These weren’t even proper briefs; they were more like long johns chopped off at mid-thigh—drawers. To take a piss you had to undo four buttons. Unbearably inconvenient. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even seen a sleeveless undershirt yet. If I roughly sketched the designs, she could turn them into proper patterns.

“Mother, can you draw?”

“I’ll have you know, clothes have been made from my sketches before. Where do you think Roa gets her talent?”

I glanced at Roa’s drawing hanging in the living room. It looked like it had been done with her feet, but maybe you had to view it from a six-year-old’s perspective. Anyway.

Money really does make the mind work better. I was riding high on hope when one of Mother’s coworkers arrived.

“Nora, we’re meeting before we visit the WTUL. Do you have time?”

“Yes, I’ll be right there.”

The empty basement workshop was now a strategy room for the unemployed and the victims of the scam. Most of them were Italian or Jewish and not fluent in English, so they leaned on Mother, the Irishwoman among them.

“Kieran, I think we need to think about this money a little longer. It’s not urgent, is it?”

“Of course not. Rushing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only makes it more dangerous. But what’s the WTUL?”

“The Women’s Trade Union League.”

According to Mother, the WTUL—founded in 1903—was a women’s labor organization that supported strikes against exploitation and ran campaigns on multiple fronts to advance women’s suffrage. Notably, it had worked behind the scenes to support the great uprising of 1909, when some twenty thousand shirtwaist workers walked out.

“I met with one of their people yesterday. They said they understood our situation and wanted to discuss next steps together.”

What Mother and her coworkers wanted was simple: get the sewing machines back, have someone take over the workshop, and keep working. For sweatshop laborers, that was the only real plan.

“I’ll be back. Look after your brother and sister when they get home.”

Alone at the table, I flipped through the notebook I’d been scribbling in for days. The words listed haphazardly were a perfect map of the chaos in my head.

I’d written them down as they came, with no idea what I should actually do. Now I added one more: the clothing business. It would put Mother’s sewing skills to use, and it was an industry that could keep evolving far into the future. Better still, if we took over the basement workshop we could rehire the same workers and pay them wages—that would be the best outcome of all. Of course, that meant recovering the sewing machines first. A few suitable people came to mind.

I was about to stand when the door opened and my siblings came in, hand in hand.

“Wow, Big Brother’s home!”

Roa scampered over and wrapped herself around my leg.

“What are we playing today, Roa?”

“Exercise.”

“Exercise every day!”

Unlike the affectionate Roa, my brother Liam was anything but warm. Today his face looked especially dark, and he was chewing his nails.

“Something got you nervous?”

“……”

“What is it? Did someone hit you again?”

“I’m the older one. You think I go around getting beaten every day? It’s not that.”

Liam hesitated, chewing his lip, then finally forced the words out.

“Gary’s crew is looking for you in the alley out front… They told me to go get you. Why is that bastard so desperate to get his hands on you?”

Why? Because he hadn’t been hit enough yet. I’d gone easy on him because he was still a teenager, and clearly he hadn’t learned his lesson.

“Where is he?”

“You’re not seriously going to Gary?”

“If he wants to see me, I should go.”

“Hyung, that doesn’t sound right.”

“Roa’s against it too! Big Brother, do you want to end up on your back again?”

Gary would be the one ending up on his back. I pressed Liam until I got the location. Leaving my siblings’ worries behind, I quietly slipped a knife into my clothes and went out.

I didn’t have to answer a summons. But I couldn’t stay alone forever. If an individual was going to build power, it started with a small reputation. I needed a reputation. I would put Gary down hard and use his body to announce my existence.

Just before entering the alley near home, I turned my head and looked up. The sunset painted the sky red. Perfect backlighting.

I stepped into the alley. The eyes of the cluster of boys all locked onto me at once. Deep shadows fell across me; they couldn’t tell who I was right away. In that opening I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠exploded into a full sprint.

“Wh-what the hell is that guy?!”

They scrambled to their feet in panic. While Gary was still hesitating, I drove a kick into the side of his head.

Crack.

Thud.

Gary slammed into the wall. I took the three who rushed me next, targeting only vital points until their attacks collapsed. In an instant all three were rolling on the ground. I grabbed the groaning Gary by the hair and hauled him up.

“W-wait! I only wanted to talk—”

“I’ll tear that mouth open for you.”

I was about to hook my fingers into his mouth when he blurted,

“Ta-Tanner Smith wants to meet you! That’s why I called you—to deliver the message!”

“Who?”

“The founding boss of the Marginals!”

The Marginals?

The two gangsters I’d eliminated in an alley a few days ago. The gang under suspicion for those murders was the Marginals. Had they already connected me to it?

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“Why is a gang boss looking for me?”

“He’s not the boss anymore. He washed his hands three years ago. Now he helps kids like us.”

Tanner Smith. Unfortunately, I only knew Italian Mafia history; my knowledge of Irish gangs was thin. But in Kieran’s memories there was a rumor about Tanner Smith—a famous gang boss who, after prison and as a form of penance, guided boys away from the life he himself had lived.

Was that even true?

“You can’t even put a bastard like yourself on the straight path. What chance do you have with anyone else?”

“I don’t pick on my own kind. You—”

“What, because I’m mixed?”

Smack.

I backhanded him across the face. His already cowed crew edged farther away.

“Talk. Why does Tanner want me?”

Gary cradled his cheek and went on.

“…He wants to gather kids who can fight and hold this neighborhood. The Italians and Jews have been running wild.”

“You got hit by them too?”

Gary bit down hard on his lip. I could guess why his attitude toward me had changed.

“So. Collecting kids—sounds like he’s raising a kid gang.”

“It’s not a gang. If you don’t have strength, you get stepped on. That’s just reality.”

Irish boys, unite and live; scatter and die. If you have power, use it to protect your neighbors and friends. That is the only path that keeps you out of crime.

“That’s what Tanner Smith wants.”

“Sounds like a cult leader.”

“You just don’t know him… Tanner’s got loyalty. He even sponsors money for kids who are struggling.”

Gary respected and admired Tanner Smith. It was written all over his face.

“It wouldn’t be a bad deal for you either. Even retired, Tanner Smith still carries serious weight in the Marginals. Everyone respects him.”

And above all—

“You know those guys who took your money on Wall Street a few days ago? They turned up as corpses in an alley. The Marginals did that.”

I was the one who handled them, you idiot. I kept my mouth shut and turned it over in my head. If Gary was telling the truth, he had already reported my existence to the former boss of the Marginals. Without my even knowing it, a faint reputation had begun to form. Should I use this chance to meet Tanner Smith and start building power around the Irish?

There was another option: the Mafia with a guaranteed future—Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Siegel. Thinking ahead to Prohibition, that looked safer than the uncertain path with Tanner Smith. The problem was that their closed circle of Italians and Jews left no gap to squeeze through. Not a choice I could make on the spot.

“If this is a lie, I might actually kill you next time.”

“I’m not crazy enough to lie using Tanner Smith’s name.”

“If you’re serious, I’ll think about it.”

“So that’s not a no?”

Gary asked with an awkward smile. Smile? Under my stare, the corners of his mouth drooped.

“Why did you tell Tanner about me in the first place?”

“He happened to be looking for useful kids.”

“So you sold me out to suck up to him.”

“N-no, that’s not it. I just thought I might be able to help Tanner…”

“Same thing, you little shit. Anyway.”

I held out my hand. Gary flinched, then awkwardly brushed off his clothes and took it so I could pull him up.

“If I feel like it, I’ll go find him myself.”

“Once you meet Tanner Smith, you’ll get pulled in. You might even get… protection going forward.”

“I heard you. Now all of you go first.”

“N-no. You go first.”

In the narrow alley, Gary and his friends yielded, insisting I leave first. Probably afraid of an attack from behind. Hard to trust your back to people with zero mutual trust. Truth was, I felt the same.

“I said go first, you bastards.”

“A-all right.”

Gary and his crew backed out of the alley, eyes locked on me the whole way.

“Ridiculous.”

I walked out slowly, turning Tanner Smith’s proposal over in my mind. Then a new question surfaced.

“If he quit the gang, where’s the money coming from to help these kids?”

I should have asked Gary. I shook my head. I was already on my way to someone who would know far more—exactly what kind of man Tanner Smith was, and where the loan sharks had taken the sewing machines from the basement workshop. I needed information.

Street-level shoeshine boys had their own network. Everything from empty bragging to high-grade intelligence flowed through it. The real skill was gathering the raw noise and extracting the value. People looked down on shoeshine boys, but the Lower East Side had two with that kind of talent.

On East Broadway, as dusk settled in, a shoeshine boy who’d been squatting on the street spotted me and stuck out his lip.

“Well, well. Look who it is. The Kieran who got wrecked by Gary, then had the nerve to shine shoes on Wall Street only to get his money stolen, then smashed his kit the very next day?”

“Listening to you, I sound like the most pathetic guy in the world.”

One of the Lower East Side’s best-connected information brokers—and the one who had once carried half-dead me all the way home—was Leo.

“What are you actually planning to do? You think you can feed your siblings like this? Maybe finding another line of work wouldn’t be so ba—”

“I was already thinking of something else. Want in?”

“On what?”

To a loyal friend’s sincere advice, I gave a sincere answer.

“Gangster.”