What a Gang Means to Me
Knock, knock.
It was the next morning, and we were in the middle of breakfast with the family when someone knocked on the door.
"Mrs. Graves, are you there? It's the police."
Clatter.
Mother and I dropped our spoons at the same time.
"Mom? Big Brother? Are you both sick or something?"
Roa bent down to pick up the spoons from the floor while Liam clenched his fists, his face gone rigid. He looked tense, like he already knew something—but I was the one who should have been panicking right now.
Knock, knock.
"Mrs. Graves?"
"Kieran…"
The knocking grew louder. Mother stared at me with a face that looked ready to cry.
Something was wrong. It had been perfect. Even if someone had seen me at dawn, there was no way they could have made out my face.
"Hey, the police uncles are here—why is everybody just sitting around?"
Roa, unable to stand it any longer, scampered over and threw the door open. Holy shit. Mother and I frantically shook our heads, but Roa’s movements were unstoppable. At this rate she’d open the door for a gang if they knocked. I’d have to educate her properly later.
The door swung wide, revealing two uniformed officers. Roa greeted them with full-throated cheer.
"Good morning! Police uncles!"
"Hello there, little miss. Sorry about that—looks like we’ve interrupted your breakfast."
The officer in his mid-thirties glanced at the table and offered an awkward smile. He didn’t seem like he’d come to arrest me. Or was he just putting on a show for little Roa’s sake? I was still wondering whether the Lower East Side even had cops this decent when Mother spoke up, perfectly calm.
"What brings you here so early?"
All the anxiety and agitation from moments before had vanished; her voice and expression were astonishingly composed.
"Nothing too serious. Last night there was a major incident at a warehouse near the East River docks. A number of sewing machines were found inside."
"Sew…ing machines?"
Relief washed over me. The police had come simply to confirm whether the machines matched the ones taken from the basement workshop. They’d sought Mother out among all the workers for the simple reason that she, like them, was Irish.
"No matter how we look at it, they seem to be the ones from the basement workshop here, but the higher-ups want us to make absolutely sure."
"I’ll gather the other workers right away."
Mother’s voice was bright with sudden excitement.
"We’d rather not have a whole crowd, so just bring two more people, please. The scene’s been preserved as is, so there’s no need to rush."
The officers said they would wait downstairs and left.
"You kids can finish eating and clean up, right?"
"Of course! You go on!"
Roa’s answer was as booming as ever. Mother beamed, grabbed only her coat, and hurried out. The moment the door closed, Liam looked at me while still holding a piece of bread.
"Hyung…"
"What is it, punk."
He glanced sideways at Roa, then shook his head.
"Never mind."
"Little Brother, saying something and then ‘never mind’—allowed or not allowed?"
"Allowed. Just eat your bread."
"Ta-da. Roa already finished everything, see?"
She held up her empty plate with a triumphant look. Bread crumbs scattered everywhere.
"What the hell are you doing."
"Don’t worry, I’m gonna eat those too."
"Ah, shit, that’s disgusting."
"Then give me yours. Roa’s still hungry."
Without a word I pushed my plate toward her. Her eyes went round as if to ask what on earth was going on.
"Is Roa still asleep? This is a dream, right?"
"Yeah, it’s a dream. So eat up and grow already."
"That’s right. Roa’s the smallest among her friends."
Damn it, the smallest? That was all because she never got to eat meat. Once I caught some, I’d stuff her until her belly burst…
No. This wasn’t the time for thoughts like that.
"I’m heading out too."
I left the cleanup to Liam and Roa and went downstairs. Mother startled and shot me urgent looks telling me to get back inside, but I held my ground, insisting I was fine. The officers paid me no mind. To them I was nothing more than a curious boy—nothing more, nothing less.
The crime scene.
Police, reporters, and gawkers thronged the warehouse and the surrounding area.
"Ladies, if you’d come this way and identify the sewing machines."
The corpses that had littered the warehouse and its surroundings were nowhere to be seen. Only the thick bloodstains soaking the floor hinted at what had happened here.
Mother and the other women examined the four sewing machines resting atop the bloodstains. The machines had been scattered every which way because the men moving them had been shot dead mid-task. The brand was Singer—the company that practically monopolized the market. That alone wasn’t enough to prove they had come from the workshop.
They opened the drawers.
Because the machines had been seized without warning that day, the drawers still held the personal belongings of the workers who had used them: scissors, knives, spools of thread, buttons, and the like. Mother and the women recognized at once whose things they were.
"These belonged to Mrs. Monica—no mistake. They’re the sewing machines from the workshop."
"How many machines were taken that day?"
"Thirty-two."
"The numbers match as well. Confirmed. You’re free to go now."
Just confirm and leave? That was it?
"You at least have to tell us what happened."
"Why are the sewing machines here, and what became of those loan sharks?"
The other women fired off questions in somewhat clumsy English. At that moment Mother glanced at me, then walked over to the sewing machines lined up side by side and began opening every drawer one by one. Meanwhile the police explained the incident to the women. The summary was simple: a gunfight had broken out in the warehouse last night, and every last one of the loan sharks had been killed.
"Then what happens to the sewing machines?"
"Ownership naturally goes to the bereaved family. They were taken in place of the dead boss’s debts, after all."
"We were owed wages too!"
"Hasn’t that matter already been settled?"
After the boss died, the workers had gone to the police station and claimed partial rights to the sewing machines as compensation for unpaid wages. Of course it had been rejected. A legitimate transfer contract existed, they said. Even if I tore up the contract I now held, nothing would change. Immediately after the boss’s death the police had already ruled the contract legal through proper procedure.
To reverse the situation…
"Here! I’ve found something important!"
Mother waved a stack of mail and a ledger in both hands. Police, sweatshop workers, and reporters all surged toward her. This was the moment the full scope of the boss’s fraud would come to light. I couldn’t yet predict how things would unfold, but ownership of the sewing machines was certain to become a flashpoint of controversy.
Separate from all that, what I needed to do was—
Suddenly someone laid a hand on my shoulder.
"You. Come with me a minute."
A familiar voice. Tanner Smith was here?
A short distance from the crime scene, Tanner—rope still looped around his waist—fixed me with a piercing stare.
"Eight men died in that warehouse. And every last one of them was Hudson Dusters."
I said nothing.
"You know who the cops named as their suspect?"
"No idea."
"Mike Costello."
"Who’s that?"
"The de facto leader of the crumbling Hudson Dusters."
Looks like their movements last night had been tracked. Not surprising—they’d been galloping around on horseback at dawn. I must have let a smile slip without realizing it. Tanner’s face twisted; he leaned in close, almost threatening.
"Yesterday you came looking for me and said, clear as day, that you were going to hit the Hudson Dusters."
And then it had actually happened. The men killed last night and the suspects named for the crime were all members of the Hudson Dusters.
"Does that make any sense?"
"Why wouldn’t it?"
Tanner’s face flushed crimson with agitation, his speech turning rough.
"Fuck, how the hell did a kid like you pull something like that? No—wait. You just confessed, didn’t you? Fine. I’ll go rat you out to the cops right now."
"Do you believe me?"
Tanner looked up at the sky, then shook his head.
"…No. I don’t."
"Then would the police?"
Proving with my own mouth that “I did it” was ridiculous enough; talking this way would only bring us back to square one. I pulled a folded paper from my pocket and held it out.
"What the hell is this now?"
Tanner snatched the paper irritably and unfolded it. His eyes began to tremble as they scanned the page. It was the sewing-machine contract that the dead Stumpy had held—the one cooked up between him and the boss. Absolute proof. Something I could never have possessed unless it had been at the crime scene.
Tanner’s mouth fell open. He tore his gaze from the contract and stared at me, half-understanding, half-not, why I would hand it to him of all people.
"What if I give this to the cops?"
"You’re asking the same question again. If you show them that, who do you think they’ll arrest?"
His eyes flicked briefly skyward. Then Tanner seemed to grasp it; he looked back at me and nodded.
"…Yeah. I’d be the only one fucked."
The former boss of the Marginals, currently preparing for war with the Hudson Dusters, versus a seventeen-year-old shoe-shine boy. Walk into a station holding that contract and who would the police cuff?
For roughly a full minute Tanner said nothing. When he finally spoke, it was this:
"What’s that vision of yours again? Or was it that you wanted to make a deal?"
I felt as if I had drawn one step closer to Tanner—sooner than I had expected.
On the way home from the crime scene, I walked a little apart from the other women, side by side with Mother. She spoke in a near-whisper, as if she had been waiting for this moment.
"So the ‘business trip’ was to that warehouse?"
"Yes."
"And you did it all alone?"
"Who else would help with something like that."
Mother touched her lips, then asked another question.
"You just… killed people. How can you be so calm?"
"Because they weren’t people."
Mother nodded as if she agreed. Then she deliberately stirred the anger that had begun to settle, trying as hard as she could to understand me. I encouraged her.
"Deliberately going bankrupt to skip out on wages, then colluding with loan sharks to steal the equipment as well."
"How is that a human being? They deserved to die."
"That’s right. They deserved to die."
Mother repeated my words, convincing herself. The fact that she changed the subject was proof enough.
"That sewing machine where you hid the evidence—it was the one I used to work on. Did you deliberately find it and put the papers there in the middle of everything?"
Of course not. Pure, breathtaking coincidence. I was still surprised myself. But was there any real reason to deny it? I answered with a smile instead.
Mother smiled back and held out a photograph. It was a picture of my parents from their younger days.
"This is the photo I took with your father when we went to Joseon as missionaries. I was so upset that I couldn’t grab it that day…"
She suddenly linked her arm through mine, saying that thanks to me she had gotten the photo back.
"I’m anxious, and worried, and everything feels different from before—it throws me completely. But I trust my son."
"A lot of things are going to change from now on. For the better, of course."
Mother smiled, then continued in a voice tinged with fresh concern.
"But, son… even if the evidence is made public, getting those sewing machines back won’t be easy."
"I think the same."
That the boss had committed fraud was certain. Whether any deal with the loan sharks rendered the contract itself void, however, was still open to debate.
"Still, this whole affair has given us a cause to fight for. It’s proven we were victims of a swindler, hasn’t it?"
"Handle that on its own track. There’s other work you need to prepare for as well."
"Like what?"
Take over the workshop, design new undergarments, open up new supply contracts…
"Would it be all right to use that money? People will think it’s strange…"
"You’ll have to do it with the investment you received."
"Who’s investing in me?"
"Isn’t there anyone around? Rich, kind-hearted…"
A sucker. Tanner Smith came to mind, but he had no money.
Mother rejoined her colleagues and began discussing the work ahead. I followed a few paces behind, turning over the conversation I’d had with Tanner.
So what’s your vision?
My ambition to make a killing during Prohibition. The preemptive measures of joining hands with me to “secure warehouses for smuggling and bribe the port managers.”
Boom.
Of course Tanner’s reaction had been lukewarm.
Guys with their heads full of hot air always talk just like you. They go on about how once that damn Prohibition law passes it’ll be like striking gold. But when’s that goddamn law even going to pass? Hell, is it going to pass at all?
Don’t you read the papers?
Wait—has it been announced?!
No.
Fuck… never mind. Tell me something else. You said you wanted to make a deal with me?
The stunt I pulled last night had dealt a crushing blow to the Hudson Dusters. The men who died in the warehouse and the ones now named as suspects were all Hudson Dusters. Tanner, as if congratulating me on the achievement, told me to name what I wanted. Everything I wanted was tied to Prohibition, but since the law hadn’t passed yet it was still too early to start fanning the flames. What I needed right now was to build a force of my own in preparation for that day.
I want to create a lower unit of the Marginals. How about letting me command a portion of it?
You think that makes sense? I washed my hands of the life a long time ago. And even if I were still the boss, it’s not something I could decide on my own.
This was one of the ways the criminal organizations of this era differed from the ones I knew in the future. Membership in the Marginals was not a vertical relationship. Anyone who didn’t like it could quit whenever they wanted, or jump to another outfit. No strict discipline, no reprisals followed.
So who’d take orders from a seventeen-year-old?
Tanner advised me to start from the bottom instead.
Rushing won’t get you anywhere. I’ll recommend a few. Pick one.
Rookie: a newcomer who tagged along after senior gangsters and learned every form of behavior.
Scut work: cleaning the hideout, maintaining weapons, and other menial chores.
Dipper: picking pockets and committing theft.
Backup: providing support in fights or criminal activity.
And also…
No. Let’s talk again soon.
With my brilliant hands I was supposed to do nothing more than empty strangers’ pockets? Or stand lookout and watch someone’s back? Was that all I was joining a gang for?
I have bigger ambitions than that.
Yeah, well, kids your age all have big ambitions. I did too, kid.
Tanner dismissed my thoughts as the empty daydreams a seventeen-year-old might entertain. Yet just before we parted he left me with something worth considering.
Even if you fight like a goddamn demon on your own, a bullet still kills you. If you really want to build a gang, move people’s hearts. Make them believe in you and follow you—that’s how you become a real boss.
He was right. But the gang I wanted to build wasn’t that kind of gang.
Why had gangs come into existence in the first place? Immigrants who could not rely on the law for protection had banded together to defend themselves, and those bands had grown into powers. That was a gang.
Back to the beginning, then.
A gang that protected oneself and one’s own.
The gang I would build would be a vigilante force.