Still More Left?
It varied by state, but unfortunately New York banned minors from drinking.
Besides, who knew what these bastards might have slipped into the booze?
Had I really come all this way just to hear simple advice from Dopey Benny?
I wanted more.
“If I had to recreate the scene… the stairs were soaked in blood, and Johnny’s body was inside the warehouse, covered in fabric like this.”
I stood there and reenacted Johnny’s corpse, eyes rolled back the way they had been when he died.
Dopey Benny shot up from his chair, craning his neck, while his men abandoned their card game to stare at me.
“Oh-ho, so the eyeballs were like that. Any gunshot wounds?”
“None that I saw. But both arms had been slashed with a knife—clothes torn, blood everywhere. There was dried blood on the left side of his head here.”
“Knife cuts from blocking, head from a blunt weapon. Eyes rolled up like that means…”
“Ah, and the wrists and ankles were sliced too.”
“Then it’s this.”
Everyone started guessing at the sequence until Dopey Benny shook his head, dismissing them.
“My take is this. First hit was on the stairs. Hero Number One swings the knife, Johnny blocks with his arms. Right then Hero Number Two shows up and cracks Johnny’s skull with a blunt weapon!”
“Crack!”
“They finish off the other two right after, then drag Johnny and the bodies into the fabric warehouse. But Johnny’s still breathing? No rope to tie him with? Can’t let him run—ankles, wrists!”
“Slice, slice!”
“Here’s the important part.”
Dopey Benny mimed choking someone with his own hands.
“One of the heroes locks Johnny’s neck like this!”
“Ghk…”
“That bastard Johnny, even while dying, forced his eyes upward just to get a look at the guy. And then!”
“Khk!”
“Dead. Yeah, that’s it.”
These guys were practically profilers.
They had the number of killers wrong, but they were more accurate than my own memory.
They were still cackling and tossing sound effects at each other when Dopey Benny’s face suddenly went cold and his voice dropped low.
“The first witnesses would’ve been Jewish kids.”
“…”
“And a punk like you looked that carefully at Johnny’s body? Without even flinching?”
A mad glint slowly bloomed in his eyes, like he was high on something. Experience had taught me that ordinary answers only poisoned the well with lunatics like this.
“Corpses are less scary than people. Especially cops.”
Silence hung for a beat, then the room filled with rough laughter.
“That’s the truth! That damn Diego bastard Johnny can’t even touch a fingertip of yours now. Why? Because he’s dead! Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
“Miss Jean, two more bottles of whiskey over here!”
The office heated up fast.
Appreciative growls erupted everywhere as a woman who looked like a bar madam brought over two whiskey bottles.
Dopey Benny drained what was left in his glass and dropped heavily back into his chair.
“Alright, alright. Time to solve the problem of our friend who brought the good news. I’ll say it once, so listen close.”
Half-lidded eyes fixed on me. Then the method for getting fabric past the owners’ interference spilled out of his mouth.
“First, snatch one of the bastards. Next, cut off a wrist and mail the package to the club the owners always hit. You’ll get any fabric you want after that. Simple, right?”
Real madness clung to every word, the kind that made you believe he would actually do it.
Dopey Benny was the same breed of lunatic as Johnny.
“Of course, someone like you—scared of people and shaking at the sight of cops—could never pull it off. Right?”
I nodded, and he nodded right back.
“Yeah. So there’s only one way. Fabric? I’ll supply it.”
Dopey Benny already had his own fabric suppliers.
Offering to “give” it meant he would send me the contact who handled his deals.
“Thank you for the help.”
Dopey Benny snorted, leaned back in his chair, and propped his legs on the desk. Only then did he study my face carefully and ask,
“Irish mixed-blood?”
“Yes.”
“Tanner Smith’s looking after kids, I heard. Looks like you’re one of them. Anyway, get lost.”
As I turned to leave the office, Dopey Benny tossed one last line at my back.
“If you need help again, bring news as happy as today’s. Who knows? If you’ve seen the body of Johnny’s partner Kid Dropper, I might give you even more.”
I left the office with his cackling laughter behind me. The help was appreciated, but I would have to think hard about whether I wanted ongoing dealings with him.
On the way home.
Walking Lafayette Street, I stopped in front of a shop.
A Kosher Butcher's Shop
I steeled myself and stepped inside.
Behind the counter, hooks hung from the ceiling with slabs of beef and mutton dangling from them.
Kosher meant food prepared according to traditional Jewish law.
Beef, for instance, had to be slaughtered by someone specially qualified under strict ritual, with the front half considered kosher from the thirteenth rib forward and the rear half non-kosher.
In a neighborhood packed with Jews, most butcher shops sold only kosher beef, and the strict rule that only meat fresh within three days could be sold drove the prices sky-high.
A few Jewish housewives were already at the counter haggling over meat.
I couldn’t understand the Yiddish, but the hanging scale on one side pointed to half a pound—about two hundred twenty-seven grams—and the woman paid seventy-five cents.
When my turn came, the bearded owner wiped his hands on his apron and looked me over. His brow furrowed and the veins in his forearms bulged.
“What do you want?”
I came to a butcher shop to buy meat, you bastard.
What else would I be asking for?
“I need rib-eye for steaks.”
“Hmm. How much?”
“Two pounds—about nine hundred grams.”
“What?”
The owner’s face twisted.
Chinatown was right next door. An Oriental walking into a Jewish butcher shop was strange enough; the amount I ordered was worse.
Two pounds for three dollars—two full weeks of food money for an ordinary laborer.
Three men who had been cutting meat in the back stepped up beside the owner, broad cleavers in hand.
They looked exactly like the type who moonlighted as gangsters after closing time.
I put on a bright smile and held out three dollars.
“The boss sent me.”
“…Two pounds of rib-eye, you said?”
A filthy world where even buying meat freely was a problem.
The owner spread thick brown paper on the counter, laid a sheet of wax paper over it, set the meat down, rolled it tight, wrapped it in paper, and tied it with string.
“Next time you come, I’ll throw in some off-cuts for free.”
There were butcher shops in Chinatown too, but I didn’t speak Chinese. I would get cheated blind, and the hygiene was questionable.
Better to pay more and trust a kosher butcher who slaughtered according to religious conviction.
I carried the meat home.
Raindrops began to fall from the sky.
That evening.
Mother’s face was full of smiles when she came home from work.
“Kieran, a fabric salesman came by earlier. Was that you?”
“You already know.”
One headache solved in a snap.
Mother looked at me with eyes dripping honey and rolled up her sleeves.
“It’s the first day of the business, so on a special day like today the food should be special too!”
She reached into the box for potatoes again.
Roa came scampering over and grabbed Mother’s hand.
“Save the special potatoes! Roa’s supposed to eat meat today!”
“Me… meat?”
“Big Brother bought it and said it’s for Roa!”
Roa nodded vigorously.
Only then did Mother notice the brown paper package on the table and smile a little wistfully.
In the Lower East Side, home to Jewish and Italian immigrants, beef was an expensive luxury.
Most people lived on cheap chicken or fish; beef only appeared on truly special days.
On top of that, the European war had made food prices swing wildly. Essential goods like meat were being exported, driving the cost even higher.
And I had brought home that hard-to-get beef.
“Where did you buy this?”
“A kosher butcher.”
“Oh my, those places are especially expensive.”
It wasn’t as if poor Irish people never ate meat.
They simply lived on cheap stewing cuts or organ meat, most often turned into corned beef packed in salt.
Plenty of people couldn’t even afford that. Families like ours.
“Since you bought such precious meat, we should enjoy it…”
“It’s precious, so I’ll cook it myself today.”
“Absolutely not!”
Mother and Liam answered at the same time.
A sharp little voice joined them.
Roa shook her head at me with huge, round eyes.
“Big Brother, that really doesn’t seem like a good idea.”
Just how badly had I cooked before to get this reaction from my own family?
Pride flared.
I would show them what cooking really was.
“Leave it to me.”
Despite their protests I picked up the knife.
Everyone flinched and stopped arguing.
It was raining outside anyway.
Today I would add potato pancakes to the menu.
Steak first.
Steak tasted good even when you half-assed it; put in a little care and it tasted better.
I sliced it thick, drained the blood, and seasoned it with salt and pepper.
Next.
Swish, swish.
I peeled the potatoes from the box and grated them on a board full of sharp little holes.
I mixed the finely grated potatoes with flour and shot Mother a look.
“Don’t just stand there watching—heat a frying pan.”
“Ah, frying pan, frying pan.”
“Big Brother, Roa wants to help too! It’s not because I’m looking forward to the food or anything.”
Roa hovered around me like a puppy.
“Alright, assistant. Bring the salt.”
“Okay! Wait for meee!”
Roa dashed off, found the little salt cellar, and pressed it into my hand.
I sprinkled salt into the thick batter and adjusted the seasoning.
That was all the prep needed.
Then the beef went into the hot pan first.
Sizzle.
The smell of cooking meat filled every corner of the house.
Roa closed her eyes and flared her nostrils; Mother and Liam just nodded as if they had grasped some great truth.
While I seared a few pieces of steak and wrapped them in paper to rest, I roughly wiped the pan, poured in more oil, and started frying the batter I had shaped into rounds.
Mother watched and asked,
“That’s not boxty.”
“A little different.”
Boxty was the potato pancake Irish people loved. The taste was close to these potato pancakes.
The difference was that boxty mixed boiled, mashed potatoes with grated ones, used more flour, and came out much thicker.
The texture was crunchier and greasier.
Mother made boxty three or four times a week, but on a rainy day like this I craved the moister potato pancakes.
When the savory smell rose, Roa tugged at my pant leg.
“Big Brother, what is this? It smells like food.”
“…Because it is food.”
“No, it smells delicious!”
“That’s right. Delicious food.”
“Hmm, I think I need to taste it to be sure!”
Roa kept asking when it would be ready, while Mother touched her lips with her fingers and looked back and forth between my face and the cooking.
Liam, who had appeared without my noticing, stared at the pan with the same expression, a lump of iron hanging from his right hand like a dumbbell.
A little later.
I set two potato pancakes on each plate and piled sliced steak on the side.
Mother and Liam stared blankly at the pancakes more than the meat.
Impatient Roa shook Mother.
“Mom, we haven’t prayed yet!”
“Ah, right, we should.”
The prayer that evening was unusually short.
Roa grabbed her fork first and shoved meat into her mouth. She chewed for a moment, then wore the expression of someone who had finally tasted the meat she had only ever heard about.
When she tried a potato pancake next, her big eyes grew even rounder.
“Big Brother, this is cooking! Real cooking! It’s delicious!”
“I know, so don’t leave any.”
“Why would I leave any? Roa can eat more! But…”
Roa looked back and forth between Mother and Liam and tilted her head.
“Doesn’t Mom and Liam like it?”
“No… it’s too good.”
“You haven’t even eaten yet, Mom!”
“I can tell without eating.”
Mother cut a piece of potato pancake with her fork, put it in her mouth, and her eyes immediately welled up.
Only then did I understand their reaction.
This wasn’t just any potato pancake. It was the dish Father used to make once in a blue moon when he was still alive.
Mother had tried after he died, of course.
But the taste never came out right.
He had never left a friendly recipe, and how often had she actually cooked it?
Besides, the notebook Father left behind was filled with tiny Korean recipes, every word in Hangul.
Ironically, the only person in the house who could read them properly was me.
So Father’s cooking had become something on par with the secret formula for Coca-Cola.
Mother and Liam savored the taste in silence while Roa, who had no memory of Father, simply enjoyed the food with pure delight.
What should have been a happy meal had unexpectedly filled with longing for Father.
Just as I thought, I’ve really messed this up, Mother looked at me with eyes full of expectation.
“What are you going to make next time?”
“Plenty of things, if I have the ingredients.”
Gochujang, doenjang, soy sauce, and the rest.
With just those I could put together a menu that didn’t revolve around potatoes, but we were missing far too much.
Of course I could manage without Korean food.
I had lived half my previous life as a bachelor; my repertoire was wide.
“Big Brother, is there more?!”
“Don’t touch mine. It’s a pain, so if there’s leftover batter just fry it yourself—”
Smack!
Mother’s backhand smash landed perfectly.
“Please speak nicely. Your little sister says she wants more.”
“Me too.”
Liam casually slid his plate forward as well.
My sour gaze settled on him.
“…You’re little?”
“Yeah. Two whole years younger than you.”
Anyway, with a reaction like this I would have to cook whenever I had free time.
The next day, Sunday.
“Mother, I’m going on a short business trip.”
“…Still more left?”
Mother rolled her eyes, wondering who else remained. I gave a bitter smile, told her it would take about two days, and left the house.
I intended to settle matters before the harbor security man killed himself.
Destination: Red Hook, Brooklyn.
I walked to Canal Street and boarded a streetcar.
It looked like an old horse-drawn carriage that simply no longer needed horses; the car rattled along the rails toward the Manhattan Bridge.