The Price of Independence
The small room tucked away in a corner of the S.M.C. Freight Company warehouse in northern Chicago was thick with cigarette smoke.
While a smoke-filled room was a common sight in any business during this era of lax smoking regulations, the interior of this particular room made one tilt their head in confusion.
A heavy-looking iron door, multiple telephones sitting on a conference table, and an expensive-looking solid wood desk and sofa tucked in the back. It looked less like a breakroom for laborers and more like the office of a crime syndicate.
Inside this room, Bugs Moran, the boss of the North Side Gang, lit his fifth cigarette with his feet propped up on the desk.
Leaning back, his gaze was fixed on the map of Chicago and its surroundings spread out beneath his feet. His face was twisted into a grimace as he stared at the red pen lines dividing the territories of the North Side and the Chicago Outfit, and the X marks scattered across the map.
There was only one reason for his frustration.
"Damn that Capone bastard. I didn't think he'd care this much about a bastard daughter, especially when he already has a son."
Ever since he ordered the attack on the wedding of Capone’s illegitimate daughter, a new war had erupted with the Chicago Outfit, ending their brief truce. Perhaps because it involved his own flesh and blood, the scale of the Chicago Outfit’s offensive this time was entirely different.
"Twenty locations already... There’s no way they could have found them this easily, unless there’s a traitor in our ranks."
He didn't know who it was, but if he found them, he wouldn't let them die easily.
It was just as Moran was thinking this.
Thump-thump!
"Boss."
With the sound of a knock, the man who entered through the solid iron door was carrying a stack of documents. It was Adam Heyer, Moran’s old friend and the accountant for the North Side Gang.
"What is it, Adam? I’m in a bit of a foul mood right now."
"I have something I must tell you."
Despite Moran’s irritable tone, Heyer bowed his head and continued, checking his documents.
"The price of malt syrup has risen by about 10% over the last few days."
"Malt syrup?"
"Yes. Even our usual suppliers seem reluctant to provide the volume we need. Among our members running the breweries, there’s talk that the cost of raw materials is becoming a burden."
Moran frowned for a moment at those words, then relaxed.
Malt syrup was an ingredient used in beer production, one of the organization’s sources of income. But compared to the war with the Italians that currently filled his head, it seemed like a trivial problem.
"What are you making such a fuss about? In this economy, it’s not like anything is running properly anyway."
He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and spoke dismissively.
"The Capone bastards probably put pressure on a few suppliers, or maybe there’s just a temporary shortage. It’s not a huge loss compared to the price of beer, so tell them to look elsewhere. If that doesn't work, just grease the palms of those Canadians with a little extra."
To a man who had lived his whole life as a gangster, the most important work of the organization was protecting his power and prestige. Malt this, beer that—those were just secondary tasks to pull in the money needed for the real work.
"...Yes, Boss."
At Moran’s firm answer, Heyer couldn't bring up the subject again and bowed his head.
"More importantly. That liquor warehouse in Little Italy we were supposed to hit—how is the preparation going?"
"The supplies are ready, and the Genna brothers are finalizing the plan."
Hiss-!
As he spoke, Moran crushed his cigarette onto the part of the map marked 'Little Italy'.
"...This time, we have to hit them hard enough to make that Capone bastard flinch."
Moran’s eyes gleamed viciously as he stared at the black hole in the map—unaware that he had just missed the final chance to prevent his organization's ruin.
It was March 1st.
It had been ten years since the March 1st Movement in the land of Joseon. To mark the 10th anniversary, the Shinhan Minbo, the only Korean immigrant newspaper in the United States, ran a special feature, and the Taegeukgi was hoisted on major buildings, including the Korean Methodist Church.
And.
"Mr. Lee."
It had already been two weeks since the IRS agents holed up in our factory’s document warehouse for an all-nighter.
"You look like you need some coffee, judging by your face. Why don't you have some?"
"Damn it, I don't need any coffee."
As I held up the coffee cup I was drinking from toward Miller and the other two agents, who looked like half-dead corpses from exhaustion, Miller spat out a curse and continued.
"Anyway, it looks like you won this time."
"Won? I’m not sure what you mean."
When I put on a look of complete ignorance, Miller grimaced, but he continued.
"For now... the investigation results show no issues. Honestly, it’s so clean that not even a speck of dust can be found. Most companies have at least a speck of dust somewhere."
Of course it was.
Fixing something that already existed to change it always led to problems somewhere, but building something from scratch that didn't exist in the first place was easier than that. Of course, "easier" was relative; objectively, it had been a nauseatingly terrible task.
"Thank you for recognizing our efforts toward transparent accounting."
As I smiled and bowed at his declaration of surrender, Miller looked like he had just eaten dung.
"...But don't think this is the end. We will chase you and Mr. Capone to the very end. Your illegal activities will eventually be caught."
"I’m not sure how you plan to catch a tail that doesn't exist... but good luck, Agent."
As I teased him with one corner of my mouth curled up until the very end, the three agents glared at me as if they wanted to kill me. But really, what can you do besides clocking out?
I gathered my briefcase and watched the slumped backs of the three men as they left the factory. And when they finally disappeared from my sight.
"Manse! Manse! Manse!"
I raised both hands and shouted for independence. Just as our people shouted for independence ten years ago today to resist the oppression of Imperial Japan, I had succeeded in escaping the wicked clutches of the American Empire that sought to send my father-in-law and me to prison. There was no reason not to shout for joy.
In a way, it was a "Tax Independence Manse," wasn't it?
"Boss?"
"Ah, it’s nothing, so go back to work."
There was the minor problem that some employees who witnessed my triple cheer looked at me with strange eyes, but I shooed them away with a wave of my hand and returned to the president's office where Goojik and Ahern were waiting.
"Phew, I can finally breathe. It should be quiet for a while now."
"They say they'll keep monitoring us, but now that they've confirmed there are no issues with our tax payments, further investigations will be difficult. They’re short on manpower, too."
"It was hard to move because of those tax office bastards, but now I can focus on the organization's work."
Like me, Ahern and Goojik looked relieved, having been quite harassed by those guys for the past two weeks. Goojik continued.
"Mr. Lee, how is the barley collection going?"
"So far, about 500 tons. Most of it has been dumped into the brewery."
The amount of industrial barley sold in the Chicago area grain market per month was roughly 2,000 tons. Considering that SCC had been buying up barley for two weeks, it was effectively the same as us buying up 50% of the market's supply.
At this rate, the price of the malt and malt syrup that would need to be made using this barley would soon skyrocket. And when that happened, the North Side bastards' beer barrels would be empty.
There was the minor issue of having more acetone than our production facilities could handle, but acetone didn't rot, so we could just stack it in the warehouse and use it as a raw material for acrylics later.
"The Boss tried something similar before and failed, but it’s proceeding more smoothly than I thought."
"Because we have a justification."
In this age of barbarism where people say meddling in the market is a sin, no one in this country would dare challenge us when we claim we aren't making moonshine with that barley, but producing industrial chemicals to make money. A little ethanol evaporating as a byproduct and being 'lost' was just an unavoidable circumstance.
"How is the Boss doing these days? I’ve been so busy I haven't been able to visit."
"He’s the same as ever. These days... he mainly stays at the hotel because of the war, but he still checks the status of his businesses about twice a week. It seems he didn't visit here specifically because the IRS agents were around."
"I should go see him soon."
Of course, I didn't plan on going empty-handed.
I looked out the window of the president's office at the interior of the factory. Specifically, at the heavy, rectangular iron frame located in the middle of the factory floor.
Inside the iron frame, a grayish liquid that was once plastic scraps was slowly hardening and taking shape.
"If you happen to see him, please tell him I’ll be visiting with a gift."
I watched the 'gift' slowly nearing completion, my eyes shining.
The weather in Shanghai, heading toward the end of March, was still cool enough to make one pull their collar tight. The same was true for the office of the Provisional Government of the Republic of Korea, located in a corner of the French Concession.
In the office on the second floor of an old brick building—more of a warehouse than a government building—Lee Dong-nyung, the President of the Provisional Government, Kim Gu, the Minister of Home Affairs, and Kim Gap, the Minister of Finance, sat facing each other with heavy hearts.
On the table where they sat, a financial report lay showing the state of the Provisional Government's emptying coffers.
"Never mind the activity funds we promised to send to Manchuria; we can't even cover next month's rent. Our communication network with comrades at home and abroad is also on the verge of being cut off due to lack of funds."
"This is a disaster."
At Kim Gap’s words, explaining the financial situation with a dark expression, President Lee Dong-nyung sighed, stroking his graying beard. Kim Gu continued.
"The Heroic Corps (Uiyeoldan) also seems to be in jeopardy due to financial difficulties and internal strife. At this rate, it doesn't seem impossible that they might disband."
"Even the Heroic Corps? Oh..."
At his words, Lee Dong-nyung’s expression darkened further. If the Heroic Corps, the vanguard of the armed struggle, were to disband, external activities related to independence would be greatly diminished for the time being. That meant the liberation of the motherland was growing more distant.
"Money, money... in the end, it’s always the damn money. Phew... if only it would fall from the sky."
Finishing his words, Lee Dong-nyung stared at the gray sky through the window.
It was then.
"Mr. President!"
The office door burst open, and a young man ran in, breathless. In his hands, he held a thick mail pouch.
"What is it?"
"It’s... it’s the donations from our compatriots in America that just arrived!"
"Donations?"
Donations. At that word, everyone’s gaze turned to the man’s pouch. Soon, Kim Gap, who had received the pouch from the man, opened it with trembling hands.
Inside the pouch was a list of names of those who had donated, along with a rather thick stack of promissory notes.
"I, I will check it first. What on earth is this..."
With a face flushed because he couldn't even breathe properly, the Minister of Finance hurriedly began to untie the stack of notes to check the amount. As his hands counted the notes one by one, Kim Gap’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Eventually.
"We, we are saved..."
"How much is in there for you to say that?"
At Kim Gap’s words, which trembled with excitement, Kim Gu, who had been watching from the side, couldn't suppress his curiosity and asked.
Eventually.
"It’s about 1,800 dollars."
"1,800 dollars?"
"No, is that really true?"
At his difficult reply, the eyes of Lee Dong-nyung and Kim Gu widened. Considering that the amount of donations usually coming into the Provisional Government from America hovered between 500 and 1,000 dollars, it was nearly double the usual amount.
Kim Gap nodded and scanned the list of donors.
"Chicago... a compatriot from Chicago sent 1,000 dollars! The name is... Lee Jun, and... Rita Capone."
And.
"...Capone?"
At a word that sounded familiar, Lee Dong-nyung tilted his head.
"Ah!"
It was then that Kim Gu, who had been deep in thought, opened his eyes wide.
"If it’s Capone from Chicago, could it be that Al Capone? The man who is the boss of an American crime syndicate. Why, that guy Du Yuesheng is nicknamed the 'Al Capone of the East'."
"Minister of Home Affairs, are you saying that the person who gave great help to our independence is a criminal?"
"That’s not it... ahem."
As Kim Gu coughed at the President’s sidelong glance, Kim Gap shook his head.
"That cannot be. Why would such a villain contribute to Joseon’s independence? It must just be that they share the same surname."
"Anyway, we must convey our gratitude to our benefactor. Our drying finances can finally breathe again."
Having finished his words, President Lee Dong-nyung rose with a bright expression, unlike a moment ago, and headed to his desk to write a thank-you letter. Not even imagining in his wildest dreams that the Minister of Home Affairs had guessed correctly.