The Bulletproof Son-in-Law
There was no barley.
I carried the gift for my father-in-law to an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Cicero. There was only one reason I’d brought the gift to a place the Chicago Outfit usually used as a shooting range.
Bang! Bang!
Two .45 caliber rounds fired in quick succession from a Colt pistol slammed into the bulletproof glass set up in place of a target. It was the thickest bulletproof glass available in Chicago, the same product used to surround my father-in-law’s car.
However.
CRASH!
The glass, which seemed to hold up for the first two shots, couldn't withstand the third and shattered completely. Along with it, sharp shards of glass rained down like a storm behind the target. I didn't know for sure, but if there had been a person standing there, they would have ended up looking like a pincushion. The lead bullets that followed would have just been a bonus.
"Hmm, it did block two shots, at least."
Al Capone, my father-in-law, nodded as he confirmed the result. Despite his words, his expression was dark; he was undoubtedly imagining himself as that pincushion.
"Actually, Boss, it’s quite impressive that glass, not steel, stopped two bullets. Other organizations wouldn't even dream of this because of the cost."
As Frank Nitti, the man who had shattered the target, lowered his smoking muzzle and spoke, my father-in-law looked at me.
"So, are you saying this bulletproof glass is better than what I have now?"
"Of course, Boss. You can test it right now."
I answered confidently with a smile. My meticulous father-in-law was bound to test it anyway, and since I didn't want to stand in the target's place, I had already finished all the testing myself.
"You're very confident, Lee. I hope that confidence doesn't disappear. Frank."
"Yes, sir."
Click!
Nitti, who had already reloaded the empty magazine, aimed his pistol at the bulletproof glass I had brought without a moment's hesitation.
Soon after.
Bang! Bang! BAAANG!
Flames and gunfire erupted from his muzzle once again. At the same time, white star-shaped patterns bloomed where the bullets struck the glass. But it still didn't break through.
"Hm?"
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Nitti, tilting his head at the glass that remained intact even after three shots, pulled the trigger again. But every time he pulled the trigger, new stars only bloomed on the glass; not a single bullet pierced through.
"Did you tamper with the bullets, by any chance?"
"Those aren't my bullets, Mr. Nitti."
"I suppose that's true, but..."
I shrugged at Nitti, who looked at me with an expression of disbelief, and he turned to my father-in-law.
"Boss, may I test it a bit more?"
"Go ahead. It's better to be sure."
Once my father-in-law gave the order, Nitti set the pistol down on the table littered with spent casings and picked up the Tommy gun next to it.
Soon.
Tu-tat-tat-tat!
The Chicago Typewriter began spitting out bullets at full speed.
Hiss—!
Within seconds, the Tommy gun’s drum magazine was emptied, its barrel glowing red and emitting white smoke.
And then.
"...Amazing."
Nitti, who had lowered his weapon and approached the glass to check its condition, was filled with astonishment. He couldn't help it.
"How did it not pierce through even once?"
Although it had been pelted with dozens of bullets, turning as white as a snowdrift and dented in several places, the bulletproof glass still held its form and stood proudly in its place.
"Nitti, is that for real?"
"Yes, Boss. The glass is nearly pulverized, but... it wasn't penetrated. I've never seen anything like this."
The moment Nitti returned and answered my father-in-law's question.
"...Hahahaha!"
After a moment of thought, laughter erupted from his lips.
"Lee, you've made something incredible!"
Thwack! Thwack!
"Ugh."
Father-in-law, that’s my shoulder... ugh.
I groaned involuntarily at the sheer force of my father-in-law’s hand, which was like a cast-iron lid, patting—or rather, pounding—my shoulder. His words followed.
"Lee, how on earth did you make something like this?"
"I’ve been experimenting with it privately for a long time, and thanks to your support, Boss, I was able to complete it. I was just lucky."
I couldn't exactly say, *Well, you see, I'm from the future...* so I gave him a vague excuse. Honestly, if I hadn't gotten tangled up with Rita, I had planned to live a normal life just buying stocks before the Great Depression hit.
"Lee, I may not be educated, but I know that things like this don't happen just by luck. I thought you only knew how to filter wood alcohol, but you were hiding something amazing. This will be helpful to the organization and to our business."
As expected, my father-in-law knows a money-maker when he sees one. Then again, it was impressive performance for something that was essentially just replacing the inner layer of bulletproof glass with acrylic. Of course, a proper rifle round would pierce it instantly, but it was rare for gang members to carry rifles around, as they were inconvenient to conceal.
"The profits from this will go to you legally, Boss. It might not be as much as the organization's current business, but it will be quite lucrative."
And it would be more than enough to replace the bootlegging business, which had at most three or four years left.
"First, I’ll need to change the windows on my car to this. Lee, yours too."
That was when my father-in-law added that.
"My car as well?"
"If you die, this goose that lays golden eggs will be ruined, so don't ask stupid questions. Besides, that car is mine anyway."
Still, I suppose I’ve earned his recognition. If his stance until now had been one of slight suspicion toward my actions, this time he clearly felt that there was money to be made. For me, who was essentially tied to his fate, this was a good thing.
"Understood. I'll inform the bulletproof glass manufacturer."
And, if I was going to have it installed on my car too...
"Boss."
"What is it, Lee?"
At my call, my father-in-law, who was taking a cigar from his pocket, looked at me. I pointed to the cigar in his hand.
"By any chance, could I borrow one cigar?"
"This? Are you protesting because you need money?"
"Of course not."
I shook my head at the puzzled Al Capone and continued.
"I need the Boss's luck."
And a little bit of help, too.
"Damn it!"
Bugs Moran kicked the cheap whiskey bottle rolling on his desk with a curse. Clatter! The empty bottle flew to the wall and shattered into glass shards, but his anger didn't subside. Soon, Moran’s bloodshot eyes turned toward the friend and subordinate bowing his head in front of him.
“Do you think that makes any sense, Adam?”
There was only one reason he was this furious.
"Malt is more expensive than beer? What kind of bullshit is that?"
At his words, Adam Heyer, Moran’s old friend and the organization’s accountant, bowed his head with a grim expression. The report in his hand was already crumpled, as if Moran had thrown it a few times.
“The price of malt syrup has risen excessively. No, it’s not just that the price has gone up; we’re in a state where we can’t even get the malt syrup itself.”
"Then just pay them more! Raise the price of the beer! Or take the boys and make an example out of someone!"
That was the method Moran had used until now. Most things were solved with money, and if money couldn't solve it, he used violence. But.
"...They say there’s no barley to make the malt syrup at the factories."
"There’s... no barley?"
For once, his winning strategy didn't work.
"The existing stock is all gone, and while we are receiving some through routes in Canada and Wisconsin, the volume itself is too small. If this continues, more than half of our breweries will have to close..."
The profit from the beer produced by half of the breweries was more than 25% of the money the North Side Gang earned. In a situation where a war was ongoing and money was being spent like water, this was a fatal problem.
"...Capone. Capone, that unlucky Italian bastard must be pulling some strings."
It was then that Moran, who had been staring at the sky with bloodshot eyes, took his feet off the desk. His gaze turned to Heyer.
"Adam, did you check why there’s no barley?"
"It seems a chemical company called SCC is buying it all up. Even paying a premium."
"SCC? What the hell does a chemical company need with barley?"
"I don't know that, but... according to informants, the owner of that place is an Asian man who is Capone’s son-in-law."
"...It was that bastard after all."
Grind!
Capone. The moment that name popped out of Heyer’s mouth, Moran gritted his teeth, as if he had expected it. And Moran was a man who didn't feel satisfied unless he paid back what he was dealt—or rather, double what he was dealt.
"Dig up information on that Asian guy."
"I’ve already checked. His name is Jun Lee, and he’s 26 years old. According to informants, he has a fixed route he uses for his commute."
"...Is that so?"
Moran’s choice after hearing Heyer’s explanation was clear.
"Tell Guzik. Make an example out of that Asian bastard."
"Understood, Boss."
"You monkey bastard, I’ll make you regret teaming up with Capone."
After finishing his words, Moran tried to take a cigarette from the Lucky Strike pack rolling on the desk. But.
"...Damn it, nothing is going right."
Looking at the empty cigarette pack, just like the brewery’s malt syrup, Moran had no choice but to spit out a curse.
A week had passed since I went to the shooting range. Rita and my child were entering a stable period after Easter, and SCC was slowly proceeding with the test production of PMMA, or acrylic. We hadn't broken through to the market yet, but we were setting up the production line by bringing in related equipment one by one or commissioning custom orders for what we lacked, so that we could enter production as soon as the market opened.
Well, if it really didn't work out, I could just say I sold it to my father-in-law’s company. Since I had enough capital for now, I could just proceed slowly. Before long, rumors about this new material would gradually spread, anyway.
"Mr. Lee."
It was then that the organization member driving the car called me in a low voice.
"What is it?"
To my question, broken from my thoughts, the member answered briefly.
"There is a high possibility of an ambush. Be caref..."
At that moment.
Screeeech!
The car I was in began to brake sharply.
"Whoa."
Holding my body as it lurched due to the law of inertia, I looked toward the front windshield. And.
"What the hell, are those crazy bastards?"
I looked at the three sedans blocking the lane horizontally with an absurd expression. "...Do people in Chicago park like that these days?"
I had seen miraculous parking in my past life where people would stop their cars in the first lane to go to the mart, but I had never seen anyone block the road entirely like this, so it was only natural that I felt absurd.
"It’s the North Side bastards. Get down!"
Click!
It was then that, simultaneously with the organization member’s warning, gun barrels appeared from the windows of the cars blocking the road.
Tu-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Pop-pop-pop!
Soon, lead bullets poured out along with the sound of popping beans, covering the front windshield of the car. It seemed they intended to target the driver first. If I hadn't replaced the windshield, the organization member in the front seat would have been turned into a honeycomb.
Tu-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Before long, men in coats popped out from the alleys on both sides and fired wildly at both sides of the car. It was one of the assassination methods mainly used by gangs: blocking the car's path and concentrating fire.
Thwack-thwack!
The windshields hit by bullets were covered in white lines.
"Mr. Lee, it’s dangerous! Get down!"
The organization member, who was trying to push back the North Side bastards who had already surrounded the rear of the vehicle by reversing, warned me again.
"No."
But I shook my head with a trembling voice.
"Just leave it."
"What? What does that mean..."
"Support will be here soon."
With those words, I took out my father-in-law’s cigar with trembling hands. This ambush had already been scheduled. My commute route must have reached the ears of the rat hiding in our company or the organization about three days ago, so I had thought they would come by now.
And.
Thwack-thwack-thwack!
When dozens of bullets covered the windshield in white and began to dent inward.
Flick!
I lit the cigar with a silver Ronson lighter. I was the one who suggested it, but I wasn't sure if this was right. Eh, whatever. If I smoke an expensive cigar before I die, isn't that a good death, in a way?
Phew—!
"Mr. Lee, smoking in this situation..."
"It’s fine."
Actually, it wasn't fine at all, but I savored the cigar smoke with the most nonchalant expression I could muster.
Screech!
The sound of the organization’s cars stopping one by one.
"It’s Capone’s men!"
"Damn it, retreat!"
Bang!
And that was while I heard the shouting of the North Side bastards and the sound of camera flashes going off.
It was that evening that an illustration of my silhouette with a cigar in my mouth was published in the Chicago Evening American.