The Chicago Style of Diplomacy
San Francisco.
Compared to Los Angeles, the premier city of California, it was only half the size, yet in this city of over 600,000 residents, one of the most famous landmarks was none other than Chinatown.
It was a place where over 20,000 Chinese residents, avoiding the reach of public authority, set their own rules with fists and blades instead of the law—a Wulin of San Francisco, so to speak.
Come to think of it, since Chinese people were gathered here swinging fists and blades, it really was a fundamental Wulin, wasn't it?
"The smell of spices is so pungent; it’s no wonder this is Chinatown."
"If this gets into our clothes, I don't think it'll wash out for three days."
McGurn and Accardo, who were walking beside me while carrying violin cases, frowned. They clearly didn't care for the air, which was a mixture of spices, the bloody scent of butcher shops, and the stench of rotting meat rolling on the ground.
Even I, who had visited Chicago’s Chinatown quite often as an Asian, couldn't quite get used to it, so it was no surprise that these two, who had never even been near one, were struggling.
"We won't be going in too deep. If you don't want a knife in your back, don't hold your noses."
At my words, McGurn, who had been bringing his hand to his nose, flinched and lowered it back down. If I held my nose, it wouldn't be a big deal, but for a white man to do so in the middle of Chinatown was tantamount to an insult. It was better to be careful.
Anyway, if the address this guy gave me was correct, it should be around here.
"Consigliere, I think that’s the place."
It was then that Rizzo, who had been following beside me, pointed ahead.
"That butcher shop—people have been going in and out of the back of the stall for a while now. It looks like there’s something inside."
Indeed, unless they wanted to become high-quality meat themselves, people wouldn't be flocking into a butcher shop in the middle of separating bones and flesh from cows and pigs.
"Then, let's go take a look."
Soon, we headed toward a butcher shop with a bizarre appearance, where pig and cow heads were hung from the eaves of a tiled roof.
Before long, I encountered a problem I hadn't anticipated.
"Who are you looking for?"
"Ah, I should have brought an interpreter."
The language barrier of the butcher shop owner, who was frowning while holding a Chinese cleaver, shattered my complacent assumption that English would work.
"Consigliere, weren't you Chinese?"
"I am Joseon."
"My apologies, Consigliere."
Do you want to have your ethnicity changed to Germanic for once, too?
After glaring at McGurn for his nonsense, I looked back at the butcher shop owner who was blocking our path like a wall. He looked like a guard for a gambling den; did I have to resort to body language?
I was debating whether a poker-playing pose or a mahjong-playing pose would be easier to understand when—
"Don't touch him. He's my guest."
Spitting out incomprehensible Chinese, the person who appeared from behind the butcher shop was none other than Lee Hyung.
"Brother!"
"It’s been a while, Lee Hyung."
"You had a hard time coming all this way. But… who are the people with you?"
"They are friends who travel with me. More importantly, let's go inside and talk first."
As Lee Hyung welcomed me with a happy smile and pointed at the three men, I gestured toward the back of the butcher shop.
"Ah, ah. Of course. Come this way."
Soon, Lee Hyung guided us to a side door behind the shop. The moment the door opened, the smell of blood was buried by the scent of cigarettes, and a gambling den disguised as a butcher shop revealed itself.
"Lee Hyung, you’ve been quite successful."
Unlike the shabby-looking butcher shop, the scale of the hidden gambling den was quite large. It was at least three times the size of what Lee Hyung used to run in Chicago.
"I don't know how many times I almost died at the hands of these Chinese guys trying to set this up. If it weren't for the people you sent, I might have been hanging right next to those pig heads outside."
"Did you get this through gambling?"
"I made the original owner here rack up gambling debts, then took it in lieu of payment. That fellow wasn't as good at mahjong as I thought."
"…Lee Hyung, you played mahjong, not just poker?"
"Didn't I tell you I lived here when I was young? I thought I’d forgotten it all, but it seems what I learned back then stayed with me."
To think he beat a Chinese man who did nothing but eat and smoke opium while playing mahjong—honestly, I couldn't imagine it.
"Well, I did pull a few tricks, though."
"…It’s a miracle you’re still alive, Lee Hyung."
As expected, I should avoid playing poker with this man.
"Now, come this way."
Lee Hyung, who was grinning and miming dealing cards, guided us to a VIP room located on the second floor of the gambling den—I don't know how he managed to create space for a second floor. True to Chinatown, we sat facing each other with a square mahjong table in the middle.
"So, is the matter resolved if I just come here?"
"You can consider it almost done, though there are a few things to worry about."
With those words, Lee Hyung explained the situation in San Francisco’s Chinatown.
"First, the place I’ve made contact with is the Hop Sing Tong. It’s the largest Tong here."
"In a way, we’re taking their territory, so you’ve been quite successful."
"Didn't I tell you I lived here? Even though I’ve been gone for over ten years, I roughly know what the territories of each Tong are. Naturally, I avoided their areas."
"Then, whose territory is this?"
"It was a gambling den run by the Bing Kong Tong. They’ve been bitter enemies with the Hop Sing Tong for over ten years. Thanks to that, they seemed to look favorably upon me for giving the Bing Kong Tong a hard time."
Does public authority not work? Yes.
Do they hone their fists and blades for business? Yes.
Are the two factions dying to kill each other? Yes.
Hmm, as expected, this place really was a Wulin. Then, since we came from the outside, are we the Demonic Cult?
"Anyway, the talks with the Hop Sing Tong have gone well to some extent. They’ve agreed to recognize and protect the area centered around this gambling den."
"Lee Hyung, then what is the problem?"
"One is, as I mentioned before, they wanted to see an executive from the same organization as you, not just you. Not an agent like me."
Well, it was natural for them to be suspicious if the agent sent by an Italian-centered gang was a Joseon man. Though, since my face was somewhat known, there was a high chance they’d recognize me.
"And the other is the price for maintaining the base."
"Didn't I tell you that before I left?"
Knowing that we had to join hands with one of the Tongs to establish a foothold in Chinatown, I had already set the upper limit for cooperation conditions, including funds. But if that was the problem…
"It seems the upper limit I gave you isn't enough."
"…That’s right. I suppose it’s because someone who isn't Chinese is trying to take over the territory. White people might group all Asians together, but to these Chinese guys, we’re ultimately strangers, aren't we?"
Still, it was a shame to give up on Chinatown. The merit of this extraterritorial zone, which even the police had abandoned, could not be ignored in our current situation where we needed to establish a base in the West.
"Well, then I suppose we’ll have to talk again."
"That’s right."
"Then let’s go now. It’s night, which is the perfect time."
"…Now?"
"I’m a bit busy."
I came all the way here from Chicago; surely they’ll treat me like a guest, right?
The headquarters of the Hop Sing Tong was located in the heart of Chinatown. As we passed through a third-floor hallway hung with frames that looked like they were brought over from the Qing Dynasty and entered, an old man sitting in front of a round wooden table was looking at us while drinking tea.
"Are you… the person… from Chicago? You were… not a white man."
I nodded toward the old man, who spoke in clumsy English, perhaps due to his age.
"I am Lee Jun. I am visiting on behalf of the boss of the Chicago Outfit."
"I… have no name. Just Tong Boss."
They call themselves a secret society, but isn't it a bit much not to even reveal a name? Well, I suppose it’s not for me to say, having just barged in.
"From now on, I will interpret."
It was then that a young man standing next to the old man replied in fluent English. Soon, the man began translating between the old man and me.
"The Tong Boss wants to confirm if your organization, the Chicago Outfit, truly has the will to fulfill the proposed terms."
"Of course. However, I heard that you were not satisfied with our conditions."
"The Tong Boss says that since they are allowing you to settle on our land, you should naturally pay a fair price."
"Strictly speaking, it is the Bing Kong Tong's territory, though."
"…First, the Tong Boss wants a method where the area, including the gambling den, is officially under the name of this Tong, but the actual operation and usage are done by the Chicago Outfit."
It seems they can't save face if someone who isn't Chinese enters Chinatown under their own name. Since they are Chinese people who value face, I can understand that much.
"That is not difficult."
Well, that’s better than watching white guys come to throw bombs because they think we stole their land.
"And, the Tong Boss hopes that the Chicago Outfit will likewise provide a place for this Tong to enter Chicago."
"It would be faster to talk to the Tong in Chicago about that. Instead, I will provide legal and military support if necessary."
There wasn't much to eat in Chicago’s Chinatown anyway, so I didn't care if they swung fists or fired Tommy guns among themselves. It was enough to just hand them some weapons and turn the police’s attention away.
"Lastly, the Tong Boss…."
It was then that the interpreter was about to bring up the story.
Bang-!
"Kill them!"
"You traitor!"
Along with the sound of something breaking downstairs, loud Chinese shouting poured out.
Thwack! Thwack-thwack! Clang!
"Gaaahhh!"
Along with it came the dull sound of clubs swinging and the screams of those being hit. Soon, the interpreter grasped the situation and looked at me.
"Sometimes other Tongs attack us. But they won't be able to come up here, so you can rest assured."
…Wasn't this their headquarters? Does it make sense to tell me to rest assured when their headquarters is being raided?
"Then, tell the Tong Boss that we will help you as well."
"Yes?"
Leaving the flustered interpreter behind, I went outside and looked at McGurn and Accardo, who were waiting in front of the door.
"Help them out appropriately. Don't draw blood; just scare them."
"Yes, Consigliere."
"Understood."
Click!
Soon, the two men nodded, opened the violin cases they were holding, took out the contents, and headed down the stairs.
A moment later.
Tu-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-!
The sound of a Tommy gun coolly pouring out bullets traveled up the stairs to the third floor. At the same time.
"Machine gun!"
"Fall back!"
Along with incomprehensible Chinese shouts, the first floor became quiet again.
"We’re back, Consigliere."
It was about a minute later that McGurn and Accardo came up to the third floor holding the smoking Tommy guns.
"You didn't draw blood, right?"
"We only fired warning shots. Seeing how scared those Chinese guys were, they definitely must have pissed their pants while running away."
Actually, I think I would have pissed myself too if I were them. At the answer of McGurn, who was disassembling the Tommy gun and putting it back into the violin case with a triumphant expression, I nodded and went back into the room where the old man was.
"No, how on earth did you bring guns here! Guns are prohibited in Chinatown……."
"Weren't you the interpreter? I don't think what you’re saying right now is what the Tong Boss is saying."
"……."
After silencing the interpreter, who was trying to get angry without knowing how to be grateful, I looked at the Tong Boss of the Hop Sing Tong, who was sipping tea with a stiff expression. Still, I had to explain the situation roughly.
"This Is Chicago Style."
This is the taste of the Demonic Cult, you people of the Central Plains.