Chapter 6 - Melting Pot of Races, Manhattan, New York
The early bird catches the worm.
Even a pickpocket needs that kind of diligence if he wants to steal as much as possible.
"Early Bird" Gary was out on the streets from the crack of dawn.
His targets were the half-awake wallets of people rushing to work, or the pockets of kids heading to school.
It's easier to work in a group, but he had no intention of waiting around for those lazy bastards who only crawled out when the sun was high in the sky.
He didn't want to split his share, either.
As he wandered alone, scanning for a suitable mark,
Gary caught sight of a familiar figure at the scene of a murder.
"There you are, you mongrel! If you scream, you're dead."
As soon as Gary saw Ciaran, he grabbed his shoulder and dragged him into a secluded spot.
It was about a week ago.
He'd stolen Ciaran's toolkit, expecting the usual reaction, but instead that mutt had chased after him holding a rock.
Of all people, the rock that bastard threw ended up hitting Gary right in the thigh.
It only hurt a bit, didn't leave a bruise or anything.
But the simple fact that he'd been struck by a rock tossed by a half-breed was humiliating for Gary.
His friends' teasing—"You couldn't even dodge that?"—had only stoked his anger.
He'd beaten Ciaran to a pulp that day, but even now, his rage hadn't cooled.
Seeing Ciaran walking around as if nothing had happened made Gary even angrier.
He was a full hand shorter and smaller than Ciaran.
But that didn't matter.
In the Manhattan jungle, Gary was the wolf, and Ciaran was just some deer nibbling grass.
The fact that Ciaran let himself get dragged along so quietly, even with police right nearby, was proof of that.
But then, when they reached a shadowy alley,
An unexpected counterattack broke out.
Whack!
Suddenly, Ciaran, who had been walking ahead, swung his elbow and smashed Gary in the temple.
At the same time, he twisted his whole body and slammed Gary in the throat with a punch, his middle finger jutting out.
The dizzying assault didn't stop there.
Ciaran kicked at Gary's knee, knocking him off balance.
When Gary dropped to the ground on one knee, Ciaran came from behind, wrapped an arm around his neck and clamped his mouth shut.
The whole thing happened in the blink of an eye.
Gary, stunned, found himself struggling for breath.
"...Hnn, hnn!"
"Don't make a racket, or you'll break your neck."
Ciaran's voice was cold, utterly level.
The moment he heard it, a chill ran down Gary's spine, goosebumps prickling across his skin.
'Did I really mistake him for someone else!?'
Gary's heart tightened with fear—what if this wasn't Ciaran, but someone who just looked like him, someone far more dangerous?
The unsettling sense that he was facing a completely different person quickly turned into terror.
Gary, his face pale as a sheet, darted his eyes toward the mouth of the alley.
Damn it!
No one passing by even glanced in their direction.
Just then, something pressed hard against his eyeballs.
"Who said you could roll your eyes?"
Ciaran dug his fingers harshly into Gary's eyes, sending a crushing pain that made it feel like they might burst.
"...Mmph!"
But what truly pushed Gary over the edge was when Ciaran's voice suddenly rang out, wild and almost manic.
"Fuck, this is it. This is who I really am! I finally feel like I've found myself again!"
He babbled something in a language Gary had never heard before, then suddenly burst into laughter.
Then, leaning in close, he began whispering under his breath, almost like reciting a prayer...
"If we'd met at night, I'd have snapped your neck for sure. By morning, the police would have been hauling your body away on a stretcher Of course, since you'd be a corpse, you wouldn't know a thing. Just imagine it—never having to feel hungry again for the rest of your life."
This bastard's not right in the head.
Did he lose it after getting beaten so badly a few days ago?
Or maybe, even back then—when he came after me with a rock—he was already crazy?
Whatever the reason, I need to get away from this lunatic's grip.
Just as Gary started to struggle, the fingers pressing into his eyes suddenly vanished.
Through his blurred vision, he saw a face staring straight at him.
"You think all this happened just because you let your guard down?"
Gary frantically shook his head.
Guard down, my ass. I just think you're a complete psycho.
Did he believe me?
Suddenly, the choking pressure around his throat was gone.
Finally breaking free from Ciaran's grasp, Gary braced his hands on the ground, gasping for breath.
As the redness faded from his face and his vision cleared, his eyes darted around.
The alley was littered with all kinds of trash—potential weapons everywhere.
One long wooden plank caught his attention.
That's it—the weapon I'll use to take down this madman!
The look of terror on Gary's face instantly turned vicious.
He sprang to his feet and lunged for the plank.
Grabbing it with both hands—
"Yo, motherf—...!"
But just as he was about to swing it, the bottom of a shoe suddenly filled his vision.
Wham!
A sharp pain exploded across his face, making Gary stagger backwards.
He didn't fall.
Ciaran grabbed him by the hair and yanked him upright.
"See? What did I tell you? You still think you got caught just because you let your guard down."
Shit, that's not it...
This time, Ciaran's palm smacked him hard across the face.
Smack, smack!
His stinging cheek went numb, and it felt like his whole brain was rattling.
For the first time in his life, Gary thought about his own death.
The Ciaran he once knew wasn't a timid deer anymore—he'd become a vicious predator.
***
"Tsk."
Maybe I got too worked up.
Should I go back and apologize?
I could return the fifty cents I took from him, and the hairpin that looked like it was stolen as a gift for his girlfriend... No, that, I should give to Roa.
On my way home, it feels like my second time at life is already off to a shitty start.
At first, I meant to just do the bare minimum and get out, but once I started hitting him, I lost control.
The next thing I knew, I'd beaten him, threatened him, and taken his money and hairpin.
Now that my PTSD is gone, I went overboard with a kid who couldn't fight back…
Could it be that I was influenced by the memories and emotions of the late Ciaran?
Like, maybe his desire for revenge against Gary was driving me.
Yeah, that must be it.
That's why I lost my cool like that.
Besides, no matter what I do, a confrontation with Gary's gang was bound to happen anyway.
The guy who beat Ciaran to death wasn't even a little remorseful—he was already planning his next attack.
I don't know what Gary will do next, but if he comes for me again, I can't promise I'll hold back.
"Still, I need to be careful."
Seventeen years old, a time of endless possibilities.
Let's not screw up my life from the start.
With a deep breath, I shook off my thoughts and kept jogging.
I had just crossed the intersection of Canal and Eldridge Street and arrived home when—
The steps in front of the Tenement House where I live.
A boy spots me and waves.
It's Leo—the loyal guy who carried me all the way home, nearly three kilometers, just a few days ago.
"Damn it, Ciaran! You were acting like you were at death's door, and now you're up and about already? What the hell have you been doing since this morning?"
"…Just getting some exercise."
"Exercise? Exerciiise?!"
Leo's voice shot up in disbelief.
"Are you out of your mind? What if you run into Gary's gang again?"
"Funny you mention that. I just did."
"You met who?"
"Gary."
"Yo—you met him!?"
"We just had a little chat."
Leo sucked in a sharp breath and looked me over from head to toe, checking for any injuries or broken bones.
"I heard you threw a rock at him. So Gary's been out for blood, saying he'd kill you if he caught you, and you're telling me you two actually talked?"
"We did."
"My ass you did! You obviously just ran away."
Suddenly, Leo narrowed his eyes and looked at me.
"Have you given up on life or something?"
"How could I give up on life at seventeen?"
"You look… I don't know, just too chill, like someone who's ready for the afterlife. You used to be such a moody bastard."
"Well… I guess I did visit the afterlife, technically. Since we're on the subject, I've been reborn. Forget the old Ciaran."
"…Hiding out at home's really done a number on you."
Leo shook his head and let out a sigh.
"Whatever, but if you're healthy enough to come outside, you should be thinking about earning money first. You want your siblings to starve? And what about your toolbox?"
Was his nagging always this bad
Still, he wasn't wrong.
Gary's gang had taken my old shoeshine kit, so I needed to get a new one.
To think, I've packed my head with knowledge of the future, only to end up shining shoes. It might sound ridiculous, but that's my reality.
Who doesn't know that if you bought Ford or Coca-Cola stock, you'd make a fortune?
But it's not like I know every rise and fall in price, and just because it's a jackpot in the future doesn't mean the stock will go up dozens of times in just a few days if I buy it now.
More than anything, right now, I'm just a bum. I have no money to invest.
So why shoeshining, of all things?
If you work in a factory or on a construction site, you're stuck slaving away for at least twelve hours a day. You're so tied up with work, you don't have time to try anything else.
And it's not like they pay much. If you're not an adult like me, you'd be lucky to make even a dollar a day. Just look at Liam, working at the docks as a replacement worker—that tells you everything.
Considering all my options, being a freelance shoeshiner was the best choice for now.
I nodded as I looked at Leo.
"Guess I'd better get ready."
"What, are you planning to kill someone and steal their kit? Why so dramatic?"
"Anyway, I'll get a kit ready tomorrow and really get started—"
"No need for that. Who do you think your big brother is?"
Leo grinned and tapped his shoeshine box.
"Notice anything different about it?"
A shoeshine box is usually made of wood, with a raised footrest on the lid for the customer's shoe.
Leo's was no different.
Damn, but what changed?
"Wow, you really can't tell?"
Leo, his lips sticking out in a playful pout, pointed to a small, square hunk of metal attached to the box.
"Ooh... you put a lock on it."
"How's that? Now I can carry it around and the lid won't flop open. No more worrying about anyone stealing my shoe polish, either."
He looked like someone who just bought a new car.
Maybe that's how seriously he takes shoeshining.
Leo shook his box proudly, and I gazed at it with a mix of affection and pity.
"Hey, nothing to be jealous about. You know Irving, right?"
It wasn't hard to recall—a small but tough Jewish immigrant from Ciaran's memories.
"He's done with shoeshining. He's joining a gang now."
A gang? The last memories from my previous life flashed through my mind, and I swore without thinking.
"Fucking gangsters, Mafias…"
"Mafia? What are you talking about?"
This was still an era when even the word "Mafia" was unfamiliar.
"So, what about Irving?"
"Well, after shining shoes for a while on Lafayette Street, it seems like he joined a gang over there. You're probably the reason."
He meant that after I got badly beaten by Gary's gang, Irving's mindset changed.
Leo let out a bitter sigh.
"Honestly, what's the point of working hard if guys like Gary never leave you alone?"
That was just the way the times were. Kids from immigrant families, raised in severe poverty and surrounded by crime, saw successful gangs as role models. In their late teens, they faced all kinds of confusion and turmoil, and many eventually ended up turning to the underworld.
Joining a gang was often the easiest choice.
Of course, most kids lived ordinary lives. The timid ones, who preferred a safer path, wouldn't even dream of becoming gangsters if there were other options.
"Anyway, Irving said he'd sell you his old shoeshine kit. You know how Jews are—always practical."
"He's obsessively organized, so you'll be able to use it right away."
"How much does he want for it?"
"He says he'll let it go for a cool dollar. Can you do that?"
Just one dollar.
But I didn't have it.
The money I'd made sharpening knives had already gone to groceries and rent. The only cash I had left was the 50 cents I'd wrested from Gary earlier.
When I shook my head, Leo patted me on the shoulder as if he'd expected it.
"You probably haven't been working, so of course you don't have it. Want your big brother to lend you some?"
I stared at Leo in disbelief.
Not only had he practically carried my half-dead self home, now he was offering to lend me money too.
That's just the kind of guy Leo was.
Wordlessly, I held out my hand.
"Friendship forever. Just give me fifty cents."
"What's this, when did you get so sly?"
"I told you to forget the old me."
"Ha, whatever—just pay me back within a week "Since we're talking about it, go now. Can you really afford to take a day off?"
Today's a hustling day.
I borrowed the money from Leo and headed to where Irving was.
The Lower East Side is full of dangerous neighborhoods.
And there are even more once you leave it.
To the west, it borders Little Italy, and just below that is Chinatown.
For that reason, people usually stick to the main, crowded avenues, avoiding the risky areas.
I did the same.
As I turned a corner in the Lower East Side—
A pack of punks was already swarming early in the morning.
That's Manhattan for you.
It's a place where, after a few laps around the neighborhood, it feels like you've run into every thug in the world—a hell of a feeling.
Gary was easy enough to deal with since he was alone, but these guys had numbers on their side.
Worse still, they were Italian gangsters, fast on the rise in Manhattan.
To call them mere punks would be missing the danger.
Sometimes you just have to be flexible.
Forget your pride and throw it out with the trash.
After giving them a quick once-over, I instinctively lowered my gaze, trying to quietly slip by like a defeated Southern soldier with no fight left in him. Sure enough.
"Hey, you stupid chink!"
These quick little bastards went out of their way to block my path.
"This isn't the way to school, is it?"
"I don't go to school, and I'm not from Chinatown, either."
"Thought you looked weird—so you're mixed. Alright, just come with us."
"We'll talk inside."
Three guys about my age closed in and dragged me along.
That's how dangerous these alleys are.
Fortunately, I spotted a familiar face in the alley.
Irving, the one I'd been looking for, was right here.
He looked surprised when our eyes met.
Why are you here? his widened eyes seemed to ask.
I made a point of widening my own eyes too, trying to let him know I was happy to see him.
But, damn it—he was getting shaken down too.
So much for that.
He said he'd joined a gang, but now here he was, with three Jewish kids getting robbed by Italians.
No wonder—there was a little kid next to Irving, must've been about ten.
He looked tough, but really, what could those tiny fists do?
Anyway, judging by their group, it made sense they'd get roughed up by the Italian kids.
So I decided to pretend I didn't know Irving.
Just as I made up my mind, a guy about my size pushed me up against the alley wall.
"How much money you got?"
"…I don't have any."
"If I find even a penny on you, you'll get a punch for every cent."
I had a dollar in my pocket.
A hundred punches—great.
"Alright then, I'll pay you ten cents at a time."
At that moment, a boy around my age standing next to Irving spoke up in a clear voice.
Ten cents?
Do they allow installment payments now?
I glanced over at him, trying not to be obvious.
"You talk real nice. What's your name?"
"Meyer. Meyer Lansky."
The boy next to Irving, Meyer, managed to strike a deal with the guy who looked to be the oldest—he could've almost passed for an adult.
Maybe I could do the same...
But wait, Meyer Lansky?
That name sounded familiar.
I didn't even have to search desperately through my memory—it came to me right away.
Not a memory of Ciaran's, but from my previous life. To be specific, I remembered that name from a book I'd read in lockup called "The Mafia Genealogy."
[Meyer Lansky, a Jew, would later be known as the "Accountant of the Mafia," playing a vital role in constructing the Mafia Empire...]
As I turned to look at Meyer, the guy in front of me grabbed my chin and jerked my face back toward him.
"Where do you think you're looking? You got a screw loose or something? How much do you have, punk!?"
"I'll pay ten cents too."
"What?"
For a second, everyone in the alley turned to stare at me. Then, they all started cracking up.
Bastards—they could at least tell me what ten cents is worth before laughing.
The guy who had made a deal with Meyer Lansky strode over to me. Looking closely, he was definitely three or four years older than I was.
"You, do you even know what ten cents is?"
"...I don't."
"You don't know, and yet this little Chink is mouthing off?"
He kept clenching and unclenching his fist, clearly ready to hit me.
It had been a while since I'd felt this tense.
I started moving my fingers slightly, preparing myself.
Just then—
"His mother's Irish. I think his father's from Joseon, or somewhere over there."
Suddenly, Irving jumped in.
Maybe he thought it was safe now that the negotiations were over, because his voice wasn't timid anymore.
"He's a friend I used to shine shoes with, so I know him well. He's not a Chink. And just a bit ago, he got beat up pretty bad by Early Bird Gary from Eldridge Street."
"So what?"
When the man glared at Irving, his voice immediately shrank.
"So… what I mean is, he's not one of them…"
"Irving, you just said something you really shouldn't have."
Meyer, standing next to him, scowled at Irving.
I could guess why he called it a mistake, judging by the reaction of the guy in front of me.
"Fucking Irish trash? Damn it, do you know who we're fighting against right now?"
For the Italian and Jewish gangs, their main enemy was the Irish gangs, who had established themselves in Manhattan long before they did. Since their earliest days as immigrants, they'd suffered so much discrimination from the Irish that hatred had burned from the very start.
The unfair part was that my heritage was much closer to Joseon—no, the Korean Empire—but because these ignorant bastards didn't know any better, they only cared about my mother's side.
Suddenly, the man closed the distance and threw a punch at my face.
Thud.
But I caught his fist.
It wasn't a conscious decision—just pure defensive instinct.
"..."
The man glared at me, his face gradually turning red as his lips twitched.
Maybe I should have just let him hit me