Chapter 7 -Just Taking a Walk Around the Neighborhood
The scale of a gang depends on the territory it covers.
The smallest unit is called a street gang.
They're usually made up of teenagers, selling opium on corners, picking pockets, or committing theft.
Gary, who beat Ciaran nearly to death, Irving, and these Italian punks in front of me were all part of such street gangs.
However, the Italians here had both numbers and adults mixed in, putting them on a different level from amateurs like Gary.
That was why, the moment I blocked the punch, I immediately regretted it.
While I was cursing myself for my pointless reflexes, the mood in the alley turned icy cold.
The Italian gangsters, grim-faced, blocked the exit so I couldn't escape.
Meyer watched the situation unfold, holding his breath, while Irving stared at me wide-eyed in shock.
Then, the guy who had thrown the punch suddenly took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.
"So, you know how to fight? You think I'm someone you can just mess with?"
His pride wounded, he tried to save face by acting tough.
Puffing himself up, he threw his fists at me aggressively.
This time, instead of blocking, I simply leaned back to dodge the blow.
"You rat bastard!"
Dodging his punches set him off—the guy, now furious, hurled himself at me with all his might.
He grabbed me by the collar, using his weight to slam me into the wall.
Thud!
As the impact hit my back, the guy tried to punch me in the stomach.
His attack was obvious.
To give him no opening, I yanked him even closer toward me.
I locked my arms around him as if I were giving him a hug.
"You crazy—!"
He panicked and hurriedly tried to put some distance between us.
"Salvatore, the clubmen are here!"
So this guy's name is Salvatore.
As soon as I let go, he quickly retreated.
While I brushed the dust off my collar, memorizing Salvatore's face, it happened.
Two policemen appeared.
Dressed in navy uniforms and carrying batons, they stood at the entrance of the alley, scanning the scene with the contemptuous look one might give cockroaches.
"What are you punks up to, gathering here again so early in the morning?"
"You again."
The police fixed their eyes on Salvatore.
"How long has it been since you got out of the slammer, and already you're dragging your crew around again? Keep this up and you'll end up dead for real. Don't you know what the climate's like lately? Gangs are disappearing left and right, and you're still not getting it."
Salvatore just smacked his lips, showing little reaction. No matter what the police said, Salvatore just let it go in one ear and out the other.
After giving us a tongue-lashing, the policeman glanced around the alley, then pointed at the ten-year-old boy standing next to Irving and Meyer.
"Hey, kid. Where do you go to school?"
Despite his age, the boy's eyes were full of defiance.
"PS 188 Island School."
"Then what are you doing here instead of at school? Doesn't look like the right place to be."
"I was just about to go."
"If you don't want me walking you there, you'd better get lost."
The boy calmly picked up his bag and strolled out of the alley.
Since the passage of New York's education law—except for Mississippi—almost every state now enforced compulsory schooling for kids ages eight to fourteen.
Even though it often wasn't followed in inner-city slums or out in the wild West, as long as the police spotted you, you at least had to put on an act.
Watching the boy's figure disappearing down the street, I remembered from a book I read in my previous life about Meyer's legendary gangster partner, the one he spent his teen years with.
Now that the boy was gone, the policemen turned their attention to me.
It was no wonder—an Asian guy sticking out among the crowd here, like a swan among chickens, or really, more like the odd ugly duckling in the flock.
"Hey you, did you get lost on your way to Chinatown?"
"...My father was from the Korean Empire, and my mother's Irish."
Mentioning my heritage didn't really help.
The Irish cops didn't know anything about Joseon or the Korean Empire, and, in fact, they didn't like the idea of an Irish woman marrying an Asian man.
The only thing working in my favor was that, in the hazy balance in their minds, my being even a little bit Irish made them prefer me to the Italians.
"Did these guys take your money?"
Instantly, the Italian punks all glared at me.
Salvatore, who had just swung his fist at me, narrowed his eyes and watched my mouth carefully.
A large number of New York cops were Irish, and many of them were racist to their core.
They despised not only African and Asian people, but Italians as well.
Especially the way they spoke, with their sing-song tones.
The Italians, with their boisterous festivals and colorful food, had been targets of prejudice and hate from the moment they settled in America.
Anyway, for someone like me, with such an ambiguous identity, it was best to avoid picking sides with any group—for now, at least.
"I just came to see a friend. Nobody took my money."
Irving, who caught my eye, nodded with relief; the situation could have shifted drastically depending on what I said.
But the police, still suspicious, raised their batons threateningly at the Italian thugs. It was pretty much just an excuse to take out their frustration.
"Damn Dago punks, get out of this alley right now!"
"Didn't you hear me? Move it!"
"Dago" originally came from the common Spanish name "Diego," but over time it's become a slur used to discriminate against Southern European immigrants, especially Italians.
Interestingly, the Irish too have their own derogatory nickname—"Paddy," which comes from the common Irish name Patrick.
The term carries the implication that the Irish are violent, ignorant alcoholics.
At the police's threats, the Italian kids slunk out of the alley one by one, looking like they'd just bitten into something foul.
Salvatore, who had been staring at me with a strange look, disappeared with his gang as well. If I wasn't mistaken, the hostility in his eyes had faded just a little.
"You too, don't stick around here—get lost!"
Not wanting to get hit by a stray baton, Irving, Meyer, and I quickly made our way out of the alley.
As soon as we were out, Irving hurried up next to me.
"Ciaran, what was that back there?"
"If you had that much guts and skill, why have you always let yourself get beaten like an idiot?"
I didn't see any reason to answer every single question.
"If you get hit enough times, you learn how to dodge. Your turn's coming soon."
"Really?"
Irving took my offhand remark to heart, turning it over in his mind as if he'd just discovered something profound.
Meyer Lansky, who was walking beside us, now looked at me with interest.
"You said before you don't know what ten cents is, right?"
"I don't really care to know right now."
"You'll regret it if you run into that gang again later, you know? Well, to put it simply—a dime is protection money."
Protection money from one gang to another?
Meyer saw my expression and gave a wry smile.
"It sounds ridiculous, but we're still weak. That's why we pay bigger Italian gangs for protection. To keep the damn Irish gangs off our backs."
I'd read about it in a book—how big gangs grow by collecting protection money from smaller ones.
So even Meyer Lansky, who would someday become a mafia kingpin, was just a small-time nobody for now.
"But, Ciaran, you don't actually think you're Irish, do you?"
There was a subtle smirk on Meyer's lips, irritating as ever.
Just a little punk.
"What are you getting at?"
"I'm saying it's an illusion. You know how it is—you've experienced it. Even if you go on about being Irish, you can't break into that circle."
"Whether I fit in or not, it's none of your business."
When I let out a small laugh, Meyer looked at me with a meaningful gaze. It was that unmistakable look—challenging, brimming with the ambition of a teenager.
"How about joining up with us instead? Who cares about race or where you're from? As long as we share the same goals, that's all that matters. I don't judge people for that." "You want me to become a gangster?"
I'd started my second go at life as a seventeen-year-old with endless possibilities, and yet—joining a gang?
This was a time when words like Mafia, or even gangster, barely got used.
Americans called the tough guys gangs, hoodlums, or ruffians.
Even the Korean word for gangster, 'kkangpae,' originated from the American term for gang members.
Regardless of the origins, the real problem was that these gangsters kept swarming around me.
No military officers or chaebols in sight—my world now seemed filled with nothing but thugs.
I shot Meyer a skeptical look at his claim that he didn't care about race or background.
"If you had a black guy by your side, I might've believed you. Maybe I'll think about your offer then."
"…The black folks are all up in Harlem, north Manhattan. They hang out in a different crowd than us."
Irving quietly slipped into the conversation, making excuses on Meyer's behalf.
He was clearly hoping I'd join the gang too.
This was the moment to draw a clear line.
"I'm not interested in joining a gang. What I need right now is your shoeshine kit."
"So that's why you came looking for me. You should've just said so."
Naturally, Irving's kit was at his house. Fortunately, it wasn't far from here, so we decided to head over.
Meyer came along too. Maybe he still hadn't given up, because he kept trying to coax me as we walked.
"Why not take this chance to think about joining the gang? You know as well as I do there's no future in shining shoes."
"You never know what'll happen. Maybe I'll start out like this and end up as rich as Rockefeller."
Meyer and Irving both let out a snort of laughter. They shook their heads at me like I was hopeless, then Meyer grinned and asked,
"Want me to show you the fastest way?"
Look who's talking—some kid who still wet behind the ears thinks he can teach me anything.
"Of course, you might be thinking, just like everyone else, 'Who joins a gang at a time like this?' "But if you heard what's happening with the Manhattan gangs right now, I bet you'd change your mind?"
I might not remember the details, but I was sure that I knew the future of the gangs better than Meyer did.
In my previous life, I'd read at least ten books about the Mafia. Some of them covered the actual history and lineages of the mob.
Despite my uninterested reaction, Meyer's eyes gleamed with a curious intensity.
"As everyone knows, the past ten years have been brutal for the Manhattan gangs. And it all started with…"
It all began in 1895, when Theodore Roosevelt became both the head of the NYPD and a New York State commissioner.
Roosevelt pushed major reforms to clean up corruption and overhaul the police force. That's what led to the creation of the Major Crimes Response Unit.
Then, around 1911, the NYPD's Major Crimes Response Unit launched a crackdown, arresting the key figures of the Gang's Squad and wiping out entire groups.
As a result, in just the last two years, gangs have been brought to trial one after another, and many of Manhattan's gangs were quickly shrinking or disbanding.
"People say this is the end of the gang era, the so-called Dark Age, but I see it differently. I actually think this is an opportunity."
Meyer's story was surprisingly similar to what I'd read in those books in my past life.
It was fun comparing his version to what I remembered, but the truth was, Meyer had real talent as a storyteller.
He spun his tale with logic and intrigue, backed by information. Even Irving, who must have heard it countless times before, was completely absorbed.
They say promising people stand out from an early age, and Meyer, who would one day be called the "Accountant of the Mafia," was a perfect example of that.
And there was one more.
There was another figure who spent his teenage years with Meyer Lansky and left a significant mark on Mafia history.
The scrappy-looking kid, who'd claimed he was heading to school, suddenly slid out of a narrow alley.
Meyer and Irving must have known him already, because they didn't even look surprised.
I stopped in my tracks and looked the kid up and down.
Maybe he didn't like that.
"What are you looking at?"
The cocky little kid scanned me up and down in return.
"What's your name?"
"Benjamin Siegel. Why?"
Of course. I knew right away he was no ordinary kid.
If you were to name the most notorious figures in American crime history, this boy would be on the list.
He was the one who built the first modern casino in the middle of the Mojave Desert—the key player behind the rise of the Las Vegas casino industry.
So here I was, face to face with a young Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel.
All I'd done was take a stroll around the neighborhood.