Chapter 11 - If They Take Something, Take Even More Back
First, I needed to calm my mother down—she was still holding the gun, clearly agitated.
"Give me what you're hiding behind your back."
I held out my hand, but she shook her head firmly.
"Give it to me."
"…That's not something you should be touching."
"I know, but just hand it over for now. I'm not a kid."
At seventeen in this day and age, you're basically an adult.
After a tense standoff, my mother let out a small sigh and cautiously brought the hidden object forward.
"Handle it carefully. But… Ciaran?"
She stared intently at my blood-stained sleeve and hands. Then her gaze shifted to the Fedora tucked under my arm, and her eyes widened as she asked me,
"What on earth happened?"
"I'll explain everything in a bit."
Gently, I took the trembling gun from her hands.
"This was father's gun, wasn't it?"
"How did you know that?"
"It's a Colt M1892 revolver. You can tell by the year."
Actually, more than the year, if this wasn't my father's keepsake, knowing my mother's personality, she would have sold the gun to cover the tight living expenses with money to spare.
Even an old used one like this would fetch at least eight dollars.
Ignoring my mother's surprised eyes, I absentmindedly examined the gun barrel stained by time.
The Colt M1892 features a swing-out cylinder double-action mechanism.
I pulled back the recoil shield mounted on the left side of the frame next to the cylinder and gave my wrist a light shake.
Click.
The six-round cylinder popped out, and three bullets were inside.
Clatter.
I flicked the cylinder with my finger, and it rotated counterclockwise. Since revolver cylinders usually spin clockwise, this was a unique characteristic of the Colt M1892.
Tilting the barrel, I dropped the three bullets from the cylinder into my palm.
They were flat-bottomed, round rimfire cartridges.
The caliber was .38 Long Colt.
After confirming the specifications, I picked up the bullets and snapped my wrist lightly.
Click.
I reattached the cylinder.
Hooking my index finger on the trigger guard, I spun it around rapidly with a flick of my finger. I extended the revolver handle toward my mother so she could easily grasp it.
Without any intention of taking it, she just stared at me, wide-eyed and speechless.
Now was exactly the time our family needed to change.
I had to drive the point home.
"The toolset I bought yesterday broke again. They took all the money I earned today too."
"······."
"So from now on, I'm going to live differently."
What did living differently mean?
I held out the bloodstained sleeve to my mother.
"I went to retrieve what was taken."
This time, I took money out of my pocket and showed it to her.
Her eyes scanned the money quickly, disbelief flooding her gaze as they landed on me.
"Isn't this... too much to say it was 'taken'?"
"If something was taken, then more should be taken back. That's how the world works, Mother."
"······."
She stared at my face intently, then brushed my cheek softly with trembling hands.
"Are you really... my son, Ciaran?"
"Who else would I be?"
"If you really don't like it, maybe I should just leave the house…"
Smack.
My mother's hand struck my back.
My back tingled from the impact.
"Leave? Where do you think you're going?"
She clenched her teeth tightly.
"No matter what you do, I'm on your side. Even if you become a killer and die horribly in the electric chair, you're still my son."
Wait, the electric chair?
That's a bit much...
"But Ciaran, what about the kids who took your money...?"
They've been sent to the Lord.
I couldn't bring myself to say that.
If I overwhelmed her all at once, it would backfire.
"They won't cause any problems."
"You're braver and tougher than I thought. These past few days, you've only been scaring me," she said.
"It's late, but I guess I've finally adapted to this world."
"They say blood doesn't lie. I suppose it can't be helped."
My mother let out a sigh, as if relieving the heavy burden she'd carried for so long.
Ciaran is Ciaran, and I am myself.
But they say blood can't be hidden.
Who exactly do they think I take after?
Pitter-patter.
Someone rushed up the stairs.
It was one of my mother's coworkers.
"Nora! We're planning to visit Boss Blank tomorrow morning. Can you join the meeting right away?"
"Of course. I'm on my way now."
The woman gave me a weary smile before heading back down the stairs.
My mother, who had to follow after her, handed over the money again. She told me to never let my younger siblings see the gun and to keep it hidden until she returned.
"Let's finish this conversation after I get back, son."
I watched my mother's back as she headed from the hallway to the stairs.
The moment I looked at the gun and money in my hand, something began to stir inside me.
If they take from you, you take even more back.
If we're going to see the boss tomorrow morning, I have to meet him before then.
My mother hurried down the stairs, and I opened the front door to the apartament.
I put the money in the jar and grabbed only the fedora instead of the gloves and the hat I usually wore.
Of course, I took the gun with me as well.
Just as I was about to head out again, my mother's scarf hanging on the doorknob caught my eye.
It was the scarf she always wore around her neck at work.
As I reached to tuck it into my pocket,
I suddenly felt a sharp gaze on the back of my head.
In the dim living room,
Liam was watching me.
"Why are you taking Mom's scarf?"
"I'm just going out for a bit."
"Right now? It's nighttime."
I turned away and waved my hand casually.
"When Mom gets back, tell her. Say the eldest son went out to exercise. You should go back to sleep."
— Ciaran, if you're a man, you have to at least be able to protect your family. If I'm not here, as the eldest son, that's your role.
Noel Graves taught his son Ciaran how to use a gun when he was about ten years old.
"With the country being taken away from us, what wouldn't be taken? Ciaran, if you can't protect your country, you at least have to be able to risk everything for your family."
Noel's immigrant life, having given up his Korean name and worked as a laborer in places like Alaskan fisheries and railroad construction, was fraught with exposure to racial violence.
"This gun is a powerful tool to protect your family. You're still young, but soon I'll teach you how to use it. Whether you like it or not, when the time comes to use it, don't hesitate—use it properly."
"But, Dad? Mom's home."
Suddenly, his father quickly hid the gun and whispered,
"This is a secret between just the two of us."
In Ciaran's memory, his father was a brave man—devoted to his family.
But when it came to his homeland, he was passive.
Choosing Manhattan, New York, instead of Hawaii or San Francisco where there were more Koreans, and even changing the family name to Graves suggested he wanted to erase traces of his roots. Ciaran didn't even know his real family name.
Rummaging through these memories, Ciaran went down the stairs and stepped outside.
Outside, it was still chaotic.
When the underground workshop, the sweatshop, shut down, about thirty women suddenly lost their jobs. The children either cried along with their sobbing mothers or didn't know what to do.
His mother, who hadz said she was going to meet with Jane—the woman who had been beaten—was nowhere to be seen.
When Ciaran passed through the crowd and stepped out onto a main street, he ran into two uniformed police officers carrying batons.
They merely kept a distant watch over the entrance to the tenement house where the commotion had erupted, showing no intention of stepping in. In fact, as if they had witnessed something they'd rather not see, they moved away in another direction.
The police were thorough bystanders.
He pressed the fedora down over his head and moved north along Eldridge Street.
Who was it that made his mother pick up a gun?
In the late 19th century, the garment industry grew rapidly around New York. Sewing factories sprung up all over Manhattan like wild mushrooms—ushering in the era of sweatshops.
Low wages, long hours, and harsh working conditions.
Daughters of poor Italian and Jewish immigrants toiled relentlessly.
Employers locked the factory doors with chains to prevent workers from leaving without permission, taking breaks, or stealing.
In 1909, the suppressed cries of more than 20,000 workers finally burst out. Female laborers united and staged the 'Shirtwaist Strike' for a staggering thirteen weeks.
Employers called in labor sluggers—gangsters under a different name—to suppress the strike.
They used violence to disrupt the protests and intimidate the workers. The police either collaborated with them, turned a blind eye, or sometimes even supported them.
Then, in 1911, the worst tragedy struck Manhattan, New York.
A fire broke out at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, which occupied the 8th, 9th, and 10th floors.
Sixty-three people jumped from the burning windows to their deaths, while the rest burned inside locked workrooms. Among the 146 victims, 123 were women and girls.
What punishment did the employers face?
After a lengthy court battle, they were acquitted. The only compensation given to the victims' families was $75.
And they simply changed their name and continue to run factories today.
The government and the law are powerless.
Even when ruthless bosses fall into gambling, delay wages, or hand everything over to loan sharks, the law is rarely enforced properly.
"No matter how much I think about it, I don't understand. Suddenly it's gambling, loan sharks… They even put up the machines as collateral? The boss isn't that stupid. He's far too calculating…"
His mother suspected the boss.
Even if there was a private loan debt, she was certain the boss had set aside his share behind the scenes.
That's why my mother took up a gun.
And I, on her behalf, want to reclaim the fair share earned through hard work.
And more than that.
At the intersection of Grand Street and Forsyth Street, a heavily Jewish neighborhood.
Streetlights fixed in all four directions illuminate the streets.
Though fewer than during the day, there were still many people passing through at 9 p.m.
But no women or children were in sight.
In the past, Ciaran had, at his mother's request, brought finished goods to the boss's house a few times.
A block away from the intersection.
A quiet residential area of brown brick townhouses where the upper-middle-class Jewish families lived.
The four-story townhouse there was Blank's mansion.
He lived alone, apart from his family.
Rent alone was $20 a month.
He used the entire second floor, which was so spacious it was incomparable to the cramped place where I lived.
I kept my eyes fixed on the lit second floor as I moved quietly to the back of the building.
Without any streetlights, the moonlight was the only source of light.
I covered my nose and mouth with the scarf I had taken with me when I left the house.
The scent of my mother's sweat from working hard all day wafted strongly, but the smell wasn't unpleasant.
Instead, it sharpened my purpose here—to reclaim the rightful reward of my mother's honest labor.
After surveying the structure behind the building and just as the moon slipped behind the clouds, I climbed over the low wall at the back of the townhouse.
A metal fire escape was attached to the back wall, meant for emergency evacuation, and climbing it led to the back door.
But it was probably locked from the inside, so I decided to use a slightly ajar window nearby, even though it meant a bit more risk.
I moved silently, climbing up the metal stairs with stealth.
When I reached the second floor, I grabbed onto the decorative stone molding next to the stairs and approached the window.
I squeezed my body inside.
Inside the room, a sewing machine I had seen at the factory sat among scattered fabrics meant for cutting.
I pricked up my ears and slightly opened the door to peek into the living room.
The boss was bustling around, doing something here and there.
More precisely, he was packing his belongings into a checkered trunk case.
Could it be that he was planning to leave this place early in the morning?
What a son of a bitch.
I kept watching the boss's movements.
After about five minutes of waiting, the moment I needed came.
The boss, having wet his throat with a drink from the table, walked into the room where I was.
The smell of alcohol wafted faintly as he opened the door. I pulled him close and wrapped my arm around his neck.
"Ugh...!"
Pressing on the carotid artery sends blood rushing to the brain and slows the heart rate.
After silently counting down roughly how long it would take to pass out, I quickly relaxed my grip as his struggling body went limp, then dragged him into the living room.
I laid him down in the middle of the spacious room, stuffed a cloth into his mouth, using part of it to tie him up.
"Alright, let's start by assessing the situation."
On the dining table, there was still a sizable pile of documents not yet packed into a bag.
Among them was a thick notebook—an accounting ledger the boss used to track his money.
It detailed the sales, management fees, and labor costs of the sweatshop he ran, but it was fairly complex to examine properly.
For now, it was certain the ledger was evidence to prove the fraud.
Next, I sifted through the scattered mail lying around. That's when I discovered an interesting letter addressed to a real estate agency and a defense attorney.
First, the letter to the real estate agency read:
"Dear Blank,
We need some documents to finalize the lease agreement for the workshop.
(Excerpt)
If you send us the new company name, we'll prepare some of the paperwork accordingly. Please contact us once your affairs are settled."
Hmm? A guy drowning in debt creates a new company?
Looking at the letter sent to the defense attorney only made things clearer.
[Mr. Blank,
Your bankruptcy filing has been accepted and will be completed sometime this week.
As long as you hold cash rather than keep money in the bank, and dispose of your assets, you must proceed under a different name.
If any legal disputes or conflicts arise later, I will earnestly represent you...]
"What the hell is this bastard up to?"
The picture became clear.
Deliberate wage withholding followed by intentional bankruptcy.
After the bankruptcy, reopening under a different company name.
Then, skimming off assets with impostors posing as loan sharks.
"This was all a setup from the start?"
As my mother said, the boss wasn't stupid.
He was just a con artist.
He swallowed the money meant for the employees, gambled away his entire fortune, and the alleged debt to loan sharks was all a lie.
The boss wasn't out of money.
Then where was the cash?
Since he filed for bankruptcy, there was no way he had money in the bank.
I flipped open the overstuffed trunk.
A handgun and stacks of dollar bills hidden underneath tumbled out with a clatter.
"Ugh...!"
Did the smell of money pull him back to consciousness?
The boss chewed on the cloth stuffed in his mouth, groaning.
I slowly approached him and pulled down the scarf.
The boss opened his eyes wide when he saw my face.
His pupils darted frantically.
"Don't be so surprised."
Bam! Bam!
I kicked his face.
Then stomped down on his curled-up body.
"I was actually going to try and talk to you, if you weren't such a piece of trash."
But how could I have a conversation with scum like him?
I muttered to myself.
"If you take something from me, I take even more in return. Including your life."
I drew the Bowie knife I'd taken earlier and whispered low.
"You really set this whole thing up perfectly. I happen to have a knack for that kind of game too."
Thunk.
"Ugh...!"
I slowly stabbed the boss in the heart.
The blood that flowed out soaked the carpet.
I dipped the boss's index finger in the blood and pressed it down with a touch.
Even just from the mail on the table, the police would be able to figure out the full scope of the scam the boss had orchestrated.
But that alone wasn't enough.
I had to erase myself and frame the loan shark as the suspect.
Besides, the sewing machines they took—
If I could take them back, I'd take every last one.
With the bloodied boss's index finger, I scribbled clues crookedly on the carpet.
Pulling the cloth from the dying boss's mouth, I whispered.
"Curious what I wrote?"
Took all.
"How do you like the game I set up?"