Chapter 97 - Dynamic LES
Rows of light bulbs at the entrance of the dance hall sparkled. The faint music and the sounds of people caught up in excitement washed over my ears.
It's only been a short time, but I've learned something from wearing the Pumpkin Mask.
More people approach me with friendliness than with mockery. No one cares who's behind the Pumpkin Mask. Even if a homeless man who hasn't washed in a month wore it, to them, he'd simply be "Pumpkin Mask."
In the bigger picture, society isn't any different. If you strip off the mask from a philanthropist praised by the media, you might find violence, threats, extortion, and exploitation lurking underneath.
But the public judges by appearances and makes no effort to look any deeper.
And across the street, those guys acting suspiciously are no different. Even if my Pumpkin Mask is removed, they'll never know who I am.
In a spot where the streetlights couldn't reach, dark shadows squirmed. My instincts identified them as attackers. No matter how much they pretend to be passersby, their direction and glances are awkward at best.
One of them, hands in his coat pockets, stared at me openly as he approached. When he finally got right up in my face, the pocket of his coat suddenly jutted out, prodding me.
"Come quietly."
The man led me into the alley beside the building, and three more crowded in, surrounding me.
"If you don't want to die, answer my questions. You know the entrance to the Dance Hall, right?"
When I nodded, one of them smacked my Pumpkin Mask, demanding a verbal answer.
Bastards. I adjusted the mask, which had twisted halfway around from the blow, and finally replied.
"There's a side door at the back you can use to get in."
"And the Boss?"
"Ah… You have to get to the Boss's office through the Secret Passage."
"Secret Passage?"
They exchanged glances, then suddenly yanked off my Pumpkin Mask.
Once they saw my face, they snickered.
"No wonder you gave up the info so easily. Guess you had a reason for wearing that mask."
So, judging by their reaction, to them, I was just an Asian guy in a ridiculous Pumpkin Mask being exploited for labor. I decided to milk that for all it was worth.
"If I show you the way… will you pay me?"
"Pay you? Oh, of course. I'll give you two dollars."
"... If you could give me half up front…"
"Ha, this guy."
Looking annoyed, the man handed me a one-dollar bill. When I acted happy to receive it, they looked even more pleased. I glanced around and lowered my voice.
"Is this everyone you've got? There are a few staff guarding the Secret Passage."
"How many?"
"Maybe… five?"
There were four guys here. After thinking it over for a moment, one of them gestured toward the other side of the street. I had suspected as much; two more people joined them. Now there were six enemies.
"No one else? With just this many…"
"It's plenty, you bastard. With this crew, we'll wipe them all out and then some."
"Well… just follow me quietly, then."
This is it.
What a joke.
Tucking the Pumpkin Mask under my arm, I opened the back door and led them inside the building.
Once again, a steel door appeared.
Just as I pulled out the key to unlock the door, I heard someone behind me scratching their neck.
"They even gave a key to the Secret Passage to someone like you?"
"…If you wear the Pumpkin Mask, they give you one."
Ignoring their scoffs, I opened the steel door. Suddenly, loud music filled the air, and it seemed to erase the last of their suspicions.
"Take us straight to the boss."
"Yes, sir. Stay close behind me."
Leading the way down the stairs, I slipped my gun and knife from inside my coat. Reaching into the Pumpkin Mask, I attached a silencer to the muzzle of my Colt M1911.
The stairway was dark, and the sound was drowned out by blaring band music.
With a gun in one hand and a knife in the other, I headed down.
As we finished descending and reached the narrow passage—
I dropped the Pumpkin Mask from my armpit, turned my body, and drove the knife into the chest of the man directly behind me.
Thud.
Immediately, I shoved his body forward as a shield and fired at the men following him.
Pffft, pffft.
Each pull of the trigger sent flashes of light through the dark hallway.
Blood splattered, and one by one, they collapsed.
Click.
I reloaded with a spare magazine after running out of bullets.
I finished off the ones writhing on the floor to make sure they were dead.
After using up the last of my ammo, I picked up the Pumpkin Mask that had fallen to the floor.
I walked through the passage and into the office, where Patrick was cleaning his gun.
"Get six beer barrels ready."
"Huh? What for?"
"There are six bodies in the passage."
"What!?"
Patrick shot up from his seat and rushed out of the office.
He soon returned, shaking his head in disbelief.
"I didn't hear a thing—when did you deal with them? Man, how did you lure them all the way down here…?"
Patrick clicked his tongue as he stared at the Pumpkin Mask on the table.
"Idiots tried to kidnap the Grim Reaper, huh."
A little later, the members brought in the barrels, along with rags and buckets to clean up the mess.
Ida, who slipped in and saw the scene, gave me a look I couldn't quite read.
"The more I get to know you, Boss, the more amazed I am."
"That's a compliment, right?"
Ida didn't answer and slipped away onto the floor.
Anthony, who should have been resting in the waiting room after the performance, was also in the hallway.
Channeling his inner detective, he inspected the corpses, piecing together the situation and analyzing my methods.
"You probably didn't have a suppressor ready beforehand, so you must've assembled it while luring them in. But there were six armed guys on your tail—how did you manage to stab and shoot them in that mess? That's really insane... or, no, you must've just been that confident, huh?"
"If you're not going to help clean up, get back to the Band Waiting Room, Anthony."
Anthony got up and walked over, scrutinizing me from head to toe.
"You sure you didn't get shot and you're just pretending you're fine? Don't try to tough it out."
"I get it, now get going."
Anthony shook his head in disbelief and disappeared.
It was then, as Lanza was quietly mopping up, that he spoke up.
"I'd like to learn to shoot and fight too…like you, Boss."
He was Liam's age.
The look in Lanza's eyes was full of a desire not for learning, but for learning how to kill.
I didn't want to give him any advice or lecture him.
"You'll be learning soon enough. You're Family now, aren't you."
"...We're Family, right? Absolutely!"
Lanza gripped the mop tighter.
With each swipe across the floor, more blood was washed away.
"Brian, get in touch with Captain Gray and ask when he can take care of those drums."
"Yes, sir!"
Brian, who sometimes acted clueless and moody, replied this time with real energy.
I left the cleanup to the members and went down another floor.
Despite its usual gloomy atmosphere, the casino was running peacefully. No one seemed to care what had happened upstairs; everyone was engrossed in gambling.
I quickly counted the customers with my eyes. Thirty-two people sat at the tables, enjoying their games.
"Doesn't it seem like we have more customers tonight?"
Lenny approached, wearing an awkward smile.
"Don't tell me you're satisfied with just this."
"Of course not."
"Anyway, you know how things are these days, right? If you spot anyone shady among the customers, let me know right away."
"Got it, Boss."
Clink!
Just then, a man in his mid-thirties slammed his bottle down on the floor.
As shards of glass scattered, the nearby patrons frowned and moved away.
"Does it make sense to lose five rounds in a row!? Damn it! Anyone can see this is rigged!"
"You look pretty drunk. That's enough for tonight."
A member quickly rushed over and dragged the man out. Lenny shook his head and offered an explanation.
"He's been coming here since a few days ago and mentioned he lost his job."
"Then he should be out working. What's he doing crawling into a casino?"
"We let him win on his first night, so he keeps coming back, thinking he can do it again. Supposedly he worked at a failed magazine company. He says he's here trying to put meat on the table for his family."
If you start making exceptions for every sorry soul, is there anyone who doesn't have a sad story?
Still...
"So, if the magazine company went under, was he a reporter?"
"He said they put out magazines using a Small Printing Press. If you ask me, he's probably a print technician."
The man was escorted outside by the members. I wondered if he'd go to the police out of spite. Not that it mattered much—we were prepared for that.
Right now, LES is like one big chessboard.
The Five Points and the Union are positioning their pieces, jockeying for territory and influence.
The tactical battle has already begun, and a single bad move could tip the balance completely.
Marcus threw all his resources into finding out exactly where Itsuki Joe and his members were hiding.
Once those coordinates were locked in, his crew would pounce and tear the place apart before anyone could react.
But after the assassins sent to the Dance Hall vanished without a trace, Itsuki Joe became even more cautious. So, instead of either side declaring checkmate, the fighting dragged on, grinding everyone down.
Twin Buildings, second-floor office.
When you put all your eggs in one basket, it feels like you end up drawing all the enemy's fire right to you.
Just yesterday proved the point. Around thirty guys stormed in, trying to barge into the Dance Hall's basement, and it escalated into an all-out brawl.
As the violence dragged on, one newspaper went all-in, hammering the story with fierce criticism.
[Is LES Headed Down Sodom's Path – The Endless Cycle of Violence]
The article was clearly critical, but there was an upside: the name "Union," the gang now waging war against the Five Points in the city's underworld, started spreading.
This is exactly when we need to push even harder.
I called for Anthony.
"We moved the band dormitory to a new building, so how about you stop playing music for now, alright?"
"I was planning to do that anyway. Judging by your look, I'm guessing you've got a job for me?"
"That look of yours, seriously."
But Anthony's instincts had never been wrong. I handed over the intel Marcus had provided.
"It's one of Itsuki Joe's Enforcers."
The report listed a few places the guy tended to frequent. Anthony skimmed through the papers, hesitated for a moment, then spoke up.
"Before I take this guy out, fill me in on what happened a few days ago. How did you pull off that shootout with six men on your tail?"
"I pulled the trigger with a Lion's Heart."
"…No, not that. I mean—does the boss have any special grip or technique when he shoots?"
He looked genuinely curious.
Staring into Anthony's serious eyes, I took out my gun.
I slid back the slide, removed the magazine and cartridge, then handed the gun to Anthony.
"Try holding the gun and take your stance."
Anthony stood up, took the gun, and aimed it at me.
He angled his body and extended his arm fully, using a one-handed stance. It was the traditional method taught in the military.
The downside was that it was difficult to control the recoil of handguns like the Colt M1911, which inevitably led to reduced accuracy.
As time went on, shooting stances evolved as well.
From the Bladed Stance, where you turn your body and aim one shoulder at the target, to Chamberlain, Overhand Grip, Weaver, and Isosceles.
Adopting the most efficient stance for any given situation was a critical aspect of combat.
"The shooting technique I used last time was…"
Center Axis Relock (CAR) system.
You turn your body slightly and hold the pistol close to yourself as you shoot.
It lets you respond quickly in close-quarters battles and is highly effective in tight spaces.
"If you grip the pistol and shoot like this, target transitions are quick and the recoil is manageable."
"Wow, I've never seen a stance like that before!"
Of course not—this is something combat specialists have spent decades developing.
"Boss, besides shooting stances, do you know any other techniques?"
"Of course. Once this job is over, you'll have time to learn them properly. So for now, just stick to what you know."
"Naturally. I don't feel like dying by copying something half-baked. Anyway, I've got the target covered."
Not long after Anthony left, the real estate agent came by the underwear store.
We needed another foxhole, and as luck would have it, an appropriate property had just come on the market.
"You're looking to rent, not buy?"
"As long as the space is big enough, I don't care what it was used for."
"You definitely need an alley and a side door, right?"
He hasn't forgotten my style.
Of the few places showed to me, one really caught my eye. So, for the first time in a while, I went to see the building with him in person.
Near the intersection of Grand and Eldridge Street.
The real estate boss stopped in front of a five-story building.
"The second floor is available. Pretty spacious, huh?"
Given the width of the building, it looked to be at least 50 pyeong (about 1,770 square feet). There were alleys on both sides, and the main entrance and the back door were connected.
Heading up to the second floor, I noticed a slanted sign above the door.
[The Masses (대중들)] Even the name reeks of socialism.
In fact, The Masses was a magazine representing anarchists, socialists, and radicals.
But on June 15, 1917, when the Espionage Act of 1917 was enacted, it took a direct hit and is now in the process of being forcibly shut down.
Just as the boss reached for the door handle, the door happened to open. A man in his mid-thirties, his eyes half open and bleary, looked at us. He was the man I'd seen at the casino a few days earlier.
"What brings you here?"
"We're from Morris Realty. Mind if we take a look inside?"
With a gloomy expression, the man nodded and swung the door wide open. Inside there were six desks, and in the corner, a separate office and printing area had been set up.
I picked up one of the magazines stacked high along the wall. The Masses was printed in bold type, and the cover featured a vivid, war-like red illustration.
When I glanced over at the print worker, he immediately began shaking his head.
"I'm just a printing technician. I don't care about politics or ideology. Doesn't it tell you something that everyone else has been taken away and I'm the only one left?"
The man stuck out his lower lip, clearly irritated by my gaze. Then he curtly addressed the real estate boss.
"But you do know this comes with the condition of taking over everything, right?"
"What do you mean?"
"I heard Eastman wants someone to take over the whole office as is. Didn't you hear?"
"Isn't Boss Eastman currently on trial?"
"Exactly, that's why he's trying to sell off everything in a hurry."
The real estate boss looked at me, clearly uncomfortable.
"Maybe we should look elsewhere?"
"How much is the takeover fee?"
The man held up three fingers.
"Three thousand dollars."
"Does that include the printing press?"
"Of course. The printing press alone is worth over two thousand dollars. It's only this cheap because it's secondhand."
"And it works fine?"
"Look, I've been handling printing presses since I was twelve. Don't you think I've kept it in good shape? It's almost like new."
The man took some pride in his work.
"Did you find another job?"
"…I'm looking. Well, if push comes to shove, I'll head over to New Jersey."
"How about working with me this time?"
"What?"
I really liked this office.
On the other hand, the real estate boss seemed confused and quietly asked,
"What's this all of a sudden? Are you planning to start a magazine or something?"
To be precise, I was thinking of a local business newspaper, something like a flea market paper.
There were a few magazines and newspaper companies of that type around, but no gang had gotten heavily involved yet.
If I'm going to be out collecting protection money anyway, it'd be killing two birds with one stone to walk around as a reporter and bring in supplier ads, job postings, you name it.
If the money rolls in, I could always buy out some influential newspapers down the road.
"Let's go ahead and sign the contract."
Simon McGraw's lips twitched into a sly grin.
He clearly seemed to think he was taking me for a sucker. I wondered if he'd still be able to make that face once I had my staff in here. They wouldn't be running casinos anymore—most of them would be locked away in the print room, working non-stop.
The editors and reporters from The Masses were arrested on charges of violating espionage laws.
They were planning to use the proceeds from selling the office to found a new magazine, fully confident they'd be acquitted in court.
Either way, I took over the office and wrapped up payment in just three days flat.
And then, on my way back to the Twin Buildings, I stumbled on a brawl.
Was it so hot that they decided to fight in the shade?
A group fight had broken out under the Allen Street Overpass.
Looking closer, I realized they were our people.
Kale and some of our units were tangled up and fighting with another gang.
That's how fierce territorial expansion was getting.
It was almost beautiful, seeing everyone so committed to their roles.
As I skirted the scene from a distance, I noticed two men standing outside an underwear store, watching the fight with keen interest.
It was my youngest uncle-in-law, Derrick, and a friend of his who ran a liquor distribution business.
They'd been waiting for me.
"Ciaran, seriously, this place is unlivable. How does anyone run a business here?"
"I know, right."
As we started heading into the store, the sound of a whistle rang out in the distance.
The moment the police rushed in, the brawl broke up and everyone scattered in all directions.
"Told you, nothing's as dynamic as the LES,"
Derrick muttered, clicking his tongue.