Chapter 42 - The Problematic Artichoke
On the way back to Manhattan Harbor.
As the boat rode the wind and cut through the dark river, I found myself picturing the bootleg liquor that would soon be transported during Prohibition.
When that time comes, a boat like this won't cut it at all.
"Can you handle a much bigger boat than this?"
"Of course. Believe it or not, I'm a first-class mate. If it weren't for that Indian blood label, I could have been captain of a ship ten times this size."
For small fishing boats or coastal vessels, regulations are loose enough that real-world experience alone often gets you the role of captain.
But for cargo ships that travel overseas, a captain's license is required. That means undergoing exams on navigation, maritime safety, marine law, cargo management, meteorology, and more.
People usually start their careers as ship crew.
The requirements change depending on the ship's size, so becoming a captain isn't easy.
"So what does having the mixed-blood label have to do with being captain?"
"You'll understand once you try climbing the ranks. When you're crew, as long as you work your tail off, everyone recognizes you."
The problem, he said, was that the higher up you went, the more conflict you faced.
"I finally made captain—my dream come true—only to find I couldn't actually lead anyone. There's a lot of politics on a ship, too."
River Gray lowered his shoulder collar. It was too dark to see clearly, but he said it was a wound from when the crew mutinied and stabbed him with a knife.
"Of course, maybe it really was my leadership that was the problem. I mean, someone like me with no real qualifications ended up as captain—blaming my mixed blood could just be an excuse."
"There's no need to put yourself down like that," I said.
River nodded, a bittersweet smile on his face.
"You're right. And to be honest, I actually feel a lot more relaxed these days. There's nothing more nerve-wracking than being stuck on a boat with people you can't trust, never knowing when someone might betray you."
"So, how did you get to know Tanner Smith?"
"I'd heard there was a famous gang boss among the leaders of the Pier 5 District harbor workers' strike, so I went looking for him. I showed him this scar and told him I wanted to kill them all…"
He asked Tanner to get him guns and ammo.
Of course, Tanner refused.
"He said, 'You're the only one who'd end up getting screwed, so just do something else.'"
"So, that's how you ended up getting involved in smuggling."
"It took me a while to realize Tanner was a sly one. Still, he's loyal in his own way—that's why we're still working together."
River said that, in fact, Tanner gives him more legitimate jobs than smuggling runs.
Our conversation circled back to the question I'd first asked.
"So, if you had a bigger boat, what would you do with it?"
"What else would I do? Smuggling, of course. I just want to do it on a bigger scale."
"You've certainly got big ambitions. If you have the boat, and you just find yourself a crew, there shouldn't be a problem."
"Don't you think trouble can come from the very people you bring on board?"
River hesitated before replying.
Shipping companies hire captains and crew based on what suits the company. Because of that, people who could never get along sometimes end up stuck together in close quarters. That's exactly what happened with the sailors who mutinied that day.
"From now on, try and build it yourself. There must be crew out there who are worth trusting and working with."
"So, have you managed to find a lot of trustworthy people?"
"No. That's why even now, at this very moment, I'm still trying."
River watched me for a while, then a slight smile tugged at his lips. He looked up, gazing at the stars scattered across the night sky.
"If I want to work with you, I'd better start working hard to put together a crew."
"You have two years left."
"That's… pretty specific."
***
Manhattan Harbor, Pier 35. I packed the weapons into a crate and unloaded them from the boat.
"What are we going to do with the guns and bombs the White Hand Gang's boss supplied us with?"
"Tanner will return them."
"So until then, I'll have to hold onto the bombs myself?"
"Just be careful when you smoke."
Right then, River was about to light a cigarette. He hurriedly tossed the lit match into the river.
"Well, see you again."
Even at night, the harbor was crowded with workers. I hauled the crate along like a porter and left the harbor.
By the time I got home, it was 11 p.m. As I opened the door, my mother, who had been slumped over the dining table, shot upright. Her eyes quickly scanned me from head to toe, then she broke into a smile.
"Son, have you been eating well?"
"Of course. But from now on, just sleep in your room. It's not like this is the first time I've been out late."
"I only get to see your face when you come home and open the door."
Once she saw I was back safe and sound, that was enough for her.
My mother got up from the table, gave me a quick hug, and was about to head to her room.
"But did something stressful happen to you?"
"No, why?"
On the table, there was a sheet of paper covered with doodles.
My mother put her hand over her mouth and let out a quiet laugh.
"Roa drew this because she's worried she'll forget your face. It's the first time she's gone two whole days without seeing you."
"She might've already forgotten what I look like."
Otherwise, there's no way she'd draw me like that.
"Hey now, you'll hurt Roa's feelings. You must be tired. Get some sleep."
I set the box aside, changed my clothes, and lay down on the bed. At that moment—
"Hey."
"Jeez, you scared me. Weren't you asleep?"
"I can't sleep."
"Did you get beat up by someone again?"
"Yeah "So I need something new."
"…Just go to sleep for now."
When Liam gets into something, he becomes almost obsessively absorbed by it.
On one hand, it was worth considering whether any of this would actually help Liam's future.
It's good to be passionate about something. But the problem is that, for him, that something always ends up being fighting techniques. If I don't want him drawn into the life of a gangster, I'll need to find something else for him to fixate on—something that could actually help him.
The next morning.
Roa woke me up by shaking me with her tiny, fern-like hands.
"Big Brother, when did you get home?"
"Late at night. That means I need more sleep, right? I must be really tired."
"They say you can sleep all you want when you're dead. While you're alive, you should see people's faces. Didn't you miss Roa?"
Roa forced my eyelids open.
"Now I've seen you, so I'm good. Yup, I can sleep now."
"…"
As I tried to roll over and go back to sleep, this time it was Liam pestering me.
"Hey. I need something new."
This house, honestly.
Maybe we should just move to somewhere with three bedrooms.
"Big Brother's awake! He's up!"
"Well, since you're up, have some breakfast and then go back to sleep."
I scratched my messy hair and headed for the table.
As soon as I sat down, Roa handed me a piece of paper.
"Big Brother, guess what this is?"
"Wow, this is me, isn't it?"
Roa giggled and shrugged her shoulders.
"I drew it before I forgot your face. It was so hard for me to remember your eyes, nose, and mouth."
"That must've been tough. Which might explain why it doesn't really look like me…"
"Ciaran."
Mom glared at me. I shut my mouth and patted Roa's head.
"This is practically a photograph, a photograph."
"Big Brother, should I make a frame and put it up for you?"
"Sure. The frame's probably going to be fancier than the picture itself..."
"Ciaran!"
We started eating after Mother's short prayer. As I chewed on some bread, I spoke to Liam.
"You said you need a new technique?"
"Yeah. I need an ultimate special move."
"But are you even keeping up with your studies?"
"As long as I go to school and don't skip, what more do you want?"
"Have you ever been hit with a baguette? I sometimes use this as a weapon, you know."
Liam flinched and leaned his face away from me. Meanwhile, Roa touched the baguette and nodded.
"I've been hit with one too. It really hurts."
"What!?"
Everyone stopped eating and turned their attention to Roa. Mother's eyes trembled as she asked,
"Who hit you with this, Roa?"
"An ajumma passing by in front of our house got annoyed at the noise and hit both me and Jake on the head with a baguette."
"And then? What happened?"
"Aunt Mary scolded her. Then she walked away making chicken noises."
"Chicken?"
"Bok bok bok bok." (the Korean sound for a chicken clucking)
That damn bastard. If I ever run into her again, I'll smash her head with a baguette.
Seriously, what part of Roa could anyone think to hit?
Liam shuddered and looked at me with resolve.
"Brother, if you teach me that ultimate move, I'll take care of her."
"How are you going to find some random passerby? Anyway, since we're on the subject, don't you have exams coming up soon?"
"I actually took them a few days ago."
"Is that so? I'm sure you totally messed up this time anyway."
"If you get a B or higher on your next test, I'll teach you the three-stage combo."
"The three-stage combo?"
"It's the move where you finish everything with a triple hit right after you start."
Ooooh! Liam, who had been excited, suddenly wore a triumphant expression.
"I actually took the test a few days ago, and I got an A."
"Gym class doesn't count."
"What do you mean? It was English, Math, History, and Science. It was a comprehensive exam."
"Check if the A is actually a V that got flipped over, little brother. Roa does that sometimes, too. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Look, your face is all red, what do we do."
"I'm only red because I'm annoyed, okay?"
As Roa squeezed Liam's hand warmly, Mother took out the report card herself to confirm the truth.
"Didn't you know our Liam is smart? I'm not even surprised."
Roa and I blinked as we stared at the report card.
Roa exclaimed, "Amazing!" I thought about the three-stage combo I'd teach Liam, and the first Taeguk form.
If I end up teaching him all the way to the Taebaek form like this, he'll probably get into Harvard.
After our noisy breakfast, we scattered in different directions. Mother and Roa held hands and headed to Aunt Mary's house, while Liam trudged off to school, grumbling about not wanting to go.
I left the house as well and got on the streetcar heading west on Canal Street.
***
West Harbor, Hell's Kitchen, Midtown Manhattan.
Warehouse 7 at Pier 88.
I made my way to the warehouse by the docks, a massive structure as tall as three stories.
The main door was firmly shut, but Gavin, who'd been keeping watch from a second-floor window, waved at me.
Soon, just enough of the door opened for me to enter, and Gavin poked his head out.
"Hurry up and come in, Nox Sniper!"
"Did you really just slap together a nickname like that?"
"We've also got Dead Eye, One Shot, and Ghost Shooter—any of those you prefer?"
"Dead... Eye?"
"Deal."
Gavin nodded and stepped aside so I could come in.
Inside, about twenty people were sorting through the goods.
As soon as Gavin shouted, all eyes turned to me.
"Dead Eye Nox is here!"
"Ohhh, Irish Dead Eye Nox!"
"Irish Dead Eye Nox!"
"Woo, woo!"
Everyone dropped what they were carrying and raised their hands, howling like wild animals. Even Patrick, who was usually quiet, joined in.
"All hail Irish Dead Eye Nox, who took out twelve men with one-shot, one-kill!"
"Woo, woo!"
There were also trainees No. 1 and No. 2.
They looked at me with eyes full of admiration and respect, the way soldiers regard a drill instructor.
Looks like I could put them through even tougher training from now on.
Anyway, I unconsciously pulled my scarf up higher.
It wasn't because I was embarrassed or felt pressured.
I just wanted to keep up Nox's sense of mystery—careful image management, staying low-profile...
Suddenly.
Out of nowhere, Tanner Smith grabbed my hand.
"So, you didn't like 'Nox Sniper'? I came up with that one."
"It just sounded kind of half-hearted."
"And 'Dead Eye' doesn't? Whatever, come on—let's go over there."
Tanner led me to a small office tucked away in the corner of the warehouse.
It was barely big enough for five people, with just a table and some chairs inside.
Tanner handed me a piece of paper. It listed the smuggled goods they'd secured, the quantities, and rough estimates of their value.
"It'll be anywhere from thirty-five thousand to forty-five thousand dollars."
That ten-thousand-dollar difference depended on how quickly they could fence the contraband. The faster it moved, the lower the profit and the higher the risk.
"We'll be able to unload the valuable stuff—the cigarettes, cigars, premium whiskey, wine, cognac, and the opium and cocaine—within a few days."
"The rest, we can take our time with. There's no rush."
"If we let it sit too long, though, it could get dangerous."
"I don't know about that. The Navy Street Gang probably has other things on their mind right now.
" "True. After losing men and having their goods stolen, they must be out of their minds, desperate for payback."
Tanner shrugged, glanced at me, and then let out an admiring sigh.
"Anyway, what you pulled off last night was insane.
Honestly, I never imagined you'd snipe from across the river.
Was it the Korean Youth Military Academy? What kind of instructors do they have there?"
When Tanner asked if I could teach him how to snipe like that, I quickly changed the subject.
"Did Dinny Meehan come to the scene yesterday by any chance?"
"Hm? I didn't hear anything about him being with the White Hand Gang during the transport."
"I don't mean at the warehouse. I'm talking about another location. There were five more people."
"Five more?!"
Tanner's eyes widened, then he scowled and clenched his fist.
"That bastard Dinny Meehan broke our agreement. He must've been planning to stab us in the back if things went south."
"They were probably nervous about what I might do with the explosives too. Still, a broken promise is a broken promise."
"How are we supposed to do business like this?"
"Let's wait and see how he acts. It's too soon to cut ties—we still need them."
Opening a bar in Coney Island. Plus, if we want to use Brooklyn's harbor during Prohibition, we have to stay on good terms with the White Hand Gang.
But all that aside, Tanner couldn't hide his anger about the broken promise.
"I'm never doing a deal like that again. We almost started a fight right in front of the warehouse, and if you hadn't fired those warning shot, the entire plan would have fallen apart. Damn bastards."
"But why did you suddenly go through with it, anyway?"
"It was because of the artichokes, obviously."
After hearing Tanner's explanation, I couldn't help but give Patrick some credit.
"That was a smart call. I never would've guessed there'd be artichokes in the warehouse."
"Patrick and I once knocked over a supply wagon, and it was loaded with artichokes."
Artichokes are grown in warm, mild climates. Recently, they'd started cultivating crops in Monterey, California, but imports were still the main source. That's why they're considered a high-end ingredient and so expensive.
"And storing them is a whole other headache. Did you notice the ice in the artichoke warehouse?"
Artichokes are hard to store, so when importing them, they're usually shipped in ice warehouses or in ships with refrigeration facilities. Otherwise, if you leave them at room temperature for about three days, the leaves start to dry out and the stems begin to wilt.
"We couldn't just suddenly rent a refrigerated warehouse—that would look suspicious. So, for now, we just moved them somewhere packed with ice."
"How much are we talking?"
"Four hundred kilograms. Twelve crates in all I asked the owner of an Italian restaurant, and he said they use about 200 kilograms during festivals. If we sell it, we'll get around a hundred dollars.
That's not as much as I thought. It's about two months' wages for an average worker. Not a small amount, sure, but it's hard to believe the Italian gangs have been fighting over something like this.
"There's some showmanship involved, too. I've heard the Italian gangs use artichokes to exert influence over the immigrant community."
"So what are you going to do with them?"
"It's giving me a headache. Whatever else, if we try to sell the artichokes—to a middleman or at the market—if anyone traces them, they'll know it was us."
And if we try to move them to another city, they'll just wilt during transport. No matter where we turn, they're more trouble than they're worth...
But I quickly thought of a solution.
"Is it really worth debating over a hundred dollars?"
"You've got a better idea?"
"Do you know St. Patrick's Old Cathedral?"
"Sure. It's a church that's over a hundred years old."
"The location is what matters."
The cathedral is right in the heart of Little Italy, where Italian immigrants are densely concentrated. Naturally, most of the congregation are Italian immigrants.
"We'll just drop the artichokes off there."
"…Huh?"
"If someone donates artichokes to a church that serves Italians—a food they treasure—who do you think people will suspect? Obviously, the Navy Street Gang, who lost their goods, will point fingers at the Sicilians."
Let's stoke the anger that's already burning inside the Navy Street Gang.
Tanner immediately caught on to my plan.
"You're saying we should pour gasoline on the fire?"
"It's the soul food of Italians. If artichokes aren't the perfect fuel, what is?"
"Wow… you're a devil, you know that?"
That night at midnight, we loaded the artichokes—too troublesome to keep—onto a wagon and headed for Little Italy.
The next morning,
"Hallelujah!"
"Mamma Mia!"
A festival broke out in front of St. Patrick's Old Cathedral.
That was the beginning.
That same night, the Neapolitan faction of the Navy Street Gang raided casinos, brothels, and salons run by the Sicilian faction.
"Da oggi, tutti quei figli di Sicilia diventano cadaveri! (Starting today, all those Sicilian bastards are dead!)"
"Vendetta di sangue! (Blood vengeance!)"
Naples' Camorra versus Sicily's Mafia. The two factions turned Manhattan into a battlefield as a brutal, bloody conflict broke out between them.