Chapter 44 - I'm Sure Nothing Unusual Will Happen
"Let's sign the contract right away."
The lingerie manager from Macy's was direct. Without any hesitation, she pulled out a supply contract and presented it.
Ironically, it was my mother and the employees who were taken aback and hesitated to sign.
"Shouldn't we at least look through it carefully?"
"I've already seen the product at the Intimo shop on Orchard Street. Honestly, I can't be certain how the market will react, but I don't think it'll be bad. What's clear is that our customers will have more choices."
I couldn't tell exactly how much Tom Foley had influenced this, but hearing the manager's reasonable explanation, it didn't seem like she was here on a reckless whim.
My mother looked back and forth between the contract and me. Her hesitation was because of the Gimbels manager who had visited earlier.
They had asked us not to sign a contract with anyone else before they made their decision. And it wasn't hard to guess that "anyone else" referred to Macy's, Gimbels' fierce rival.
So, in the end, we found ourselves in the enviable position of weighing offers from two department stores. But as far as I was concerned, there was nothing to agonize over.
"As long as the supply price is right, let's sign."
The retail price at the department store would be $1.20 apiece, with a supply price of 30 cents. The manager was pleased and even showed interest in future designs.
"We're expanding the brassiere line by size, and we're also working on a new design for men's underwear."
"Are these different from the existing products?"
"Of course. We don't make ordinary things."
At my confident reply, the manager's eyes sparkled with interest. Judging by that look, I was sure that, with the right approach, we could get even more products into Macy's.
However, as the manager was leaving the workshop, her parting words briefly dampened everyone's spirits.
"Before you expand your product lineup, you'll need to increase your workshop's capacity first. This place is, uh… well, good luck."
Damn it, as if we don't know that already. We're stuck like this because we don't have the money. Is it time to look for a new workshop?
After seeing the manager out, my mother smacked her lips in resignation, but then brightened up, smiling widely as she looked at her colleagues.
"This is just the beginning. Later, we can move to a bigger place!"
"That's right! It's Macy's, after all. We actually did it!"
"Things are only going to get better! Let's keep our spirits up!"
The formerly gloomy workshop filled with positive energy. Supplying to a department store was just that encouraging.
"Ciaran, can I talk to you for a moment?"
My mother pulled me into the office.
"It would have looked odd to hesitate when they wanted to sign the contract, so we went ahead. But what do we do about Gimbels?"
"First, think about the image of both places."
Though they were rivals, the two department stores were clearly different.
Gimbels sold practical product lines at affordable prices, while Macy's had a more upscale image.
Macy's was also the one leading fashion trends, and looking toward the future, it seemed like the more reasonable choice.
"Besides, Macy's didn't ask for exclusive supply rights. That means they're confident."
"That's true. Ugh, but if the Gimbels manager comes by tomorrow, I'm not sure how to handle it."
"Just tell them we absolutely can't agree to an exclusive deal. And don't mention anything about Macy's."
"Got it."
"Then I'm going to head out for a bit."
"Where to?"
"To buy some meat."
It was both to celebrate landing the department store contract and, though a secret, also to quietly congratulate myself on my growing fortune.
I decided to make steak for dinner.
***
"Roa, every time you eat meat, you seem to get taller. If you eat it ten more times, you'll probably be taller than Jake."
"Ten times? Make it a hundred at least. By the way, what did you put under your plate?"
"Inside the German Empire. If I put my plate on top of a book, it's a lot closer to my mouth."
It really did cut down the time it took for the forkful of meat to reach her mouth.
An impressive bit of creativity.
"What's up with our family lately? Someone might think we're middle class or something."
Even as Liam ate his meat, he looked guilty.
Not too long ago, he'd been taking strikebreaker jobs, afraid he'd die if he missed even a day's pay.
Now, suddenly they'd gone to an amusement park, were having expensive meat, and he was even going to school—it must have felt unreal to him.
"As long as Mom and Ciaran are doing well, Liam and Roa, you two don't need to worry about anything. All you have to do is eat well, grow up strong, and study hard. Okay?"
"As long as Roa gets her meat, she'll eat well and grow big."
"What about studying?"
"I'll think about that after I eat, Big Brother. Roa has indigestion."
The lavish dinner ended, and the next day arrived.
It was late afternoon when a pair—a man and a woman—both managers from Gimbels, returned.
They grew furious at my mother's words, raising their voices so loudly that their shouts echoed through the workshop.
"We're not talking about just any small shop! Can't you at least agree to supply only us out of all the department stores? Do you think Gimbels is a joke?"
"It's not that. The product has just launched, so we need to try selling it in multiple places..."
"Whatever. I went out of my way to report this to my superiors and get a contract because you said you were struggling, but this is just disappointing."
"I'm sorry."
Before they left, the Gimbels managers didn't bother to hide their irritation—they clicked their tongues loudly toward the workshop.
"We're never going to get out of here, are we."
Though meant as a mutter, everyone heard it clearly.
The workers frowned or pouted in response.
"Talk about leaving on a sour note."
"Just wait and see. Macy's is a hundred times better than Gimbels, isn't it?"
"Of course. Macy's is the best."
When I walked into the office, my mother looked exhausted, sitting in her chair and rubbing her temples.
"Don't worry too much. They'll be back anyway."
"Hm? Why?"
"If our products sell well at Macy's, their competitor, they won't have a choice but to return. What else can they do?"
"I really hope you're right. By the way, we have to deliver to Macy's by tomorrow. What are we going to do?"
It was about 5 kilometers from the factory to the Macy's department store. Up to now, our clients had always been within handcart range.
"We'll need to use a freight wagon. I'll go myself, so please have everything ready."
My mother and I discussed new product lines. A few more employees joined our meeting, and we went over designs for men's underwear and brassiere size standards.
"We can divide them into A, B, C, and D cups."
"What's the standard for that?"
"Bust measurement. For the smallest, A is…"
When I glanced at the ajummas' chests, they all subtly pushed theirs forward.
Among them, when I made eye contact with Mrs. Annika—whose front and back were hard to distinguish—she jumped in surprise.
"What? Mine's not small, you know!"
Setting those standards was tougher than expected. I decided to leave that to my mother and started discussing designs for men's underwear. When I showed them the sketch for men's briefs, everyone's eyes lit up, especially at the front opening in the most important area.
By the time the challenging product meeting was wrapping up, Gavin from the Marginals Gang came to see me.
"We've got more people wanting to train."
"All of a sudden?"
"The physical exams started a few days ago."
This meant that enlistment was becoming a reality.
The physical exams were overseen by local draft boards established throughout the US. They would notify eligible men in their jurisdiction and, through the physical, determine who would actually be inducted. That process had started just a few days prior.
"Did you get called up too, Gavin?"
"Yeah. They said they'll let me know the results in a week. Well, I'm probably an A class."
The classification goes from Class 1 to 5. Class 1 is fit for service, Class 2 means limited duty is possible, and Class 3 or lower means exemption.
Anyway, since so many people want to train, it's about time I got things started.
"But aren't most of them from Hell's Kitchen?"
"Pretty much."
"Let's pick a new location. Now that the war among the Italian gangs is over, I'll just head over there. But let's keep training to once a week."
"Okay. By the way, speaking of the Italian gangs—"
Gavin went on. Since the Neapolitan Navy Street Gang leadership got arrested, the war with the Sicilians has stopped, but things are taking a strange turn.
"They're looking for a sniper."
It seemed the guys who'd lost it to rage were starting to come to their senses.
Realistically, after the bodies from the Newtown Creek warehouse got examined, there's no way the police wouldn't suspect a sniper.
All the bullets in the bodies wereI'd heard the bullets were all .30-06 caliber, and from what people were saying, they'd also figured out a suppressor was used.
So now, with the war over, the Italian gangs were belatedly trying to figure out who the sniper was. The problem was—
"Naples and Sicily. Both sides are after you."
I stared intently at Gavin.
"Shouldn't you have mentioned that before the training part?"
"You expected this too. And it's not like they know you're the sniper. They're just poking around, hoping to turn something up. Nothing's going to happen. I'll see you later."
Gavin brushed it off and left, not seeming worried. And honestly, I hadn't taken it too seriously either, since I'd been expecting as much.
The next day.
I loaded bundles of brassieres bound for the department store onto a handcart and headed toward the freight wagon. Since I'd have to bring the cart back, Leo came along to help.
"These days, there are tons of gangsters all over Little Italy. Guess they're looking for some sniper or whatever."
Thunk.
I lost hold of the cart for a moment but quickly grabbed it again.
"Sniper?"
"I heard it's about a murder suspect from that incident at Newtown Creek not long ago. They even put up a reward for information."
"...How much?"
"A thousand dollars. Crazy, right? So these days after work, Marcus and I are going around looking for intel. Man, back in the old days, we'd have known right away."
Gulp.
I swallowed hard and kept my eyes fixed ahead as I moved forward.
At the intersection of Hester and Allen Street, one block away. There weren't many wagons here now, but from dawn this spot was lined with freight wagons. Many clothing manufacturers and retailers in the area were their main customers.
The driver expertly started loading our bundles from the cart onto the wagon.
"Destination?"
"Macy's. I'll be going too."
"Five dollars. If you use us regularly, I'll do it for two."
"I'll report back depending on the situation."
Leo took the cart back to the company. I climbed onto the wagon and headed toward Macy's.
"I think I've seen you around sometimes—you're mixed, right?"
"Joseon and Irish."
"Joseon? Well, that's a pretty rare combination."
I wrapped my scarf around my neck, but didn't cover my face. Right now, hiding it would be even more dangerous.
It would take about forty minutes to reach our destination. During that time, the driver never stopped talking. Half of it was just complaining about his situation.
"Work keeps drying up. I oughta blow up that damn Ford factory or something. Pretty soon, we'll all be out of a job."
He wasn't wrong. When the times change, some professions disappear—and carriage drivers were one of them. As cars became more common, people like him were gradually losing their place.
"But you're still competitive, at least for now."
For one thing, cars are still way too expensive.
A Ford Model T costs $350, and the newly released truck, the Model TT, goes for a whopping $600.
You could modify a basic model into a truck to save on costs, but the real issue is parking and storage.
If you park in front of a Tenement House, you might wake up to find your car gone like magic.
Car theft is so common that unless you have a garage, owning a car isn't even an option.
Naturally, our conversation shifted to the transportation business.
"Some own their own wagons, and others work for companies. Just a few years ago, it was total chaos, but lately, prices and routes have gotten a little more standardized."
Entrepreneurs realized early on how important transportation was, and they devoted themselves to building up their networks.
The focus changed depending on which industries were booming—earlier on, it was mostly coal, oil, and mail delivery.
But lately, with the rise of the clothing industry, businesses linked to that had started to attract attention.
The key point is that gangs haven't started muscling in yet. They still haven't realized how profitable distribution could be.
Prohibition-era bootleg liquor distribution and garment transport—
there needs to be a way to naturally link the two operations.
There's just so much to do.
"Hey, there's Macy's."
The corner where 34th Street and Broadway meet.
The grand Macy's building in Renaissance style comes clearly into view.
The area in front of the department store's main entrance was crowded with people.
The driver steered clear of the bustle and headed around to the cargo bay at the back of the building.
"We don't have much to unload, so I think we can get out here."
"Let's do that."
"If you plan to make regular deliveries, come find me. I'll give you a good deal."
"Understood."
Carriages lined up, waiting to unload. I used one of the store's handcarts to bring our goods to the employee in charge of inspection.
Once he checked the item list and quantities and signed the invoice, that was it.
I could head home at this point, but since I'd come all this way, it would feel wrong to leave without handling another errand.
I should stop by and see the gunsmith.
He was in Hell's Kitchen, not too far from Macy's.
I boarded a streetcar heading north along Broadway and entered the grim, gloomy neighborhood of Hell's Kitchen.
Just as I reached the alley where the gunsmith was located, I was about to pull up my scarf to hide my face.
A man stepped out from the alley right then.
I quickly lowered my hand from the scarf and scanned him over.
Italian.
Blood spattered across his face and shirt.
The man wiped the blood from his face with a quick swipe of his hand, pulled his hat down low, and brushed past me.