Chapter 26 - Is There Still More Left?
It varied from state to state, but unfortunately, in New York, underage drinking was banned.
Not that it actually mattered—the real issue was, who knows what these guys might have slipped into the drink.
Did I come all the way here just to get some advice from Dopy Benny?
No, I wanted more than that.
"If I had to recreate the scene from that day… The stairs were soaked with blood, and Johnny's body was inside the warehouse, covered with fabric like this."
Standing there, I imitated how Johnny's corpse looked, eyes rolled back the way he died.
Dopy Benny sprang up from his chair, craning his neck, and his guys stopped their card game and stared at me.
"Oh, so that's how his eyes were. What about gunshot wounds?"
"I didn't see anything like that. Both his arms were slashed with a knife, his clothes were torn and stained with blood. On this part—left side of his head—the blood had already clotted."
"Looks like he caught the knife while defending himself, but got hit in the head with something blunt. And if his eyes rolled back like that…"
"Oh, and I almost forgot—his wrists and ankles were slashed too."
"Then it's one of those."
Everyone started guessing what might've happened, but Dopy Benny shook his head.
"No, here's what I think happened. First, it all started on the stairs. That's where Hero 1 swung a knife at Johnny, and Johnny blocked it with his arm. Right then, Hero 2 showed up and smashed Johnny on the head with a blunt weapon!"
"Whack!"
"After that, they immediately took care of the other two guys, then dragged Johnny and the bodies into the fabric warehouse. But Johnny was still alive, right? And they didn't have any rope to tie him up? So, to keep him from escaping—his ankles and wrists!"
"Slice, slice!"
"Now, this next part is important."
Dopy Benny mimed strangling someone with his own hands.
"One of the Heroes got him like this, with their arms around Johnny's neck!"
"Ugh…"
"Even as he was dying, Johnny desperately rolled his eyes upward to see his killers. And then!"
"Gack!"
"He died. Yeah, that's it."
These guys were almost at a profiler's level.
They were wrong about the number of culprits, but honestly, this was more accurate than my own memory.
While they kept cracking each other up with their interjections and laughter, Dopy Benny suddenly turned serious and lowered his voice.
"The first ones to find the body must have been those Jewish kids."
"..."
"And a brat like you, you're saying you inspected Johnny's corpse that closely? Without even flinching?"
A wild look, like someone high on something, started to creep into his eyes. From experience, I knew that the usual answers only made guys like him worse.
"Corpses are nothing compared to the living. Especially the police, right?"
A moment of silence hung in the air, then laughter erupted around the room.
"He's right! Not even Johnny, that damn Dago bastard, could've killed you. Why? Because he's dead! Cheers!"
"Cheers!""Miss Jean, two more bottles of whiskey over here!"
The office was heating up. Sounds of "Ahh!" rang out from all around as the woman who looked like a bar madam brought over two bottles of whiskey.
Dopy Benny downed the rest of his whiskey and flopped back into his chair.
"All right, all right. Anyway. It's time we solve the problem of our friend who's brought us such happy news. Listen up, I'll only say this once."
With his eyes half closed, Dopy Benny stared at me. Then, from his lips, came a method for getting fabric past the bosses' interference.
"First, kidnap one of those bastards. Then, chop off a wrist and send it in a package to the club where the bosses hang out. After that, you'll be able to get whatever fabric you want. How's that? Simple, right?"
There was real madness in every word, the kind that made you sure he'd actually done things like that. Dopy Benny was cut from the same cloth as Johnny—a lunatic.
"Of course, if you're the type who's scared of people and shakes at the sight of police, you'd never manage something like that. Am I wrong?"
When I nodded, Dopy Benny nodded along with me.
"Exactly. So there's only one way. Fabric? Hell, I'll supply it for you."
Dopy Benny also supplied fabric. What he meant was that he would send me a contact from his fabric supplier.
"Thank you for your help."
Dopy Benny let out a brief chuckle, leaned back in his chair, and put his feet on the desk.
Then, taking a good look at my face for the first time, he asked,
"So you're of Irish descent? Mixed?"
"Yes."
"Tanner Smith's been looking after the kids, and I guess you're one of them. Anyway, you can go now."
As I was about to leave the office, Dopy Benny tossed one last comment at my back.
"If you ever need help again, bring me good news like you did today. Who knows? If you ever lay eyes on Kid Dropper's corpse—Johnny's old partner—I might do even more for you."
I left the office with the echo of his raucous laughter behind me. I appreciated the help, but as for doing business with him in the future, I'd have to think it over.
On my way home, I was walking along Lafayette Street when I stopped in front of a shop.
[Kosher Butcher's Shop]
I mustered up my courage and went in. Behind the counter, slabs of beef and lamb hung from hooks suspended from the ceiling.
Kosher refers to food prepared in accordance with traditional Jewish dietary laws.
For example, beef must be slaughtered through a strict process by someone with special qualifications, and only the portion in front of the thirteenth rib is considered kosher, while the part behind it is not.
Since this area was densely populated by Jewish people, most butcher shops sold only kosher beef, and due to the strict condition that only meat fresh within three days could be sold, the prices were steep.
Right then, a few Jewish women were standing in front of the display, bargaining over the price of meat.
I couldn't understand the Yiddish they were speaking, but on the scale with an extra tray, it read 0.5 pounds (227g), and the woman paid seventy-five cents.
When it was my turn, the bearded owner wiped his hands on his apron and looked me over. His brow furrowed, and the veins in his forearm bulged.
"What do you want?"
I'm here to buy meat at a butcher shop, genius. Why ask?
"I need some beef for ribeye steak."
"Hmph. How much?"
"Two pounds (900g)."
"What?"
The owner's face twisted in surprise. With Chinatown just around the corner, it was strange enough for an East Asian to show up in a Jewish butcher shop, but the amount I ordered was unusually large as well.
At three dollars for two pounds, it was the equivalent of two weeks' worth of food expenses for an average laborer.
Three men who had been cutting meat in the back came to stand beside the owner, cleavers in hand. They looked like the type who'd spend their nights working side jobs with a gang after closing up shop.
I handed over three dollars with a bright smile.
"The boss sent me."
"... You said two pounds of ribeye, right?"
A rotten world where you can't even buy meat freely.
The owner spread out thick brown paper on the counter, placed a sheet of wax paper on top, and laid the meat on it. He rolled it up tightly in the paper and tied it with string.
"If you come by again, I'll give you some extra cuts on the house."
There were butcher shops in Chinatown too, but I didn't speak Chinese. If I went there, I'd just end up getting ripped off, and the hygiene wasn't great anyway.
It was better to trust a kosher butcher, where they slaughtered animals according to religious principles, even if it was expensive.
On my way home with the meat, raindrops began to fall from the sky.
That evening, my mother came home from work with a big smile on her face.
"Ciaran, a fabric wholesaler stopped by earlier. Was that your doing?"
"You already know."
Just like that, the big problem was solved.
My mother, her eyes brimming with warmth, rolled up her sleeves.
"It's the first day of our business, so on a special day like this, our meal needs to be something special too!"
With that, she started reaching for potatoes in the box again.
Roa skipped over and grabbed my mother's hand.
"Let's save the special potatoes for later. Roa is supposed to have meat today!"
"Meat…?"
"Big Brother brought some—he said it's for Roa!"
Roa nodded vigorously.
Only then did my mother notice the yellow butcher's wrapping paper on the table and smiled with mixed emotion.
On the Lower East Side, where Jewish and Italian immigrants lived, beef was considered a luxury ingredient.
Most people ate cheap chicken or fish, and beef was reserved for truly special occasions.
Especially after the war in Europe, food prices had gone wild. The price of essentials like meat shot up as exports increased.
And yet, here was this rare beef.
"Where did you get this?"
"At the kosher butcher's."
"Oh, that place is even more expensive."
It wasn't as though poor Irish families never ate meat.
But usually, it was cheap cuts for stew or offal. The best example was corned beef—beef preserved in salt. Of course, there were plenty of people who couldn't get even that, just like our family.
"Since you bought such a precious cut of meat, let's enjoy it—"
"Since it's special, I'll do the cooking today."
"That's not happening!"
My mother and Liam answered at the same time.
And then, a sharper voice joined in.
Roa shook her head at me, her eyes wide.
"Big Brother, I really don't think that's a good idea."
Just how bad at cooking must I be for my family to react like this?
Now I was feeling stubborn.
I had to prove to them what I could do in the kitchen.
"Just leave it to me."
Despite my family's objections, I grabbed the knife.
They all flinched and fell silent, no longer trying to stop me.
As luck would have it, it was raining outside.
Today, I'd add potato pancakes to the menu, too.
But first, the steak.
Steak is delicious even if you make it carelessly, but with a little attention, it can be amazing.
I cut the meat thick, drained the blood, and seasoned it with salt and pepper.
Next up.
Scrape, scrape.
I peeled the potatoes I'd taken from the box and grated them on a sharp, perforated grater.
As I mixed the finely grated potatoes with flour, I shot my mother a look.
"Instead of just watching, why don't you at least heat up the frying pan?"
"Oh, the frying pan, right, the frying pan."
"Big Brother, I want to help too! Not that I'm expecting anything from your cooking or anything."
Roa hovered around me like an eager puppy.
"All right then, my assistant, bring me some salt."
"Okay! Just a second!"
Quick as can be, Roa found a small salt shaker and handed it to me.
I sprinkled salt into the thick batter to season it.
That was the last of the prep.
Now, into the hot pan goes the beef first.
Sizzle.
The smell of meat spread through the house.
Roa closed her eyes and flared her nostrils, and my mother and Liam nodded as if they'd just realized a profound truth.
While I cooked a couple pieces of steak and wrapped them in paper to let them rest
I gave the frying pan a quick wipe, poured in some more oil, and started shaping the batter I'd made earlier into rounds to fry them up.
Watching me, my mother asked,
"That's not boxty, is it?"
"It's a little different."
Boxty is a potato pancake that people in Ireland love to eat.
Its taste is similar to Korean gamja-jeon (potato pancakes).
The difference is, with boxty you mix pre-boiled and mashed potatoes with grated raw potatoes, add a lot more flour, and make it much thicker. The texture is crispier and richer.
My mother made boxty three or four times a week, but on rainy days like today, I craved something a bit more moist, like gamja-jeon.
As the savory aroma wafted through the air, Roa tugged at my pant leg.
"Big Brother, what's this? It smells like food."
"…It is food."
"No, I mean, it smells really delicious!"
"That's because it's delicious food."
"Hmph, I'll have to taste it to know for sure!"
Roa kept pestering me about when it would be ready, and my mother absentmindedly touched her lips with her fingers, her eyes darting between my face and the food I was making.
At some point, Liam had come in too, and he was staring at the frying pan with the same look.
In his right hand, he was lifting a hunk of metal like a dumbbell.
A little while later, I placed two potato pancakes on each plate, and on the side, I piled a generous serving of sliced steak.
My mother and Liam stared blankly at the potato pancakes rather than the meat.
An impatient Roa shook my mother.
"Mom, aren't you going to say grace?"
"Oh, right, I should."
Today's prayer was unusually short.
Roa was the first to grab her fork and pop some meat into her mouth.
As she chewed, her expression was pure amazement—like she'd finally tasted the famous steak she'd only heard about.
But when she tried the potato pancake next, her big eyes grew even wider.
"Big Brother, this is real cooking—actual cooking! It's delicious!"
"Okay, so just be sure to eat it all, don't leave any."
"Why would I leave any? I could eat even more! But…"
Roa glanced back and forth between my mother and Liam, tilting her head in wonder.
"Mom, Liam, don't you like it?"
"It's not that…"
"It's just so delicious."
"But you haven't tasted it yet, Mom!?"
"I don't need to taste it—I already know."
When my mother finally took a bite of the potato pancake with her fork, her eyes quickly filled with tears.
It was only then that I understood my family's reaction.
This wasn't just any ordinary potato pancake—it was a dish our father used to make, maybe once in a blue moon, while he was alive.
Of course, after he passed away, my mother had tried to make it once or twice.
But it just didn't taste the same.
Back in Joseon, men were practically forbidden from entering the kitchen, so there was no way our father would've ever kindly shared his recipe.
And even if he had, how many times could he have cooked it, really?
He had written the recipe, Joseon-style, in tiny letters in a notebook he left behind—but it was all in Hangul.
Ironically, I was the only one in the house who could actually read it properly.
So my father's dish was almost like the secret formula for Coca-Cola—nearly impossible to recreate.
While my mother and Liam quietly savored the taste, Roa—who was too young to remember our father—simply enjoyed the food with innocent delight.
Still, what should have been a happy family meal was instead unexpectedly filled with longing for my father.
Just as I was thinking, "Great, way to ruin dinner," my mother looked at me, eyes glittering with anticipation, and asked.
"What are you going to make for us next?"
"As long as we have the right ingredients, there are so many things I could cook."
Gochujang, doenjang, ganjang, and so on.
If we could just get those, I could come up with a menu that doesn't rely so much on potatoes—but we're missing too many of them.
Of course, I don't have to stick strictly to Korean dishes. I spent half my previous life single, so I learned to cook all sorts of things.
"Big Brother, isn't there any more!?"
"Hands off my share. If you want more, there's leftover batter—make your own if you really want..."
Smack!
My mother delivered a swift smack to my back.
"Please, can't you try to speak a little more nicely? Your little brother said he wanted more."
"Me too," Liam added, quietly slipping his plate forward.
I shot a grumpy look at Liam.
"...Are you really the youngest here?"
"Yeah, I'm two years younger than you."
Anyway, with a reaction like that, I'll have to cook more whenever I get the chance.
***
The next day, Sunday.
"Mother, I'm heading out on a short business trip."
"...Are there still more left?"
My mother rolled her eyes, wondering who else could possibly be left.
I gave a wry smile and told her it would take about two days, then left the house.
Before the harbor security guard takes his own life, I need to take care of this.
My destination: Red Hook, Brooklyn.
I walked to Canal Street and got on the tram. Although it wasn't horse-drawn, the old, carriage-like tram rattled along the tracks toward the Manhattan Bridge.