Chapter 66 – It's Because It's Me That You Survive
Orchard Street, already chaotic, now erupted in protests as well. More than seventy workers from Bunny Underwear had gathered in front of the company to demand their unpaid wages.
"Alright, just repeat after me. Boss Kalman, pay our wages!"
"Pay our wages!"
"Louder! Nothing comes before a worker's wages!"
"Our wages first!"
Under Jeffrey's command, the protest got into full swing.
He made sure to put the timid girl workers at the very front so they'd be most visible to the public, and carefully arranged the ranks and files of the protesters.
He was meticulous about their positions.
This is why you need someone with experience.
With my scarf pulled up, I became a member of the Slugger gang and watched the team's actions closely.
This was the first test after taking over the Marginals, and they'd already passed the theft trial.
They worked in silence as ordered and moved with perfect coordination.
Today is the second test. How efficiently can they handle a violent crisis? The results will serve as the basis for future training programs. But calling it a test doesn't change the fact that this is the real thing.
Don't get caught by the police. Obviously. Only an idiot would get caught!
Then you might as well quit the gang!
It wasn't reckless bravado, but the courage of someone with a lion's heart.
With that confidence, I kept watching the scene unfold. At that moment—
"Whoa, whoa, clear the way."
Oliver, Kale, and their crew, hired by the loan shark, appeared and pushed through the protesters to enter the company building.
Simultaneous pressure from multiple sides. How would Boss Herman Kalman respond?
It didn't take long to find out.
A gang approached, glaring at the protesters with open hostility. It was definitely a gang summoned by Herman Kalman.
"Everybody, get out of here!"
"And who the hell are you to butt in?"
The warning shots of an impending clash—shouting matches—began. They started shoving each other, and soon enough, weapons came out.
Terrified, the protesters screamed, and to seize the initiative, Jeffrey struck first—smashing his opponent's head with a steel pipe.
Crack.
"Wipe them out!"
I drew the baton tucked into my waistband as well. Riding the wave of the surging crowd, I pushed forward. When I finally fought my way through the tightly packed mass and my arms were free again, so was my baton.
Thwack.
A dull thud rang out, and a jolt shot up my arm at the same time. After knocking one person down, even when I swung casually at the next target, I could still feel the impact.
What sets a one-on-one fight apart from a full-scale brawl is how little you think.
In this kind of mass chaos, with violence on the brink of collective madness, people often don't even realize they're hurt. Faces splattered with blood—sometimes you can't even tell if it's your own.
This frenzy only ends when one side is completely wiped out. When our guys began trampling over those who had already collapsed, it finally looked like things were coming to a close.
But in the end, it was the force of law that truly wrapped things up.
"It's the police!"
"Scatter!"
I quickly shoved my baton back into my waistband and melted into the crowd of onlookers. As I squeezed through the crowd, trying to escape, I ran into Ernest—a fellow member—whose face was streaming with blood from his forehead to his chin.
Must've taken a nasty blow.
I hurriedly unwrapped my scarf and handed it to him. Ernest's eyes quivered and began to fill with tears.
He signaled with his eyes for me to go on ahead.
The boss?
When I said I'd stay here, he nodded and disappeared, saying, "That's the boss, all right."
So, with my face on full display, I became just another spectator, watching the scene unfold.
Beeeep!
The police pushed through the crowd and arrived on the scene.
But those who'd been brawling were already gone.
Clearly, everyone there had something to hide—even the guys who got beaten up had vanished without a trace.
It struck me again just how bold Jeffrey was.
Rather than trying to escape, he calmly and confidently spoke with the police.
"We were just here to protect the protesters when, out of nowhere, a bunch of thugs showed up. We tried to handle it peacefully, but those punks just started—well, you know how it goes."
While the police heard Jeffrey out, some officers headed into the building.
A short while later, Oliver and Kale emerged from the building with their crew, looking just as unfazed.
"We just came to collect what we're owed. Did we do something wrong?"
"We were just having a conversation, that's all."
They insisted they'd only demanded money from Herman Kalman with words, not violence—and, in fact, Kalman was perfectly fine physically, even if he was furious.
The police let Oliver, Kale, and their crew go without any trouble.
This is pretty much how it always goes.
Unless someone is caught red-handed at the scene, the police stay passive.
You can't really blame them.
With so many people and all the chaos, it's nearly impossible to identify who's guilty or in cahoots with whom. Witnesses? Afraid of retaliation, no one is willing to step forward and give a helpful description.
In the end, despite the violent incident happening in broad daylight, not a single person was arrested. The police only stuck around to restore order. They turned a deaf ear to the cries of the wronged workers and forced everyone to disperse.
That's how the first day ended.
Or at least, that's what most people thought—but meanwhile, at another location, Herman Kalman's real base of operations was being raided.
***
Late evening, Tenement House Rooftop. Cory, who had been eyeing Kalman's house for a while, held out a bag.
"We cracked the safe, and found some pretty interesting things inside."
First of all, the bag was stuffed with wads of cash. An impressive sum of $16,000.
The source of the money could be found in the loan contracts inside the bag.
To get his factory back up and running, Herman Kalman had borrowed $10,000 from a loan shark, using his building as collateral.
The monthly interest alone was 4.5%: meaning an annual interest rate of 54%, with $450 due each month.
Can he really handle that?
No matter how hard you work the laborers, once you factor in factory sales and management costs, it's almost impossible to cover that amount.
More importantly, why did Herman Kalman turn to a loan shark when reputable banks on Wall Street were available? If he'd put up his building as collateral at a bank, the interest would have been much lower.
That answer was also in the bag.
Herman Kalman had acquired the building and factory without spending a penny of his own.
Even if he threatened the previous owner to get the property rights, it seems he still needed at least $10,000 in cash.
"How many loans did he take out using the building as collateral?"
There were loans from two different banks.
So, when he needed even more money, he had no choice but to go to a loan shark.
By the looks of it, Herman Kalman had taken out loans on triple collateral.
This was only possible because the banks didn't share loan information with each other. In fact, it wasn't uncommon for property owners to intentionally set up multiple liens like this.
Cory clicked his tongue.
"He's drowning in debt everywhere, yet his family's living in a fancy house."
Unfortunately, the house isn't in Herman Kalman's name—it belongs to someone else.
Let's just be satisfied with the building.
To sum it all up:
They stole $16,000 from Kalman's house.
Of that, $10,000 was from the loan shark, and $6,000 was Kalman's own money.
And the building was triple-mortgaged, used as collateral at two banks and a loan shark, totaling $30,000.
"Boss, what are we going to do? This looks like it's going to be a huge headache."
"Well, what's so complicated about it? We'll just keep it simple."
Just then, Leo came up to the rooftop.
"I knew I'd find you here. Good to see you again, Cory."
"You've been through a lot too."
After greeting Cory, Leo gave me a meaningful look.
"Kalman found out his house was robbed."
"Where is he now?"
"He laughed like a lunatic, then went into a bar."
Well, with things the way they are, what else is there but alcohol? Drink as much as you want—it's going to be your last drink in this life.
"I'm going to stop by the house for a moment, so wait on the first floor. Cory, bring the cart Oliver prepared and come together."
"Are you planning to finish this tonight?"
"Why drag it out any longer?"
Click.
I came down from the rooftop and opened the door to the house.
Mother was at the dining table, going over the ledger, while Roa ran over and stared at my bag with her big eyes.
"Big Brother, your bag looks heavy."
"Sorry, but there's no surprise today."
Roa put her short arms behind her back and shook her head.
"Surprises don't really matter. What's important for Roa is the hope and anticipation that there might be one. If there isn't, just give me a little smile. Look."
Roa gave me a slightly awkward smile, as if there really was something inside.
"Big Brother, you should do it too, right?"
"Like this?"
"No, not just a normal smile. One that makes it seem like there might be something, even if there isn't. Don't you know what I mean? Seriously, just sit down."
"...Sorry, but I have to go out on a business trip right now."
Mother snapped her head up and looked at me.
"A business trip?"
"I'll be back by morning."
"Okay. "Be careful."
Mother bowed her head again to look over the ledger, while Roa kept pushing her face close to mine, wanting me to pay attention to her expression.
"Big Brother, make sure you manage your expression when you come back in the morning. What does Roa need?"
"Hope and anticipation. By the way, Liam, have you seen any rope?"
"Rope?"
Liam, who had been reading a book, jumped off the bed. But Roa moved even faster. She rummaged through a box filled with odds and ends and pulled out a piece of rope about the size of her pinky finger. Then, with her little hands, she hid it behind her back and looked at me.
"Does Roa have something in her hand?"
I just saw everything a second ago. Oh, it's that game.
"I have no idea. Is it a surprise?"
"Knew it—when Big Brother is told two things, he only gets one."
As I took the rope from her, I corrected Roa.
"If you're told two things and only figure out one, it means you're a birdbrain. If you're told one thing, you have to figure out two."
"Yeah, that's right. Have a good trip. Roa might be up waiting for you instead of sleeping."
"Wow, now I'm looking forward to it."
"See? Not so hard, right? Look."
I put the rope in the crossbody bag slung over my shoulder and set Cory's bag somewhere out of reach. After locking eyes with Roa, I finally left the house.
When I went down to the first floor, Leo was waiting for me.
"Did Roa try to stop you from leaving?"
"No. Our Roa doesn't do that sort of thing."
She just talks a lot.
Not long after, a freight carriage pulled up in front of the Tenement House.
Oliver and Cory were seated side by side on the coachman's seat.
Leo and I climbed into the cargo bed and headed to the bar where Kalman was.
"But why'd you pick me, Boss?"
Oliver asked, looking quite pleased with himself.
It seemed he wanted to hear he'd been chosen over Kale and Brian.
"We're going to need some muscle today."
"Aha, if it's muscle you want, I'm your guy. Hyah!"
Oliver snapped the whip with gusto.
Poor horses, what did they ever do to deserve this.
***
East 7th Avenue, McSorley's Old Ale House.
As soon as Marcus, who had been watching Herman Kalman, saw me, he started spouting off random trivia.
"Do you know why Kalman went there? Back in 1854, when Irish immigrants first opened the place, all the customers were poor laborers."
That's why they offered cheap beer and free cheese and crackers—even now, it's still like that.
"That just goes to show how broke Kalman is. Oh, by the way, even Abraham Lincoln once visited that bar. The bar's slogan is, 'If you're not here to drink quietly, leave.'"
"So we'd better not cause any trouble if we go inside."
"Yeah, we'll have to wait it out. Until Kalman comes back out."
"Alright, we'll stay here, so you two head to Orchard Street."
After I laid out the specifics of the plan, Leo and Marcus swallowed nervously, then set off for Orchard.
Herman Kalman didn't come out of the bar until nearly midnight.
"You bastards think I'll just go down like this? I'm Herman Kalman! If I'm going down, I'm not going alone!"
No, you'll die alone.
Kalman was shouting at the top of his lungs—his end wasn't far off now.
If you take from others, you'd better be ready to lose something too.
I'm always ready.
"Oliver and Cory, follow slowly behind me. When I give the signal, close in."
It was midnight, so there were hardly any people on the streets. We kept our distance as we trailed after Kalman.
Staggering drunkenly, Kalman was an easy target.
When he reached a spot untouched by the streetlights, I closed in.
Maybe some part of him sensed danger.
Suddenly, Kalman stopped and started to turn around.
Not giving him the chance, I grabbed him from behind, clamped a hand over his mouth, and choked him with my forearm.
I counted the seconds as I pressed on his carotid artery.
When his body finally went limp, I slung him over one shoulder.
A wave of my hand and the carriage pulled up beside me.
I loaded Kalman into the cargo bed and knocked on the carriage wall.
"Let's go."
It was barely two kilometers to our destination—Orchard Street.
The carriage rolled on, and Oliver turned his head to glance at Kalman, who lay collapsed on the floor.
"Is he dead?"
"Not yet."
While I answered, my hands stayed busy.
I pulled a rope from my bag, coiled it, and tied a knot. Then I measured it against Kalman's head and adjusted the size.
At that moment, my eyes met Cory's and Oliver's—they were both staring at me wide-eyed.
"······."
"What are you two doing? Don't you see that police wagon over there?"
"Ah!"
Oliver and Cory quickly turned to look straight ahead, and I lay down next to Kalman, pretending to be asleep.
It wasn't unusual for carriages or automobiles to be traveling at this hour.
Ever since streetlights began illuminating the roads, nighttime had belonged not only to criminals but to honest workers, too.
Much of the city's cargo was moved at night to avoid the chaos of the day.
You might run into an unlucky police checkpoint, but I'd never seen any cop that diligent.
Still, you never know what might happen.
Knocking Kalman out was just in case things went south.
As we passed the police wagon where several officers had gathered, Oliver and Cory offered relaxed smiles and even gave them a wave.
We made it past the police without a hitch and, at Delancey, turned left—not toward Orchard, but into the back block: Ludlow Street.
The street was deserted, but a few pedestrians caught my eye here and there.
We passed them by.
"Stop here."
Oliver pulled on the reins and halted the carriage.
Now it was time to move Kalman, which was also Oliver's job.
"Cory, take the carriage and wait at the corner of Hester and Orchard."
"Okay."
Between Ludlow Street and Orchard Street, the buildings were packed in a jumble.
In the early days of Manhattan, during the waves of immigration, buildings had gone up with little planning, turning the alleys into a tangled maze.
That's just how the Lower East Side was.
It was easy to commit crimes out of sight, and if someone made a run for it, they were almost impossible to catch.
River and I made our way through those twisting alleys.
Oliver, carrying Boss Kalman over his shoulder, began to breathe heavier.
"How long is this guy going to stay knocked out?"
"Forever?"
Startled, Oliver glanced at me, then closed his mouth and picked up the pace.
He seemed to realize he was carrying someone who could just as well be a corpse.
A moment later, we reached the back of the Bunny Underwear Factory.
A shadow spotted us and approached.
It was Leo.
"There's no one inside the factory. Marcus left the back door on the third floor open."
"Alright, let's go finish this."
***
[Bunny Underwear Boss Driven by Debt Commits Extreme Act]
[The Bitter Death of a Clothing Manufacturing Company Head: Theft, Unpaid Wages, Tangled Debts End in Suicide]
Two days after the incident. News of Herman Kalman's death made the headlines.
Some articles covered the reality of clothing manufacturing companies and mentioned that Herman Kalman, the boss, had been found hanging from his office ceiling.
What caught my attention was one paper that delved into what kind of person Herman Kalman really was.
How a man with a gang background, who once worked as a labor slugger, managed to acquire a factory and property.
The article raised various suspicions and concluded, with a certain satisfaction, that he ultimately paid for his own crimes.
But for the most part, like in the case of my mother's boss's death, the papers glossed over the image of an unscrupulous boss and attributed the suicide to the theft of factory goods.
The police also closed the case as a suicide.
About a week after the incident, I went with my mother to a bank on Wall Street.
This was the institution with priority rights to dispose of Herman Kalman's building—in other words, the first bank to lend him ten thousand dollars.
Before the building—the ultimate goal—went up for auction, I expressed my intention to buy it.
At a price 20% below market value.
"Who would pay full price for a building where the owner committed suicide?"
That's exactly why I'm the one buying it.