Ch.14Ch.2 – No Country for Young Boys (2)

1929. 4. 4. PM 9:42

Entertainment District, “Pale Horse” Hotel, Room 204.

Looking at the notebook Crayfield gave me, a worn-out joke comes to mind.

A reclusive martial arts master teaches his disciple. To the disciple who wants to venture into the world, the master gives a pouch containing three notes as a gift.

“Open one whenever you face a crisis,” he says. When a real crisis arrives, the disciple pulls out a note seeking help.

But somehow, the situation only gets worse. He’s pulled out the wrong note. The story’s development varies slightly depending on who tells it, but the overall framework remains similar.

The audience laughs at the disciple’s stupidity. A supposedly learned man, who could have solved the problem with common sense, instead complicates matters and shoots himself in the foot—his foolishness elicits laughter.

But I declare this: the story is a tragedy.

There are no villains anywhere. Just characters full of goodwill and kindness. The master passed down what he spent his lifetime understanding, and the disciple surely learned with all his heart and soul.

He simply set out to do something good in the world, but because circumstances went awry, he became a fool and an idiot.

A world where ordinary, diligent people fall into the abyss simply because they aren’t particularly clever, because they met with slightly bad timing, or because they had a touch of bad luck.

This is the true horror story. The terror of our age.

And now, young O’Brien, who met the wrong time and place, stands at the edge of the plank on the ship’s side. One small push, just a finger’s width, and he’ll become shark food in the sea below.

I stare blankly at my cigarette, sigh softly, and open the notebook. I examine the sentences I’ve gathered over half a day. I recall gestures, gazes, and attitudes that couldn’t be captured in words.

Then I open a new page.

I write phrases that can be judged as right or wrong on the left. Sentences that cannot be so judged go on the right. It’s a process of separating facts from opinions.

Though she tries hard to deny it, Audrey Burroway deeply cares for O’Brien. On the opposite side stands McCoy, the shop worker.

The facts about O’Brien generally align. He came to work at the store every day for nearly 10 months without a break. His duties were cleaning, organizing the warehouse, and loading and unloading trucks.

“Father ordered goods at all hours, and delivery vehicles came to the store constantly. That’s why O’Brien had to stay at the store all the time.”

That’s what Audrey Burroway said.

“That guy didn’t do anything special. Just lifted things when goods came in, nothing else.

Do you know what I did? Display, sales, collection, inventory checks, issuing invoices, even banking duties.”

That’s the testimony of McCoy the worker. Additionally, he grumbled a lot.

“I had to move around a lot. How could I handle bank notes, display merchandise, and process outstanding payments all at once?

If that stubborn guy had helped me, we could have finished quickly and gone home.

But he would say, ‘That’s not what the boss ordered me to do,’ and absolutely refused to help!”

“When father praised O’Brien, I think McCoy became jealous. He’s a diligent person too, but he complains too much.

When a young boy came in who worked silently without complaining, how could he not be jealous?

Father knew O’Brien had come on a smuggling ship, but it was McCoy who tattled that he had bad friends.

Funny, isn’t it? In the end, father entrusted all money-related work to McCoy. He shot himself in the foot.”

“It was true that he had bad friends.”

McCoy pointed to street corners and alleys.

“Men wearing oversized raincoats and hunting caps that didn’t suit them would stare at our store for a long time from over there.

And they’d pat O’Brien’s shoulder as they passed by, muttering something incomprehensible.

Suspicious, right? And the next day, he’d come to work looking quite tired.”

Additionally.

O’Brien survived on bread with minimal vegetables, cheese, butter, and a little meat. On Sunday mornings, he went to church for mass. Though he still worked in the afternoons.

He slept in a small annex attached to the corner of the store warehouse. Nothing but a mattress, clothes, and a Bible thick with dust.

That day too, McCoy scolded O’Brien as usual, and Audrey said she stopped McCoy while giving O’Brien a handkerchief.

“White. With some blue thread patterns at the edge. I told him it was from my aunt in Boston. I said I’d wash it for him. I wonder where he went.”

Could there be a connection with the white handkerchief found in the cemetery that Detective Chief Josie Graham mentioned? The police hadn’t kept any evidence. It wasn’t a registered case.

So I headed to the Southern Cemetery.

“Why there?”

The taxi driver wasn’t particularly friendly.

“Nothing special about it. It’s a place for drifters. Nameless ones. Illegal residents. Vagrants. A place no model citizen would ever visit. Of course, I’ll take you to the gates of hell if you pay me. Let’s go!”

But it was a ruin barely deserving to be called a cemetery. Most of the tombstones were broken, and areas that looked like graves were overgrown with weeds.

Only the still-damp, sticky soil indicated that this cemetery was still in use.

I looked around but saw no bloodstains. Just soil, weeds, and graves.

And there was a stone hut. A terribly creepy sound came from inside, like someone strangling a crow.

Thump, thump, thump.

After some grumbling from inside, the door opened. It was a large, gloomy man with a hunched back and dark circles under his eyes.

“What?”

After identifying myself, I asked if he was the one who reported the bloodstains and handkerchief to the police.

The man stroked his chin with thick fingers, which had gray soil caked under the nails.

“Yes. I reported it. I’m the cemetery keeper. When I came to work in the morning, I found bloodstains and a handkerchief. Nothing else unusual. But what brings you here?”

I asked about the missing O’Brien. The cemetery keeper scratched his head, and each time he did, soil mixed with dandruff fell out.

After searching his memory for a while, his disappointing answer was that he knew nothing and didn’t care.

Before leaving, I asked if I could see the handkerchief in question. Surprisingly, the man readily handed it over.

It was kept in a small leather pouch, and when I opened it, a foul smell wafted out.

“I didn’t wash it in case it might be submitted as evidence.”

Fighting the nausea, I looked at it and could tell it was originally white. And around the edges, there were decorations embroidered with blue thread.

It seemed highly likely that this was the handkerchief Audrey Burroway had given to O’Brien.

I gave the cemetery keeper a few coins as a token of gratitude. He bowed his head and closed the door. Through the crack, I could see a violin placed on a chair.

And on top of the violin lay a white, elongated bow. Surely not bone, I thought as I turned away.

The taxi driver was waiting for me. His excuse was “it’s hard to catch a taxi around here anyway,” but I suspected he was waiting because he knew I’d come up empty-handed.

“So. Where shall I take you?”

The driver asked, but I had nothing particular to say. The sun was already dimming, and it seemed too late to go to the church.

“Young man. You seem to be doing good work. Is the person you’re looking for perhaps ‘non-legal’?”

I answered yes. He drove toward downtown Pollard.

“Listen. In such cases, you should look for the living, not the dead. Do you know about the kind of neutral zone at the edge of the entertainment district?”

This was news to me. Even Crayfield hadn’t told me about this.

While waiting for a signal, I handed the driver some coins as an information fee.

All secret bars are special, but that place is exceptional. It’s a neutral zone where both the old mafia “White Hand” and the new force “Red-headed O’Melly” can enter.

The leaders of both groups might exchange their youngest members, but they don’t want all-out conflict.

The established White Hand mafia has little to gain from fighting. O’Melly doesn’t yet have enough power to break the White Hand.

So they reached an agreement. It wasn’t free. To write text, you need ink, and ink bottles can only be filled with blood and death.

White Hand gave up the entertainment district. For them, who were trying to go legitimate, the entertainment district had already lost its value.

O’Melly stopped terrorizing White Hand’s establishments. They now had a stable place to make money.

As Crayfield said, mafias are extremely rational. Rational enough to judge whether fighting is beneficial or not.

Of course, O’Melly will eventually try to devour White Hand.

Then what card will White Hand pull out? There’s not much information about those sinister Italian mafiosi.

“I heard it’s a warehouse with red paint on the doorpost. The location changes each time, but if you see freshly painted marks, that’s the place. Good luck!”

The taxi driver left, and I found lodging near the entertainment district. I figured I needed a place to retreat if problems arose.

I ate dinner during the remaining time. Then I waited. The secret bar probably wouldn’t open until late at night.

Even though it’s called a neutral zone, I can’t help feeling tense. All I have to rely on is a measly six-shot Colt revolver.

It’s a shame. If it were an S&W product, I could have said like Clint Eastwood, “Oh, big fellow. Let us pass nicely. Smith, Wesson, and me.”

As I left the hotel room, I cleverly wedged a piece of wood I’d found on the street between the door and frame. So I could tell if someone entered. One of the many tips in Crayfield’s notebook.

I walk through Pollard’s entertainment district.

The garbage strewn about is similar to other streets. The unbearable stench from the sewers and rat the size of a forearm coming up are also similar.

Even the garbage-like man slumped next to a pile of trash, wandering in a daze.

The difference is the sound.

Without even drinking, people dance, sing, and enjoy music. Without even drinking, people have sex, fight, wail, and lament.

Who knows? Maybe someone dipped a cup into a moon-sized hole in the sky and scooped out moonshine. Or perhaps they’re secretly enjoying opium.

I see men leaning against walls.

One and all, they turn up their coat collars and lower their eyes beneath the brims of their hats. In the dangerous streets at night, gazes are more threatening than knives and guns.

Cigarettes are rather better. A declaration of neutrality. Hey, you there. I’m here. Don’t shoot. As if to say, let’s stop unnecessary arguments.

A street full of nervous cowards who consider even a single gesture as a threat and lunge at you. This is how the entertainment district differs from ordinary streets.

Will there be a boy at the end of this street? If so, it would be tragic.

Honestly, I can’t say boys are innocent. But I swear they are pure and naive.

Very simple concepts that move the heart—cause, friendship, love, dreams, hope—boys easily cross the line for such romanticism.

The more a boy wants to appear as a strong male, the more this is true.

After all, the goal of every male is to reign.

Whether it’s a good influence or a bad one, they want to become someone who can force others.

They attach great meaning to each of their actions and connect them to the world.

But not O’Brien.

He just silently does his job. He doesn’t care about causes at all. He endures the repetitive daily routine like a hamster on a wheel.

Everyone around O’Brien, including Audrey Burroway and McCoy, testifies with one voice:

‘A diligent and hardworking boy, but lacking flexibility and unable to use shortcuts.’

A boy without male ambition.

But how long can he remain that way?

The moonlight suddenly put a knife to my feet, making me stop.

Though there are fewer people, the groups gathered here and there have increased. They still don’t make eye contact, but they’re watching my every move.

Trusting only the moonlight, I examined the threshold. Finally, I saw freshly painted marks glistening. The strong, pungent smell of paint made it easier to find.

When I knocked on the door, a large, bald man with a magnificent mustache poked his head out.

“What?”

I stated my business. The bald man stroked his mustache. At best, he’d refuse; at worst, a club would come flying. That’s what I expected.

But the man’s question was completely unexpected.

“Do you have any wounds on your body?”

I said no.

“Have you been covered in someone’s blood?”

The pocket inside my chest pocket pressed against my heart, but I said no.

“Keep your weapon with you. But remember this. Don’t spill blood, whether yours or anyone else’s. If you do, you’ll pay a heavy price.”

It was a strange question, but I said I understood. The place the bald man opened for me was just a warehouse full of hay. Dark and dirty.

Of course, that wasn’t all. When the man moved the hay, a secret door in the floor was revealed.

When he opened the door, stairs leading down appeared. I carefully descended one step at a time.

And then I came face to face with nuns.