Chapter 20 - This Is Johnny's Way
To maximize efficiency in a massive brawl, you need some tricks of the trade.
First, strike only at the vital points, with no wasted movements.
I jabbed the throat of the guy swinging a metal pipe at Gavin with the tip of my club.
"Guh...!"
As he clutched his neck, gasping for air, Gavin smashed his club over the guy's head.
"You bastard!"
Crack.
Gavin turned to me with a big grin.
Did you hear that?
That was the voice of loyalty.
Second, you have to position yourself well and control your distance when facing multiple opponents.
Without hesitating, I quickly moved toward my next target.
Third, you have to overwhelm your enemies with acrobatic, unpredictable attacks.
For that, Arnis—a practical martial art I mastered during my mercenary days—was the perfect choice. It works whether you're armed or unarmed.
Whether I'm gripping a knife or a club, it's all the same.
Since Arnis is all about adapting to different weapons, the key is to attack each opponent at the most effective range.
But weapons in hand aren't the only weapons you have. I could easily use my feet, knees, and elbows to neutralize opponents instead of just my club.
If I took out someone's joints and forced them to buckle, my crew didn't miss a beat—jumping in to pounce on the now defenseless target.
Surprisingly, we make a good team.
Thwack!
Lastly, the fourth trick: When there's no enemy solely focused on me, it's all about making the most of my allies' attacks.
This requires strategic thinking.
You have to assess where your friends and foes are positioned and be able to improvise on the spot, darting in and out depending on how the situation unfolds.
Thunk!
I dropped three men to the ground in an instant.
Just then, a big guy rushed at me, wielding a knife.
"Aaagh!"
Was that someone's mother?
With her scream in the background, I twisted my body to dodge his attack, snatched his wrist as he stabbed at thin air, and yanked his arm, twisting it hard.
The man's waist naturally buckled from the motion, leaving his face perfectly aligned for a knee strike.
Thud!
Right after smashing him in the face, I brought my club down on his back.
Crash.
I kicked him hard in the stomach as he collapsed to the floor.
When he started writhing around, I pressed my foot down on his head—like resting your shoe on the footrest of a tool bag—applying steady pressure.
The group brawl came to a halt around that time.
"..."
All eyes in the room were on me.
My mother hid her face behind a protest sign so I couldn't see her.
Breathing heavily, Johnny suddenly let his hand holding the knife drop limply.
"That's enough."
He meant they'd fought as much as they'd been paid for.
Johnny's judgment of the situation was spot on.
From the start, it was ten against seven, so they were outnumbered, and now, more than half of his gang was out of commission.
One by one, the Sluggers put away their weapons.
I lifted my foot from the man's head and returned to my original position as Back Up.
Still holding my club, I watched Johnny's retreating figure as he left the scene.
And my comrades turned to look at me.
Leo and Marcus... They were frozen in the exact pose they'd struck when they first slung on their tool bags.
But wait, there was another tool bag.
Between the two of them, my little brother Liam was standing there, looking dazed.
When our eyes met, he quickly ducked behind Leo.
I had no idea what was going through my fifteen-year-old brother's head or why he was acting that way.
I gestured to Leo and Marcus, pointing toward the spot where Johnny and his gang had disappeared.
I'd already spoken to them about this yesterday, so the two of them immediately went after Johnny and his gang.
Johnny wasn't the type to back down so easily.
Still, we couldn't take him out here and now, so we needed to keep an eye on his next move.
The situation resolved itself rather anticlimactically.
Gavin, his face smeared with blood, came over to me—if someone saw him now, they'd think he'd fought seven guys single-handedly.
Maybe it was because he'd heard me shout earlier.
He wore a gentle smile despite the blood trickling between his lips, as if he didn't care at all.
"Rookie, you really know how to fight a little, don't you?"
It was more than just a little.
Maybe it's because my moves weren't flashy.
"Where'd you learn to fight like that?"
Like I told Irving before, I just glossed over it, saying, "After taking enough blows, you pick up a few tricks."
"Damn, if that's the case, then all of us who grew up around here should be like you. Anyway, that club's yours now."
I could definitely use it, but first, I need to wipe the blood off.
I'd like to use the scarf or something, but I can't do that.
But Gavin brought it up first.
"Hey, never take off that Scarf."
There are too many eyes watching.
What he meant was that someone like Johnny would come after me to get revenge.
Wait—was telling me to keep my face covered actually a way to protect me?
And was all that talk about being Asian just his awkward way of changing the subject?
Suddenly, I wondered if I was giving these gang guys too much credit.
I glanced up at the sky.
That's when Patrick and his crew approached, tossing the same old question at me again.
Where did you learn to fight?
I gave them the same short answer: "You pick up a few tricks after taking enough hits."
Patrick looked incredulous at first, then his expression went serious.
"Johnny's not the kind of guy to just let this go."
Who would have thought the women workers would hire Sluggers?
They'd retreated because they were outnumbered, but Johnny would definitely want to settle this somehow.
Would he go so far as to launch a major attack against the demonstrators who joined ILGWU?
Or would he try to lure back the "runaway rabbits"?
"Anyway, let's deal with Johnny depending on how things play out. That was impressive back there, Rookie. Now I get why Tanner sent you."
With that, Patrick turned and went over to the unsettled protesters.
"Let's proceed with the protest as planned."
"...Are you from the ILGWU?"
"That's none of your concern. Everyone, grab your picket signs."
Everyone's bodies were still stiff with tension after witnessing that brutal brawl right before their eyes.
It was my mother who shifted the mood.
"Let's go!"
She stepped confidently outside the Tenement House.
Just then, some women began descending the stairs.
Among them was Imelda—the woman who'd said she would be moving to San Francisco in a few days.
Not just her, but several women who had stayed silent and on the sidelines until now finally found the courage to step outside.
"...Sorry we're late. Even if we're moving soon, we'll stand with you today," one of them said.
Opportunists, some might say.
Maybe some people would criticize them that way.
But my mother and her fellow workers greeted them with bright, welcoming smiles.
No doubt, even those women who hadn't come out yet were watching this from inside their homes.
Take heart, ladies.
It's about 2.2 kilometers from the Tenement House to Union Square.
Women holding picket signs with all kinds of slogans march down the street.
[Not for Bankruptcy Fraud, Fight for Justice!]
[Our machines, Our Rights!]
[Mother of seven, No pay for seven weeks!]
The public reacted in all sorts of ways.
Some sympathized, while others pointed fingers and complained that the women were making a scene.
At least, thanks to the intimidating Sluggers leading at the front, no one dared to openly criticize us.
I stuck to the back with Gavin, whose bandage was poking out from under his hat.
"Rookie. After watching your skills, I can tell you're due for something big soon. Chasing after these women isn't exactly a point of pride, you know."
"I don't mind."
"This guy's got some weird tastes. All these women are married with kids—does that do it for you?"
What the hell is he thinking?
Maybe his brain got scrambled when his skull was cracked.
Of course, maybe he just doesn't realize my mother is among them.
Let's cut him some slack.
"So, what do you mean by something big?"
"Debt collection, armed robbery, opium smuggling, weapons trafficking, running gambling dens, club bouncing, you name it. There's plenty."
"This seems better than all that.
" "Got my head bashed in today and only made a dollar. Would you rather stick with this, or go for a real score and make hundreds at once?"
"I'd rather take the beating and earn a dollar."
"…Guess I'm the idiot for getting hit."
Gavin pouted as he tucked the bit of bandage poking out from under his hat back in.
"Anyway, what's happening with those women tomorrow? Boss Tanner only paid us for today."
"We'll see how things go—might have to do more tomorrow."
"Yeah? Who's actually footing the bill for all this, anyway?"
Tanner Smith was more tight-lipped than I'd expected. He didn't say a word about me or the employer who'd paid out the money.
In another sense, it felt like he might be testing me—like he was watching to see just how far I'd go.
Union Square is a park at the junction of Broadway and Bowery Street.
When I arrived at the protest site, a massive crowd had gathered like a swarm of clouds.
Having people in the park is nothing out of the ordinary. But today, there were more than just ordinary folks—police and soldiers dressed in navy uniforms were everywhere.
In the center of the crowd stood a towering object. Only after seeing it did I understand the reason behind all this.
It sounds unbelievable, but that's a warship. A wooden ship built right in the middle of a Manhattan park, nowhere near the sea.
"The USS Recruit you see here is 200 feet long from bow to stern (61 meters), 40 feet wide (12 meters), and was constructed to provide accommodations for Navy and Marine Corps recruitment!"
Right then, a sailor in navy uniform began explaining the ship to the crowd.
"This wooden ship is a faithful reproduction of a real battleship, complete with a bridge, two tall cage masts, and smokestacks. Inside, you'll find a radio station, officers' quarters, cabins, a medical bay, and more…"
There was a reason for building a battleship in the park.
Before America decided to enter World War I, the Navy needed to increase its manpower.
Early on, the mayor of New York boasted that he'd recruit 2,000 new sailors, but they barely managed 900.
Seeing how poor the results were, one director at the US Naval Research Institute put his mind to work.
[If you can't bring New Yorkers to the ship, then just bring the ship into the heart of New York]
It was an incredible shift in thinking. So, starting last year, they began constructing a warship in Union Square—the USS Recruit.
With its overwhelming size, triple twin turrets mounted with 14-inch guns, and five-inch guns for torpedo defense, it was impressive down to the last detail.
It was an exquisitely crafted mock warship, designed specifically to lure young men into joining the Navy.
And coincidentally, today—May 30—was the USS Recruit's commissioning ceremony.
Not only the mayor, but all sorts of notable figures showed up to attend the event. It felt like the eve of a big draft day coming up in five days—a final push to encourage enlistment.
Gavin and the other draft-age men stared at the ship as if spellbound. I wondered if, in that very moment, one of them had made up his mind to enlist.
A gangster who fights in World War I.
What would they do once they returned home?
Suddenly, as I pieced together the timeline, I remembered something I'd overlooked.
The war would soon be over, and right after, Prohibition would begin.
Young men, hot-blooded and now experienced with firearms and combat, would return home and think about "what to do next."
And the gangs of the Prohibition era would need soldiers just like them.
It all lines up perfectly, doesn't it.
There's a reason why the 1920s are called the Roaring Twenties.
"You're the employees from Blank Company here to take part in the protest, right?"
A man in a neat suit greeted the protestors. He was an ILGWU staff member.
"Yes, that's right!"
"Please follow us!"
The guide led the protestors to a spot somewhat removed from the battleship.
Despite its name—the International Ladies' Garment Workers' Union, the ILGWU—there were actually quite a few men in the union. Of course, nowhere near as many as women, but all the key leadership roles, like president and secretary, were held by men.
And those men didn't exactly look kindly on the Sluggers. Gavin, clearly annoyed by their stares, muttered a string of curses under his breath.
"Damn it, just look at those eyes. They say they prefer peaceful, organized protests, but that's just talk. What would they do without us here today?"
He had a point.
Realistically, what else could they do?
After a while, my mother, her fellow protestors, and the workers mobilized by the ILGWU gathered together, holding pickets and chanting slogans.
"Union! Unity! Justice! (Unity! Integration! Justice!"
"We want justice, we want pay!"
"No more fraud! Pay our wages!"
And on one side, recruitment efforts for the draft grew more intense. A Navy recruiting officer would shout a slogan, and the crowd would echo it.
"For Liberty! For Democracy!"
"Join the Navy! Save the world!"
"Uncle Sam needs you!
(Uncle Sam needs you!)"
But the slogan that struck me the most was the one I heard when I first landed here.
"Wake up, America!
(Wake up, America!)"
The roar of voices drowned out the shouts of the protesters and echoed throughout Union Square.
Fortunately, the launch ceremony slogans were only used once. Soon, the protest chants regained their energy.
Police officers formed a line, blocking the protesters from rushing into the event area.
When the event ended, the ILGWU leaders went around shaking hands with local dignitaries and chatting with them.
The journalists started to take interest in the protesters, too.
I wondered if any of them would actually write a decent article.
I didn't have high hopes.
The protest scene unfolded peacefully, just as the ILGWU had wanted.
Even a madman like Johnny wouldn't be reckless enough to attack the protesters in a place swarming with police, soldiers, and public figures.
I wasn't the only one who thought so.
"Rookie, they're letting us board the battleship for a tour soon—want to come?"
"I'm not interested"
The Sluggers started to loosen up.
Some wandered through the park on their own, and a few even bought candy from street vendors.
In this way, the first day of the protest succeeded in drawing public attention thanks to the overlap with the battleship launching ceremony.
Riding this wave of momentum, the ILGWU decided to stage a street demonstration tomorrow.
"Thank you all so much for your hard work today! This is just the beginning, so get some good rest when you get home!"
The sun was dipping fully toward the west.
It was time to head home.
The scattered group gathered back together to escort the protesters once more.
Once outside the park, Patrick kept a sharp lookout.
"If I were Johnny, I'd strike now. Stay alert, everyone."
At the intersection of Grand and Bowery Street.
Leo and Marcus had spent half the day trailing after Johnny.
Things had gone awry, and Johnny, visibly angry, moved to the underground salon.
But half of the group that had been coordinating with him split away and headed elsewhere.
– They're probably going to round up more from the Five Points Gang. Leo, how about you follow them?
Johnny, who had spent seven years in prison, didn't have his own crew anymore. That's why he'd hired part of the Five Points Gang.
But if he wanted to bring in even more people all of a sudden, he'd have to strike a new deal with a gang boss.
Leo agreed with Marcus's observation.
– I'll check how many, where, and how they're meeting up.
Marcus was waiting right outside the entrance to the underground salon where Johnny was holed up.
After lunchtime had passed and afternoon came,
Johnny finally emerged with two men.
A short while later,
as Marcus followed behind, he tilted his head in confusion.
Johnny and his companions had arrived at the Tenement House where Ciaran lived.
'Why are they coming here again?'
Watching the group disappear inside, Marcus couldn't shake a growing sense of dread.
Meanwhile, Johnny climbed up to the third floor of the Tenement House and knocked on a door.
Knock, knock.
"This is the police, Mrs. Nora."
There was no response. With a cold glint in his eyes, Johnny pressed his ear against the door.
He was a veteran of countless labor strikes. Even though the Sluggers showing up that morning had thrown a wrench in his plans, that wasn't the only trick he had up his sleeve.
Johnny's mind was full of successful cases.
Among them, there had even been times when he set fire to a protester's house.
But that had been possible only because it was a single-family house; could he really commit arson in a tenement house packed with hundreds of residents?
Even from an employer's perspective, that would be out of the question.
It was inefficient and incredibly risky