Boardwalk Empire (1)
Yushin Kim—no, Kim Yushin—got up from his seat around the time the morning sun rose.
At an age when others were worrying about getting into college, Yushin had suddenly found himself being called "boss."
Of course, it wasn't that he disliked it. Ever since that damned older brother of his went off to West Point, taking over the family business had already become his responsibility.
But the "family business" he had in mind was just an ordinary shop—not acting as the head of a massive enterprise employing hundreds, even thousands.
People say humans get used to anything, and that was true—but just when he felt like he was finally getting used to it, that lunatic brother of his would pick up something bizarre from somewhere and start making a fuss again, causing his workload to trend upward day by day like the New York stock market graph.
Take what happened just two days ago, for instance.
"Hey! Hey, hey! Kim Yushin!"
"What kind of bullshit are you trying to make me do this time?"
"This! Look at this!"
"What is it?"
He had written at the end of a letter that their father had been coughing a little, and as soon as this guy read it, he suddenly showed up in San Francisco. At this point, he might as well be a human tornado.
Calling it filial devotion would be putting it nicely, but crossing the American continent wasn't exactly easy.
Anyway, the two brothers had gone out together for the first time in a while and stopped by a pharmacy, but instead of finding the cough medicine they came for, his brother grabbed something strange.
"Breath freshener? What do you need that for?"
"Let's buy this."
"What, are you indirectly saying my breath stinks?"
"No, you idiot. If that were the case, I'd have just asked if your throat was a sewer. Why would I say it indirectly?"
"Damn. Thanks so much, I'm moved to tears."
"Try buying the company that makes this."
He casually threw out something insane.
"Are you joking right now?"
"No. I'm serious."
His brother was already crazy to begin with, but every now and then he'd spot something ridiculously common on the street and go, "Whaaat is this!" all by himself. Then, without fail, he'd toss out work like, "Hey, think we can buy the company that makes this?"
"This? I'll look into it. I can just hand it over to Mr. Miller."
"If possible, let's acquire it outright. If not, at least buy a decent share."
"…Sigh. Fine, fine."
At the very least, none of the companies his brother had shown interest in so far had turned out to be particularly strange, so Yushin didn't bother refusing.
That day, he ended up paying for the breath freshener his brother had picked out—something called Listerine.
After washing up and hastily eating breakfast, Yushin headed straight to the company office.
Even though the war had ended, orders for Griesgun were still pouring in.
"We've received a request from France to purchase 30,000 units."
"Check the terms, and first confirm whether we can meet the production schedule for delivery."
"Understood. They're also requesting licensed production within France—"
This fuel gun had to be another insane weapon that came out of his brother's head. A ridiculous unit price where buying a new one was cheaper than repairing it. Overwhelming convenience. And even impressive firepower.
At first, when they presented this fuel gun, people would say things like, "What kind of monstrosity are you trying to sell as a firearm?" But thanks to his brother's worldwide promotion campaign, demand somehow kept increasing.
His brother was obsessed with selling this magical fuel gun to postmen, base guards, and close-protection units. Lately, he had been running all over California trying to push it—honestly, Yushin just hoped he wouldn't increase the workload any further.
To make matters worse, Yuin—who had been helping with the work—had declared that he would be going to college, which only added to Yushin's burden.
Abandoning the crucial affairs of the Joseon people and the Kim family to run off to school—such a traitor deserved to have flesh torn from bone. But their father favored the youngest.
"My son, shouldn't we at least let the youngest do what he wants?"
"What did my brother say?"
"Your brother agreed quite readily."
Unbelievable. That demon actually letting a slave go free?
"He said there are things only someone educated in university can handle. And he's not wrong, is he?"
Right. Of course.
His brother wasn't meant to be a soldier after all—he was meant to be a businessman. If he had been born just a little earlier, he might have become a major slave trader dominating American history.
As he listened to his secretary report on his upcoming business trip to Detroit, Yushin let out a sigh.
The one that had driven Ford's sales into a golden age was the M1917 tank.
By selling tens of thousands of these miracle machines, Ford's subsidiary—the Ford Tank Company—had effectively become a goose that laid golden eggs, and their own family, holding a portion of shares and royalties, had thoroughly enjoyed the thrill of being buried in money.
But now, the wartime boom was over, and the Ford Tank Company had quietly rebranded itself as the "Ford Tractor Company," pushing the Fordson tractor as its new flagship product.
Once he got to Detroit, there would be plenty to handle—distribution networks for western farms, securing steel supplies, and more. He'd probably be stuck there for at least a week.
Meanwhile, his brother had teamed up again with Ford's son and was scheming something sinister. Something about circular shareholding… He had been talking endlessly with Mr. Miller about equity stakes and stock prices, but there was no way it was anything sane, so Yushin—the reasonable adult—decided not to get involved.
By the time he finished dealing with the affairs of the major businesses, the sun had already set. No matter how much he worked, why didn't the workload ever decrease?
"Secretary Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"Th—ugh… where is my brother?"
"He has gone to attend a funeral. He should be at the funeral hall."
The moment he heard the word "funeral hall," a fierce headache surged through him.
What exactly was a funeral hall? If it were a proper Joseon-style funeral, you'd be living in a mourning hut. Otherwise, funerals were held in churches. But a "funeral hall"? Wasn't that just a bar?
"Let's go there."
"Understood. I'll prepare the car."
"I'll go alone, so head home first. Just have the driver ready."
"Understood."
The secretary answered while suppressing a smile.
See, I'm different from my brother. If it were him, he'd say, "I'm working, so where do you think you're going? Hehe, you're not leaving!" and drag people down like a drowning man.
Yushin comforted himself with that thought as he headed toward the source of his headache—the funeral hall.
***
[Ubok]
The funeral hall, "Ubok."
It had already been a few months since that place opened.
It used to be a building without even a sign, but now it had finally put up a small one. And yet they still insisted it wasn't a bar.
The name "Ubok" hadn't even been deliberately chosen.
"Je-sa? So in Korean, does that mean it's a bar?"
"No, I heard Je-sa means funeral in their language."
"Funerals are just for show anyway. Then what's that place called?"
"That, uh… I heard an explanation from that study-abroad specialist. Umbo? Umbok? Something like that—it means getting a meal at a funeral."
Since almost none of the Westerners could properly pronounce "eumbok (飮福)," the word had been twisted into something strange. Now, in the minds of California's upper class, a new concept had taken root:
"Korean funeral hall = legal bar = Ubok."
Just thinking about it made the back of his neck ache, but his brother had even gone as far as digging into Chinatown to bring in a man who had once held office during the Qing dynasty, giving him some bizarre title and stationing him permanently at the hall.
"Hyung, who is that guy?"
"That old man? Uh… a funeral director? Something like that?"
"What the hell is that, and why do we need one?!"
"My dear little brother. All the rites of passage in this world—weddings, funerals, everything—people go to great lengths to pile on procedures just to make them look proper and formal."
His brother formed an "O" with his thumb and index finger and smiled.
"Those rootless Yankees go crazy the moment they hear the word 'tradition,' you know? Tell them they're experiencing a five-thousand-year-old tradiiition, and what can they even do about it? You've got to pay attention to these little details to differentiate from those cheap illegal joints. Differentiation."
"We've arrived."
"Thank you. You can head home now."
After getting off the road and walking toward the funeral hall for a few minutes—
Several guards carrying Griesguns approached him.
"You've arrived, sir!"
"You've all worked hard. How's business today?"
"As always, guests have been coming in nonstop."
At this point, this so-called funeral had become a business.
Because it was a "funeral hall," anyone who hadn't received an obituary was denied entry. It was absolutely not a members-only bar. They merely welcomed those who had been invited to pay their respects. That was all.
And naturally, the obituary was sent out by the chief mourner, who was currently observing a three-year mourning period. Since the three-year mourning tradition was emphasized even by Confucius, it simply couldn't be violated. It definitely wasn't an excuse to keep the business running for three years.
By now, whether or not one received an obituary from this "Ubok" had become a standard for determining whether someone was a recognized figure in California. The absurdity of it all was something else.
Unable to voice these complicated thoughts, Yushin simply sighed before stepping into the establishment—no, the funeral hall.
"You've arrived, sir."
"You've worked hard."
First, he followed proper etiquette—meeting the chief mourner and bowing respectfully before the memorial tablet of the deceased.
Then he headed straight downstairs, into the basement.
"I'll take it. Raise fifty more."
"Call—and raise."
"You're really calling that?"
"Why not? Feeling scared? If you're scared, you know what that means."
"Hyung."
"Whoa, you startled me. What are you doing here?"
"What do you think."
His damned brother, who had been staring intently at his cards, flinched and quickly covered his hand.
"Ah, I should introduce you. This gentleman here is Governor William Stephens."
"A pleasure to meet you. I've heard much about you—the rising star of the Korean community. I've long wanted to meet you."
"I'm Yushin Kim. I've admired you for quite some time as well, Governor."
Now, even meeting a governor, his tongue moved smoothly.
Well, he'd already met Henry Ford and Congressman Curtis—so what was a governor at this point?
He was also introduced to the others at the poker table. Every one of them was a prominent figure in California.
"This isn't a game—this is ridiculous!"
"Haha. Then why did you follow along? You were undefeated on the battlefield, but it seems at the poker table you're quite the amateur."
"N-No, this can't be happening. Me, the 'shark of West Point,' getting completely cleaned out like this? Yushin, you should take a hand too. Come on, help refill my wallet!"
Naturally, Yushin joined in from the next round.
As they played, all sorts of topics came up—national affairs, politics, business.
"Shouldn't we completely ban Japanese immigration this time?"
"Indeed. Every time relations with Japan worsen, I fear riots might break out. I think we've had enough Japanese immigrants."
"Ahem! Is it really appropriate to say that in front of General Kim here?"
"You mean me? Oh, I fully agree. Historically speaking, the Japanese have always been a people difficult to trust."
"Is that so?"
"Alright, alright. Cards are being dealt. I may have turned even those Black men into patriotic soldiers, but if you told me to make soldiers out of the Japanese, honestly, I'd have no confidence."
At some point, Yushin realized he was paying more attention to the conversation than his cards.
The governor and his companions were discussing restricting Japanese immigration, while Yujin chuckled and subtly laid the groundwork: "Instead of unreliable Japanese, why not bring in more Koreans?"
"Koreans, unlike Japs or Chinks, are a people who respect the law and understand the virtue of order. Their numbers are far smaller, and their immigration came later—but just look at what Koreans in California have achieved. Aren't my brother and I prime examples of how much Koreans want to integrate into American society?"
"Indeed. There's no more solid proof than honest work!"
"I guarantee you—so long as my brother and I are here, the words 'Koreans' and 'riot' will never be associated. Instead, you'll see a whole line of second-generation Yujin Kims bringing glory to the United States. Now then, I've got a pair of queens. I'll take all the chips."
"Pair of kings."
"Ah, damn it! This game is rigged!!"
The poker game only ended hours later, and the men, their faces flushed with alcohol, dispersed one by one into their cars.
Watching briefly as the staff cleaned up, Yushin approached his brother, who had already lit a cigarette.
"Hyung, didn't you lose way too much today?"
"Lose?"
"You threw away hundreds of dollars."
"Of course. I scattered it so they could win."
What was he talking about now?
"Think about it. Winning a hundred dollars at a gambling table feels a lot better than having a thousand slipped into your back pocket, right? They'll figure it out anyway—'Ah, that bastard let us win on purpose.'"
I really want to open his skull and take a look. Does eating army rations for years make your brain work like that?
Still, no matter what, his brother was undoubtedly an extraordinary person. There was a reason why Teacher Dosan praised him endlessly as a hero of the nation.
"I greased things up nicely today, so try to close that Griesgun supply deal with the state government. After pushing it this hard, they'll probably buy a few units. By the way, don't you date women?"
"Are you seriously mocking me right now? Try saying that after giving me less work!"
"Did I have time to date Dorothy? We met once, then spent years as pen pals before getting married. You've got to make the effort. Effort."
Never mind.
Hero or not in the eyes of others—at home, he was just a damned nuisance.
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