Double-Piece

“Can we take this kid along too?”

It was Aunt Kkotnim, the loudest voice in the kitchen, both literally and figuratively. Her voice carried weight, and even the men and higher-ups usually listened to her.

“He’s scrawny, isn’t he? A guy this skinny is no use, Auntie,” said a gangster in a traditional overcoat, shaking his head. But Kkotnim didn’t back down.

“He’s the best at chores. He’s good at chopping vegetables, does the dishes well, and he’s thorough. It’d take months to teach someone else all that. Let us take him.”

The gangster gave Ajin a once-over, his gaze dropping pointedly to Ajin’s bare crotch, raising and lowering his eyebrow.

“So, kid, you’re a male prostitute, but you worked in the kitchen too?”

“Well… not exactly…” Ajin stammered, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t a prostitute, but if going with Kkotnim meant he wouldn’t be wandering the streets, he’d gladly go along with whatever they needed. Even if it came down to selling his body, he could manage. Kkotnim would probably object, but he’d do it if he had to.

“Alright, then… fine.”

The gangster didn’t look happy about it, but he didn’t refuse. He turned and walked away. Kkotnim quickly tucked Ajin under her arm and scolded him in a low voice.

“You idiot. Where are your pants? Why are you running around half-naked like this?”

“I-I was coming out of the bathroom…”

“Ugh, you fool… Cover up your head, at least.”

“Oh… okay.”

Ajin gathered his messy bangs and pulled them over his face. It was a promise he had made with Kkotnim: not to cut his hair, to keep his face covered, and to keep his head down. She’d told him it was the way to live a quiet life.

Though he didn’t know why, Ajin knew this: there was nothing wrong with listening to an older woman’s advice.

The gangsters rounded up those selected and led them outside. Kkotnim took off her apron and used it to cover Ajin’s exposed crotch. As Ajin wrapped the apron around himself, he glanced toward where Seok-joo had been. But Seok-joo was already gone, leaving only the chair he’d been sitting on and the cigarette butt lying beneath it.

“Alright, let’s go. Move it along, quickly,” the gangster said, clapping his hands to hurry everyone out of the gambling hall.

Outside, a gentle early spring breeze brushed against their foreheads. Ajin gazed up blankly at the sky, which was tinged with the red of the sunset. The clouds looked unfamiliar. The smell of car exhaust mixed with earthy scents in the air, almost enchanting.

It had been ten years since Ajin had stepped outside the gambling hall. And it was spring, no less—a time when life returns to the world, and even the sky feels warm.

Ajin looked around, taking in his surroundings like an inmate released after a lifetime in prison.

* * *

Ding, ding, ding!

The loud ringing of a big bell echoed throughout the house. Even Kkotnim, whose hearing was not the best, clicked her tongue, muttering that the noise was loud enough to tear the paper doors.

The ringing mobilized all the servants scattered around the house, who rushed out into the yard. Ajin, who’d been chopping onions in the oversized kitchen, also scrambled out, but he was never able to keep pace due to his limping gait. The distance from the kitchen to the main gate only made it harder.

“The boss is here, you idiot. Move faster!”

The fat man, who’d taken it upon himself to supervise the servants, urged everyone on, slapping the backs of their heads. Ajin tried to keep a low profile as he took his place at the very end of the line.

At that moment, the gate opened, and a line of sleek black cars rolled in. Ajin shrank back further as the deep rumble of the engines and the blinding headlights reflected off the cars’ fat, shiny fronts. Though he saw them daily, the cars still scared him.

As he ducked his head like a turtle, the lingering smell of onions on his hands wafted to his nose.

Sniff, sniff.

Ajin sniffled, blinking back the tears welling up after hours of handling onions. He rubbed his nose absentmindedly with the back of his hand, only to feel the sting again, and tears fell onto the meticulously clean dirt yard.

“Stay quiet,” Kkotnim whispered beside him, scolding him. Ajin pouted, swallowing back the tears and the pungency.

Eventually, ten cars had rolled in, and the door of the third car opened first.

It was Seok-joo. Once again, dressed in a sharp suit, Seok-joo had a traditional overcoat draped loosely over his arm. One of the servants rushed up to take it from him.

As Seok-joo turned toward the house, all the servants bowed in unison. He barely acknowledged their greeting and strode straight into the house.

Seok-joo’s house was a hanok, a traditional Korean house—a very large one. But it didn’t feel like an old noble’s estate. The cars parked all around, the large chandelier hanging from the wooden rafters, the plush beds in each room, the cozy sofa in the tea room, and the Western-style tea table in the garden—it all added to the uniqueness.

Of course, it didn’t look like a gangster’s hideout, either. It was far too elegant and spotless, more fitting for a “boss.”

Ajin stole a glance at Seok-joo’s retreating figure. He caught a brief glimpse of Seok-joo’s expressionless face before it disappeared, leaving Ajin with a strange sense of longing.

Seok-joo was impressive.

It was partly because he was handsome, partly because he was called “boss,” partly because he was tall, partly because he looked powerful and was respected by the strong men around him, partly because he often smoked like a seasoned adult, partly because he was the master of this huge mansion, and partly because he was kind.

One might think, “Kind? He’s killed so many people back at the gambling hall!” Ajin had thought the same. He’d assumed Seok-joo was a demon in the skin of an impressive person.

But after a month of working as a servant in this mansion, Ajin was convinced: Seok-joo was indeed a kind person.

First of all, he didn’t mistreat the servants. He didn’t call them over and slap them for no reason, he didn’t roll them up in a mat and beat them if they made a mistake, he let them stay in rooms with heated floors, didn’t scold them for eating leftovers, and he even paid them.

Money. That was the most important thing.

Those brought over from the gambling hall assumed they’d be trapped here and forced to work without pay. But Seok-joo, and the Taehoe gang, compensated them for their labor. They paid them twice the amount they had earned at the gambling hall.

When they first received their wages, everyone decided to obey Seok-joo completely. There was nothing as valuable or effective as money in this world. It didn’t matter at all how he’d killed the thugs at the gambling hall or how he’d disposed of their bodies. The moment they received their pay, they forgot all about it.

The people brought over from the gambling hall praised Seok-joo every day. They’d say things like, “He’s so dignified, not like other thugs. He’s manly, like a general. He’s become a real person. If he ran for president, I’d vote for him. He’s good at business; look how well he’s built his wealth. He’ll make our country even greater.”

Ajin didn’t join the conversation but would sit nearby and listen intently whenever the servants discussed Seok-joo while eating.

“He’s from Busan, right?”

“Yeah, but how come he’s so good at speaking Seoul dialect?”

“No idea. I can’t understand a word other gangsters say, but he’s clear. Soft-spoken, like a gentleman, right?”

“Yeah. Maybe he learns quickly.”

“Makes sense. He must be smart to go from a thug to a boss.”

Or:

“San-hong saw it. In the boss’s study.”

“Saw what?”

“The ledger, the ledger.”

“What ledger?”

“What else? The one for buying and selling drugs.”

“Drugs?”

“Yeah, drugs.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, come on, meth or something like that.”

“Is it meth or something else?”

“It’s not opium or cannabis, it’s meth.”

“What’s that?”

“Philopon. In Japanese, they call it hiropon. It’s a drug that looks like crystals or flour, and they say Taehoe gang makes it exceptionally well. They say people from China and Japan are crazy about it, and even Westerners come to buy it.”

“A new meth? Crystal-like, even? As skilled as our people are, I never thought they’d excel at making drugs…”

“Apparently, they bought the gambling hall to sell that philopon stuff because it’s in a good location. Mr. Geum didn’t want to sell, and that’s what led to all the trouble. You know the buildings on the hillside behind the mansion?”

“Yeah, the ones we’re not allowed to enter, the ones guarded by the big guys?”

“Yeah, they make drugs there too. The mansion is hidden on the mountainside at the edge of Seoul to stay out of sight.”

“So they bought this huge mansion and all those cars by selling that crystal meth?”

“Probably. They say the ledger only lists weights and money, but no product names. It’s obviously drugs.”

Or:

“Why does he wear that overcoat?”

“Probably because he’s a patriot.”

“A thug, patriotic?”

“Thugs are Koreans too, aren’t they? It’s usually those kinds of people who care about the country even more.”

“…Is that so?”

“And if you’re earning foreign currency, no matter what you sell, you’re a patriot, right?”

Or:

Other rumors circulated as well. Some said he came from an illustrious family, fought twenty men single-handedly and won, was strong enough to pull trees out of the ground, and that he had treasure piled up in wardrobes like mountains.

Some of it was ridiculous, but Ajin believed most of it. Anyone who’d seen Seok-joo in person would have no choice but to believe such stories.

Naturally, Ajin began to admire him. Any young boy would. A man among men. A strong and wealthy man. A man so commanding that even the big, tough guys scrambled to serve him. How could he not admire him?

The admiration only grew because Ajin was a shabby boy—limping, timid, and fragile. His longing grew bigger by the day.

The Taehoe gang members followed Seok-joo into the house. As the yard grew quiet, the other servants scattered and returned to their places. Ajin, too, hobbled back toward the kitchen.

A servant passed him by—one who had just received Seok-joo’s overcoat. He walked with his head held high and his nose pointed skyward, as if he had performed some grand task.

The soft, smooth overcoat brushed against Ajin’s hand, still smelling of onions. Startled, he quickly withdrew his hand. But as he watched the fluttering coat move away, he sniffled and swallowed back tears.

It was just a passing thought. But in that moment, he wished he could be the one to carry Seok-joo’s coat.