Chapter 39 - The Gunsmith of Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan
Hell's Kitchen, on the west side of Midtown, Manhattan, New York City.
An area as notorious for crime as the Lower East Side.
Maybe that's why the atmosphere on the street is so similar to where I live.
Rows of tenement houses crowded with poor immigrants, the dreary and gloomy air making it feel like a crime could break out at any moment.
Until just a few years ago, the Irish Gopher gang held strong power in Hell's Kitchen.
But after they broke up, the Marginals, Pearl Buttons, Hudson Dusters, and countless other small gangs started operating here.
"Planning to start a war or something?"
"If I don't want to get stabbed in the back, this is the minimum. Can you get the goods or not?"
Most of what I'd asked Tanner for was weapon-related. To handle everything at once, Tanner had set me up with a highly skilled gunsmith.
Near the intersection of 10th Avenue and West 41st Street. Down an alley between dingy shops where no light reached.
As soon as I stepped inside, I was confronted by some men with dark expressions. Three men leaned against the wall or squatted, smoking cigarettes.
Their gazes slid from the scarf covering half my face down to my feet.
Would I really be able to get through this alley without any trouble?
I started walking.
I passed one, then two of them.
The third and last guy, who was squatting, suddenly blocked my path with a metal pipe.
"Stop. Show your face."
Brazenly, he pointed his pipe at my scarf. I grabbed it without hesitation and kicked him in the face.
Thud!
Still squatting, he collapsed against the wall and fell over. The other two, startled, rushed at me, but I responded with the metal pipe now in my hand.
Whack, whack!
I kicked the guys who'd gone down and then tossed the metal pipe aside.
After that quick, silent beatdown, I continued on my way.
At the end of the alley, I spotted a metal door set below street level—the workshop where Tanner said the gunsmith worked.
Clang, clang.
I stepped down a stair and knocked on the door, all the while eyeing the groaning men on the ground.
After a moment—
Rattle.
A small palm-sized slot, clearly for checking who's outside, slid open.
A pair of eyes creased with wrinkles stared me down.
Then, frowning, the person tried to slam the door shut.
"I'm here on Tanner Smith's recommendation."
Creeeak...
The small slot in the door, which had been halfway closed, slid open again.
"Name?"
"Nox."
Clunk, clunk.
After unlocking several mechanisms, the heavy metal door finally opened.
The elderly man inside was also wearing a scarf. He gestured for me to step aside briefly, then went up the stairs to peer into the alley.
The men I had taken down were just now starting to get up.
"Was that your doing?"
"...Are they your grandsons, by any chance?"
"Of course not. Still, they're pretty handy when it comes to filtering out the riffraff."
"Should I go back out and apologize?"
The old man glanced at me and snorted.
"Don't say things you don't mean."
Though it was a sweltering summer day, the old man was wearing gloves.
Once I stepped inside, he shut the metal door and locked it with a triple bolt.
Inside, the place was dizzyingly cluttered with all sorts of junk. The place was packed with parts and equipment whose purpose I couldn't even guess.
There were three doorways that looked like they led to other rooms, and from one of them came the sound of hammering metal. Clearly, there was someone here besides the old man.
"I hear you need a rifle, ammunition, a silencer, and a scope."
Tanner must have called ahead. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't have been allowed in.
"Let's start with the rifles."
"Do you have a specific model in mind?"
"I'll have to decide after I see them."
"Have you fired one before?"
"...A long time ago."
"Judging by your voice, you still seem pretty young. So when exactly was this 'long time ago'?"
I was confident that I'd handled just about every kind of firearm in my previous life.
At the Jordan Royal Tank Museum and the Israel Military Museum, I had the chance to view firearms from different eras, and after retiring, I'd been able to shoot a wide variety—especially at the shooting ranges run by the Mafia.
What I remember most is old Hickok, the hardcore gun nut who showed up at the range almost daily. Thanks to him, I got to see and hear about all sorts of period firearms—from the Colt Dragoon of the American frontier days to just about everything in between.
I wonder if your YouTube subscribers have grown a lot.
Oh, right—you weren't even born yet.
The old man unlocked one of the rooms.
One wall was draped with curtains, which looked completely out of place in this dim, half-basement room with barely any light. As expected.
Swish.
When he pulled back the curtains, all sorts of firearms were hanging on the wall.
Revolvers, semi-automatic pistols, shotguns, rifles.
The old man reached for a light brown rifle among them.
"I don't want that one."
He turned his head to look at me with a curious expression and asked, twitching the corner of his mouth, "What's wrong with it?"
"That's an Arisaka Type 30. It's hard to find 6.5mm rounds for it, and its penetration isn't great. Not to mention, since it's a Type 30 and not a Type 38, you're likely to get gas leaks. And honestly, I don't like that it's Japanese, either."
"It's not easy to recognize this model..."
Looks like he was planning to offload an unpopular model on some clueless sucker at an inflated price.
No chance.
The old man's eyes, already wide, started to tremble ever so slightly. Then he quietly moved his hand away and reached for a different rifle.
"I'll save the lever-action Winchester 1895 for hunting in my old age."
"I converted it to use .30-06 rounds, you know? It's pretty decent."
"Still, it's lacking in precision. It's not really suitable for sniping. Since I want a bolt-action, that one over there is better."
The one I chose was the Springfield Model 1903.
It's a rifle based on the Mauser 98, renowned for its durability and accuracy.
"The recoil is pretty strong, so it won't be easy to handle. It's heavy, too, and not the most portable."
"It's six of one, half a dozen of the other. Plus, I don't have time to custom order a suppressor. You do have a suppressor for the Springfield model, right?"
Since every rifle has a different design and structure, suppressors and scopes all have different specs and ways they're mounted.
So, if there's something off-the-shelf, it's almost always for the most common models. Even though the Springfield was made back in 1903, it's still widely used, and the same goes for scopes.
Just as I'd expected, the old man nodded in agreement, though disappointment was written all over his face.
If I'd chosen another model and needed a custom suppressor and scope, he could've charged me more.
"If you weren't a customer sent by Tanner, I'd have insisted I didn't have any."
"We might be able to do even bigger deals in the future. If we build some trust."
The old man handed me the rifle without any particular reaction.
"I need another magazine. And thirty rifle rounds, plus fifty .45ACP rounds too."
"Do you use a Colt M1911?"
"Found one at home."
The scarf covering the old man's face fluttered.
The ammo was stored in a cabinet in one corner.
When he opened the door, boxes of ammunition were neatly stacked inside.
"You're planning to test-fire in the basement, right?"
"That's the idea."
According to Tanner, there's even a shooting range down on the second basement floor, which was surprising.
"In that case, I'll include ten extra rounds of each."
Carrying two rifles, the old man gathered up the ammo.
After that, we left the room and locked the door. This time, he opened the door next to us, the one from which I'd constantly heard the sound of metal being hammered.
There was no separate lock.
Bang, bang...
The hammering stopped.
The person who had been hammering something at the table under the lamp turned around, covering her face with a scarf.
Judging by the shape of her body, she was definitely a woman.
Funny, all three people in this place are wearing scarves.
"There's no need for you to come in, just stay here."
The old man went into the room.
From the crack in the door, I saw the woman twirl a small hammer around her finger and look me up and down. That was it.
She seemed to lose interest in me right away and turned her gaze back to whatever was on the workbench.
The old man came out of the room carrying a silencer and a scope, both fitting the Springfield 1903, one in each hand.
As the door closed, the sound of metal being hammered started up again.
We went down another flight of stairs, gray and coated with rust and mold, into the even creepier basement level two.
The air was heavy with dampness and the musty smell of mildew.
When I flipped the switch, the bulb above flickered a few times before lighting up the room.
A long table came up to my waist, and about fifteen meters beyond it,
three targets stood propped up on scarecrow-like shapes stuffed with straw and dressed in clothes, with pieces of paper attached.
The old man put earplugs, a silencer, a scope, and ammunition on the table, then leaned back against the wall behind me.
At some point—when, I didn't see—he'd picked up a shotgun, which he now held in one hand. With the other hand, he fit the rubber plugs into his ears, warning me,
"I'd suggest you don't try anything stupid."
He plugged his ears with the rubber to show just how little he wanted to listen. I picked up the Springfield rifle.
I pulled back the bolt to open the chamber and pushed the cartridges inside.
"Don't you have any clips?"
"Of course I do. One dollar each."
"Then please prepare five, just to be safe."
To speed up reloading, a stripper clip—which lets you load five rounds at once instead of one by one—is essential.
But since this was just a test, I loaded five rounds into the chamber by hand and closed the bolt to chamber a round.
I got into position and aimed at the target through the sights. The basement was so dim, it felt like shooting at night.
I hooked my finger around the trigger and pulled.
Bang!
The target swayed as dust scattered.
Clack.
I pulled the bolt back and then forward again to load another round.
Bang!
Clack.
Bang!
After firing three shots, I set the rifle on the table and walked over to where the targets stood.
The shots were off from where I'd intended them to hit. I just need to adjust the sights for that. The positive thing is...
"What the fuck… What is this?!"
An old man reached out from behind, snatched the target sheet, and let out a shocked yell.
There was just one hole. It was possible I'd fired two rounds at the ceiling, but looking at the size of the hole, it was clear what had happened. All three shots landed in the same group.
"The recoil must've been something… Did you really put them all together with your first shots?"
"I was pretty much always in the top one or two back then."
"Where, exactly?"
In the Republic of Korea Special Forces. Or I guess I should call it the Korean Youth Military Academy now.
"Anyway, I need to adjust the sights and try again."
I replaced the sheet, zeroed the rifle, and loaded fresh rounds.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
After firing three shots, I checked the target again. This time, the hole was even smaller.
"It wasn't a fluke!"
Once again, the old man grabbed the target sheet and gasped in shock.
I went back to the table and attached a silencer to another rifle.
"That's a Maxim silencer, isn't it?"
"You sure know your stuff."
The early versions were simply tube-shaped devices attached to the barrel designed to disperse the gases produced when a round was fired.
The person who developed these into modern silencers was Hiram Percy Maxim, the son of the man who invented the portable automatic machine gun, the Maxim gun, which evolved from the Gatling gun.
He filed a patent for it in 1909.
The principle was simple: gas was dispersed inside a chamber attached to the muzzle, which reduced both the shockwave and the blast sound when the bullet exited the barrel.
I fitted the suppressor, aimed at the target through the scope, and pulled the trigger.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The gunshot noise was definitely reduced, but compared to the suppressors I'd used in my past life, its performance was seriously lacking.
Since the Maxim suppressor was an early model, it wasn't very durable and affected the gun's performance. Its sound-reducing effect wasn't perfect either, and it didn't hide the muzzle flash.
In the future, suppressors would be made from titanium, high-performance polymers, and ceramics—a clear indication that the real issue was the material itself.
But who has the luxury to wait around for those materials to be developed?
If I wanted a practical improvement…
"This suppressor needs a structural redesign."
"In what way?"
"Let's discuss that seriously another time."
I wasn't just saying that.
If we replaced the single-layer suppressor chamber with a multi-layered structure, we could disperse the gas step by step and reduce the noise.
On top of that, guiding the gas flow in a spiral pattern would help distribute the energy and further dampen the sound.
"So, what's the total damage?"
"Since Tanner introduced you, I should give you a good deal."
With that, he asked for $200.
That was about twice as expensive as buying it from a legal gun shop.
Of course, you can't buy one legally without a permit—so that's a major catch—but even so, it was steep.
"This will be my first and last purchase, then."
Tanner had given me $300 as an advance. If the place he recommended gouged me, he couldn't complain if I charged more.
I handed over $200 without fuss.
But instead of snatching it up like I expected, the old man stared at the money, clearly mulling something over.
"Besides suppressors, are you good with anything else?"
"I can upgrade scopes, design innovative firearms, auxiliary weapons—you name it. There's a ton of things I want to make"
Why do you think I was showing off and going on like that all this time?
It's because I needed someone like Smith, just like this old man.
And it wasn't just for my own benefit.
For those of us who share our lives with our firearms, almost as if it's our destiny, there's a kind of geeky passion that just clicks between us...
"I'll just take $100."
"Looks like I'll be seeing you often from now on."
The old man picked out just one bill from the stack.
"Do you need anything else?"
I need bombs.
But that's not something I can get here.
—That guy got himself badly burned messing with gunpowder. If you see him, he'll be all wrapped up in bandages, so don't be startled.
I smiled and shook my head at the old man, whose eyes were just barely visible.
"I've got everything I need."
"Then I'll pack this up for you. Wait here."
He opened the door where the woman had been before.
A moment later, the old man came back carrying a wooden box almost as big as I was. The word "groceries" was printed on it in big letters.
"I threw in a few potatoes."
"My mother will appreciate this."
"Ireland Forever. For independence."
"Peace."
Suddenly, I wondered if the old man might think I'm Nox, an IRA secret agent.
Well, I'll just let it slide today.
Clunk.
After shaking hands in farewell, I dragged the box outside.
Dusk had fallen.
Did the guys I beat up bring their older brothers?
There were even more thugs gathered in the alley than during the day