Chapter 26. Cassette Tape
“Boss. I’ll leave the car keys here.”
Jangha, who was sitting on the sofa, stared blankly at the keys his subordinate had put down.
“You use it now.”
“Sir?”
“And… the bookkeeping is more or less finished, right?”
“Ah… it’s almost done.”
“You take that over too.”
The subordinate let out a long sigh. The man, whose build was just as big as Jangha’s, slowly sat down across from him.
“Hyungnim.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to leave?”
“Well… didn’t you already notice?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Who knows?”
“Please take me with you too. I’ll leave the work here to Yeongpil.”
Jangha looked steadily at the subordinate sitting in front of him. He was a loyal underling who had stayed by his side for over ten years now.
“Mudeok.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to become a priest.”
“I know the Church won’t take you because of your age.”
“Damn. Everyone and their dog knows that now.”
Jangha scratched his head.
“Ha… if it weren’t for you, do you think I could walk out of here with an easy mind?”
“There are plenty of capable guys besides me.”
“No. There’s only you.”
At the firmness in Jangha’s eyes, Kang Mudeok’s gaze cooled.
“If you leave too, the Dongdaemun private loan market is going to go to hell again like before.”
“Hyungnim.”
“This place needs someone who can completely overwhelm everyone else.”
Mudeok recalled what things had been like before Jangha had pacified this area. There had been more than six private moneylenders with significant power. Smaller guys clung beneath them, and it had been nothing short of a war zone.
Now, because “Hope Financial,” the company represented by Jangha, had silenced everyone, they were all watching their step. But if that power were to completely disappear now, Myeongdong would join in and a war would break out immediately.
“Mudeok.”
“Yes, hyungnim.”
“Once I’m gone, you’re the only one who can keep this place tightly pressed down.”
“…”
“You’ve held back your temper a lot because of me, right? From now on, live however you want and let yourself run wild.”
Before he knew it, he had ended up here while trying to help people who were in debt. He’d had to straighten out murderous illegal interest rates, and he’d had to stop illicit, violent collection practices. He’d made it so they couldn’t play word games, and they couldn’t pull illegal threats or sketchy promissory notes anymore.
It had all started solely because of the lady next door who kept bringing him side dishes every time she cooked. As he went around “persuading” people one by one with strength, he’d somehow become a force to be reckoned with north of the Han River.
Because of that, there were plenty of people who kept him in check, and plenty who were jealous. But none of them could openly complain. On paper, it was just a moneylending company run somewhat like a proper business, but most of the employees under him were people with reputations of their own.
They had all been drawn in by Jangha’s masculine charm, and had voluntarily folded their own crews into his. They, too, having lived by their fists, must have wanted to show off more and live more stylishly.
But Jangha did not allow meaningless violence. He had no intention of expanding his sphere of influence, nor of turning it into a “organization.” He had simply run it as a company.
“Do whatever you want. I’m going to do what I want too.”
“Hyungnim…”
“But if there’s anything you’ve felt while being with me this whole time… leave some romance behind.”
Mudeok clenched his teeth. He’d felt it for days now, but having it confirmed directly made his heart heavy. He had resolved to follow this man for the rest of his life, and yet he was being pushed away like this.
“…Yes. Understood.”
He wanted to cling to him more, but with that expression, there was no way his hyungnim would change his mind. All that was left for him was to guard this place after his hyungnim left.
“I’ll make it so strong that no one in the entire country will dare to touch it.”
Something about his underling’s voice was a little too fired up, and that pricked at Jangha a bit, but he kept his face firm and nodded.
“Hey now. I spoiled you, and you think you can come for my territory…?”
“If the conditions are the same, anyone should be able to take part, shouldn’t they? Shall I ask the landlord for you?”
“I’ve been handling this for years already!”
“That’s only because you drag in even the requests that went to other agencies, boss.”
“Heh. You really think your mouth is just for talking…”
“Does the landlord know you’ve been going around acting like you’re the exclusive agent for his stores?”
“What? What? Are you threatening me right now?”
“That’s why I’m saying, let’s do this fairly!”
“I don’t know where you picked up some scrawny little busker from, but there’s no way they’ll catch that old man’s eye.”
“Ah. Yes… well then, I’ll proceed my way.”
Turning her body sharply without even bowing, Miyeon felt her heart pounding.
At last, she’d landed a blow on that slippery snake.
“Hoo…”
Even for real estate agents, that basement practice room carried a lot of meaning. If you could just bring in a musician who completely satisfied the landlord, you’d be given quite a lot of conveniences afterwards whenever you contracted the other stores he owned.
Despite knowing that, the other agents hadn’t dared to jump in because of the network of connections held by Director Choi Gwangyeop of Changjo Real Estate.
He had spent money under the table on the small theaters in Hongdae to secure a musician network. Before long, in Hongdae, a rumor had taken root that if you wanted to get into that basement, you absolutely had to go through “Changjo.”
Because of that, it was only natural that inquiries had flowed into Changjo.
Jin Miyeon remembered the confident voice of the person she’d spoken with on the phone yesterday.
“We’re really good. That ajusshi is going to lose his mind over us.”
The voice had been very nice. It was definitely the voice of someone who sang. Buoyed by excitement, she headed to the address the client had sent.
“Uh…”
“Ah. The track… we do have to make a track. We haven’t been together that long yet…”
Miyeon furrowed her brow.
“This really does seem like them…”
“If we just do it live, I think it could work out somehow…”
“So, you’re saying… sir… you’re all… in a band?”
No matter how she looked at them, they really did seem like C2K, but then there were the delivery vests, the messy hair, the scratchy stubble. To compare it, it was like “The Prince and the Pauper.”
There could be look-alikes in this world. But they looked too much alike.
Or rather, that wasn’t even the main problem.
She’d come charging over with a chest full of pride, swearing she’d beat “Changjo,” and now… these were middle-aged ajusshis?
On top of that, a chicken shop?
How could hobbyist middle-aged men possibly beat out the formidable artists lining up for this place?
Miyeon quickly pulled herself together. She’d almost let out a sigh right in front of the client.
“Ah! Noona! That tape that was on the counter!”
“Huh?”
The woman owner came out of the kitchen, went over to the counter, and picked something up.
When Miyeon saw what it was, she let out the sigh she had been holding back.
A cassette tape.
The kind that sometimes popped up online in stories about the old days, when people used to listen to music. She had seen her father using one back when she was in elementary school. Since then, this was the first time she had seen a real one in person.
“Uh…”
As she stared blankly at the object in her hands, the middle-aged men with bright, shining eyes gathered around.
“Wow. This is our demo tape.”
“You still kept this?”
“Hey. I have five more at home. Did you forget I was the vice president of our old HB club?”
“Won’t it be stretched out?”
“Yeah, that’s true…”
The middle-aged men traded stories only they understood.
Miyeon was dumbfounded, but the look in their eyes was so wistful as they gazed at the tape that she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt.
“But do we even have a player these days that can spin this?”
“Uh… come to think of it, I don’t have one either.”
“Well, maybe that old man still does?”
“Hmm. That’s possible.”
“Hey, can’t we just go to him and tell him we’re playing music again?”
“They say he’s got rules for this. It sounds like it might be fun, actually.”
“You really still know how to enjoy life.”
They chattered away all on their own, and then—
“Give that to her.”
—suddenly, the “item” ended up in Miyeon’s hands.
“Unbelievable, seriously…”
With a dazed look on her face, she stared at the three middle-aged men, whose expressions were almost childishly bright for their age. They even folded their arms and beamed, looking weirdly full of confidence.
Her insides were burning, but there was something strange about their energy. Maybe it was those smiles, so bright and carefree for their age. She felt the worry inside her slowly settle.
“Just in case, you should shoot a bit of video later too. Today’s a performance day.”
“Sorry?”
“It’ll be worth listening to.”
His bright smile was so disarming she found herself nodding without thinking.
Ding-dong.
A man with a body like a mountain walked in.
“Oh, Jangha, you’re here?”
“Yeah. Let’s get ready.”
Miyeon’s lips trembled.
“Oh my god. Now there are gangsters too…”
Today was the day of the Angane Chicken live performance. It was the second show, as promised at the end of their first performance.
Chunggi went back to the storage room, brought out the drum set, and began setting it up. Bass drum, snare, tom-toms, hi-hat and one crash cymbal: it was an extremely modest setup, but compared to the fry baskets they had used as drumsticks on the first night, it felt almost extravagant.
Jangha and Jinhyeok set up the small amps, while Sangjeong fiddled with the synthesizer and adjusted the overall volume. Meanwhile, Seonha was standing over the fryer, making chicken as orders started piling up.
This was their first performance with proper instruments. Of course, they were cheap second-hand instruments and bargain-bin amps, but even that was more than enough.
All the tables had been cleared away, and the hall was packed. A standing show in a 25-pyeong chicken joint. There were even more people outside than the last time.
Seonha checked the number of chickens written on the kitchen memo board. They had ordered in twice the usual amount of whole chickens, but it was obvious they would still run short today.
As the noise of the instruments being tuned drifted over, she closed her eyes. It really did feel like the scent of that club from her twenties.
Filming from the very front row, where she had taken her spot to shoot video, Miyeon’s mouth hung open.
It was a parade of masterpieces familiar even to someone born in the ’90s like her—songs that had been covered countless times by various singers. They had been great songs to begin with, pieces that could move the heart no matter who sang them.
But the performance that was shaking her heart right now felt completely different from all the versions she had heard so far. The idea that this was just some neighborhood ajusshis’ hobby was absurd; this was luxury-grade.
It wasn’t just “pretty good.” Miyeon, who had never missed a live show by any of the more famous bands, could roughly gauge the level of this performance.
There wasn’t a single sloppy moment anywhere; the set flowed by with incredible ease. Above all, they handled sudden shouted requests on the spot and nailed those songs perfectly too.
The song they had just played was a cascade of high notes that even female singers struggled with. Even pros had to strain their throats and push dark red veins into their necks to get through it, and yet these guys handled it as smoothly as breathing.
Each wave of emotion that crashed over her was so heavy that her chest tightened before she even realized it. On the stage, the middle-aged men, who had looked so worn out before, now seemed to be standing in the glow of lights that did not actually exist.
She didn’t want to look away, but she was curious about the atmosphere in the room. Turning her body, she looked around.
The place was filled wall-to-wall with people in their forties or older. Strangely, there wasn’t a single one of her own age group—people who had just entered their thirties.
Everyone there, with eyes shimmering like water, softly added their own voices and savored the tiny chicken shop’s concert.
Soon, a sweet voice floated out on top of a guitar that went straight to the heart, and she turned her gaze back to the stage.
It was as if someone were speaking to her gently, and that warm voice finally made the tears she had been holding back stream down her cheeks.
“Don’t worry. The process of flowing along is wonderful in itself.”
The ajusshi holding the guitar smiled brightly and looked right at her.
Such a pure, open face.
She had been gritting her teeth and pretending to be strong for so long, but she had already hit her limit. Because she had chosen a different path from her peers from the very start, she had wanted to succeed even more spectacularly.
But unlike the worn-down seniors who had long since become jaded, she still wanted to be able to look herself in the eye, to be proud of herself. She was wandering somewhere between being a professional and being an amateur.
She did not want to be a sleazy professional, but it was too hard to remain an upright amateur. Her age was one of those ambiguous ones where it was still a bit early to call yourself a full-fledged “adult.” She was in the middle of a belated bout of drifting.
To a person like that, this gentle encouragement came pouring in.
You did nothing wrong.
The ones at fault are those fake “pros” whose consciences have gone numb because they’ve gotten used to being dirty.
So lift your head, and let them see those clear, honest eyes of yours.
Until the fake “pros,” who built their careers on cheating, feel ashamed of their own process, keep glaring at them with that sharp gaze, they seemed to say, cheering her on.
Looking back on it, when it came to life as a whole, the failures had been theirs, not hers.
The support was so tender that she found her hand clenching tighter without realizing it.
For Jinhyeok, the guitar he was holding again after so long felt incredibly precious.
The drum set and guitar that Seonha had bought at some church for almost nothing. In terms of money, they were modest to the point of stinginess, but since he had gathered here with his friends, it could not have felt more luxurious.
As he faced emotions that he would never have felt as a child, he felt like the path he needed to walk was starting to come into view.
Not long ago, he had come to understand the beginning of life—the most fundamental feelings of living beings. The deeper he understood them, the more dense the emotion that his music conveyed became, dense enough to be called a “miracle.”
If he continued to learn and understand every feeling in this world like this, eventually he would come to understand the emotions of those who were closest to “death.”
If he could only grasp their longing for life, then with his songs, he would be able to save her.
He could see hope.
“Well now. So in the end, you’re saying you want to face off against me?”
“No. I’m saying let’s have a fair competition.”
“You sure you want to keep doing business in this neighborhood?”
“Haven’t you already made that incredibly difficult for me?”
“Wow. What, did you eat something good? You’re really fired up…”
The door to the building’s management office opened, and Choi Gwangyeop hurriedly changed his expression.
“Oh, sir, you’re here!”
Grandpa Juseongdol gave him a sideways look as he rubbed his palms together, then exchanged a brief nod with the familiar female agent and took a seat.
“The kids I listened to this time were decent enough. Well, I’ll only know for sure once I see them in person…”
“They’re very skilled kids, sir. You’ll be putting your seal on the contract this time.”
“Well, I’ll only know once I see. And you are…?”
Since Choi Gwangyeop was slyly blocking the view, Miyeon shoved him aside and stepped forward.
“I came because there’s a band that wants to move into the basement practice room.”
“Oh? It’s been a while since someone came from an agency other than ‘Changjo,’ huh?”
“Yes. All this time, ‘Changjo’ Real Estate has had a monopoly on it.”
“Monopoly?”
At the edge in Miyeon’s words, Grandpa Juseongdol’s eyes narrowed to slits.
There had to be something there for her to say that, so it seemed he would have to look into it.
“For now, they haven’t been able to record a track yet, so I brought a video of their performance. And this…”
When Miyeon pulled an item out of the envelope, Choi Gwangyeop, who had been sneaking a peek, let out a snort.
“Wow. That thing’s still around? In this day and age…”
As he sneered, his voice trailed off when he saw the look in the landlord’s eyes.
Juseongdol gazed at the object with a trembling, faraway look, as if he were staring at something the world had erased.
It was an object that represented the greatest golden age of music, back when people talked about “a million copies sold,” “two million copies sold,” and music had existed as a physical thing. It had barely held out against CDs, but with the arrival of MP3s, it had vanished in an instant.
He slowly reached out and picked up the square, clunky thing.
“Come on, you can’t even play that now…”
Sensing the shift in mood, Choi tried to cut in, but Juseongdol raised his hand to stop him.
“You said there was a video too?”
“Yes, sir!”
Miyeon answered with energy.
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