Lucky Dog 1 translations 08 Ivan route 04
Part 3: Daivan
Ivan’s Day Job Pt 2
We pull out onto a wharf made of concrete so old it looks like it’s about to crumble into the ocean any moment. This time, we head out into the mass of broken-down huts.
Today’s breakfast is porridge from Chinatown.
It was pretty good, but still…
|Gian: …Five cents a bowl, so a dime for two? That’s great, but come on, why don’t you give them a bigger tip…?|
Ivan: Wha? The hell’re you talking about?
Ivan stops and turns around to look at me. The expression on his face reminds me of a cat that smelled something funny.
Ivan: It’s already a big surprise for them if a big gang boss – that’s me I’m talking about – come around and pay for my food! I’m about the only one who doesn’t rack up a tab there!
…Somehow, I feel like he missed the point of what I was saying…
|Ivan: Besides! That … that thing Luchino does, where he pays everyone extra and butters them up! That’s not the way to go about things!|
|Ivan: That’s just the same as putting them down! Isn’t it just rude if you throw money about and shove it in their faces? Don’t you think?!|
…Art and life are all in the eye of the beholder, I guess. Yeah.
|Gian: I guess you thought through it in your own way.|
|Ivan: Of course! …Shit, let’s get going.|
Ivan and I set out over the still-wet roads. I don’t get his way of thinking. …No, more like … it’s very unique.
At that time, suddenly … Ivan stops, and I almost crash into him.
|Gian: Hm? What is it?|
|Ivan: Our after-meal workout’s here.|
A single boy is running towards us ahead, dashing like a rolling ball. It’s a white kid, sporting a faded hat and vest.
Boy: …Mister! They’re at the shop…! Papa’s…!
The kid yells out more garbled English. This ‘Mister’ he’s addressing is … ah, Ivan.
Ivan: Sam’s place, right?
Ivan practically spits those three words out and, just like that, quickly follows after him. I tense up as I feel a chill down my neck…
|Ivan: Nothing so bad!|
Ivan sounds unusually happy. We stick close to the brat as we run after him.
The kid brings us into what looks to be a general goods store in one of the brick building reeking of age in a corner of the city.
|Gian: Huh, there’s no one here.|
…Ah, it’s a Jew store. Yeah, that symbol’s them.
There’s no one in the store. The boy cries and wails something.
|Ivan: Watch the store. We’ll bring your dad back.|
With only those words, Ivan stalks off towards the back exit with big steps. He picks up one of the lollipops on his way out and sticks it in his mouth.
I stick a wad of gum into my mouth and follow him.
There’s a warehouse that’s been transformed into some sort of factory out behind the store. The steam-powered pistons hammer away continuously in a noisy ruckus, like they’re practicing the drums.
Ivan’s head swivels around like a dog on the scent. He sniffs the air and walks towards one of the doors.
|Gian: Was that just now one of your stores?|
|Ivan: Yeah, it belongs to a Jew named Sam. He keeps the books for the area. Well, we’re talking about my personal nest egg here, though.|
Ivan pushes open a rust-crusted door and the moment it opens, a foul stench hits me and practically stings my eyes out.
It’s … the factory … toilets… Ivan barges in. There…
Thug A: …Say ‘yes.’ How the hell’d they even let you into the states if you didn’t know how to say that much in English?
Thug B: This Jew’s a fucking waste of time. Spill before we light the place up!
There’s several men. There’s some that just look jobless and others who, no matter how you look at it, look nowhere near respectable. The four kick something curled up on the ground.
Thug A: The cops and the Toscanini Family aren’t gonna help a stupid Jew like you! Listen up, if you wanna keep your business up, then…
Ivan: …You guys just need to get whacked, right?
Ivan spits the words out, almost literally. At his voice, the guys jump and twirl around.
Thug A: Wh-Who the fuck are you?!
Thug B: Who gives a shit? You said something interesting, just now, hm? Should we make you lick the floor clean? Like we made him?
One of the hoodlums gives the guy on the ground a kick. …Is this the store owner, Sam?
|Ivan: Then I’ll just have to make you guys scrape the floors clean with your teeth.|
Thug B: What’d you say, you brat?!
Thug A: Who the hell do you think you are? What gang are you from?
The gangbangers crowd around us in the narrow restroom.
Ivan: Scum. You think you’re part of a gang and you don’t even know my face? Listen up, we’re—
|Gian: I’m Bathroom-Gum-Chewer-Man. He’s Bathroom-Candy-Licker-Man.|
|Ivan: …You know…|
Ivan turns to me with a very disgruntled look. At that time…
Thug A: The hell are you even talking about?!
One of the thugs swaggers forward and reaches to grab my collar.
Thug A: Gwah!!
Except Ivan’s feet are faster. He’d lifted his foot up, like he’s trying to show off the bottom of his shoe, and just kicks. The guy flies into the opposite wall.
…He’s stopped moving. Mm, no, he’s still moving. Just a tiny bit, with vomit spilling from his mouth.
Thug B: Sh-Shit! Why you…!!
A moment later, the other startled guys start yelling. The three gangbangers charge, each wielding something – a pipe, a club, a knife. …They charge, but…
In the narrow restroom, they only end up shoving each other in the face to try and get ahead.
Ivan pulls them forward with a punch and kick, one by one. The painful-sounding noises echo through the room countless times…
Thug B: G-Guaagh…
And then there were five, rolling around on the dirty floor of the restroom.
|Gian: Oh wow, and I didn’t do a thing.|
Ivan helps up the storeowner they’d been kicking around before we’d arrived and talks to him in accented English.
|Ivan: Get to the doctor, Sam. I’ll be in a huge jam if you croak on me.|
The man limply nods and, with a word of thanks, leaves the gruesome scene behind…
One of the thugs gives a groan and tries to push himself off the ground when Ivan shoves a shoe into his stomach.
Ivan: Now then…
Ivan pulls the guy up by his hair…
Thug B: Geh! Nnguh!! Gah!!
…and slams the guy’s face into the filthy urinal, turned yellow by all the piss crusted onto it, again and again.
|Ivan: A mop works better than this.|
Ivan tosses the guy aside and picks up another… The thug flaps around like he’s playing in the puddle of blood and vomit when Ivan lifts him by the nape of his neck.
|Ivan: ‘I’m sorry.’ Come on, you should at least know that much English.|
Thug A: Guh… Wh-Why you… We’ll … the GD tops…
Thug A: G-gwah! S-stop!
Thug A: Ee! S-stop! Please!
|Ivan: Where’s the ‘sorry,’ huh?!|
Thug A: N-ngh… I-I’m s-sorry… R-Really sorry…
|Ivan: I can’t hear you.|
He abandons the guy to the floor where the blood is starting to overtake the vomit. I sigh.
|Gian: So they’re GD foot soldiers?|
|Ivan: Who knows. Shit, this is a load of pain. This is why I’ve gotta come out here in person every now and then.|
|Gian: Can’t just leave it to your guys?|
|Ivan: I’m the one who has to look over the books anyways. …But I’m really bad at all this accounting and number business. I’ve lost a lot ‘cause of that…|
|Gian: Aah. I’m bad with bookkeeping, too.|
|Ivan: You’re completely useless!|
We leave the restroom behind like we’d done nothing more than take a piss.
|Gian: But, man, you’re really strong in a fistfight.|
|Ivan: That? That doesn’t even count as a fight.|
…Huh, he twitched just now. He happy? I’ve heard before that he was violent … but now that we’re out here, it’s like the violence brings him to life.
Ivan: I mean, even with us… Luchino only looks big, and Giulio’s not scary at all once you take away his knife…
…Sigh… And here I just gave him a little compliment… You really are an idiot, aren’t you.