Does the Name Matter?
Allen Street twin buildings, second-floor office.
The member who'd been tailing Charles came to see me.
"The Metropolitan Transport & Supply Company is on Houston Street. Charles went in, stayed about thirty minutes, then left."
Just as Uncle Noh had said, the man who'd conspired with Franklin to sabotage Eastern Trucking was an employee named Charles.
"We'll use him to leak information. Keep watching him."
Once the member left, Leo tilted his head beside me.
"I figured you'd just storm the company and finish it. You're being pretty careful this time."
"If we did that, we'd be the ones finished first. Elimination isn't always the answer."
The NYPD was still hunting the Union as the force behind Itsuki Joe's assassination. Taking Franklin out alone was one thing, but wiping out several people at once? That carried serious risk. And we didn't need the trucking company badly enough to justify it.
"Whatever scheme Franklin pulled, the truck acquisition has to be resolved legally in the end."
"Nothing's ever easy, is it?"
"One slip and you're in free fall. Of course, being too careful is its own kind of problem."
Leo shook his head, muttering about how hard everything was. I scribbled instructions on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.
"Deliver this to Uncle Noh."
Not long after Leo left, Brian, the vice president of the Flea Market, showed up at the office.
"Boss, you called?"
I pulled a few things from the drawer—papers and cloth-made items—and held them out.
"What's this?"
"Articles for next week's Flea Market."
Brian skimmed the contents, then looked at me with a blank expression.
"A fatal cold of unknown cause… masks. What is this?"
"Exactly what it looks like. Take what I wrote, puff it up properly, and tie it to the masks."
"So the goal is selling masks, right?"
If my memory was right, flu patients should already be appearing around now—yet not a single paper had run a related story. Too early to draw attention? Fair enough. More people would have to die before the flu even got a name.
What mattered was that the Spanish Flu I knew was already beginning.
"If any of the new hires can write, have them draft the articles."
Spreading mask use wouldn't be easy. It would take fear-stoking rumors and media play, and neither was realistic yet. What I wanted was simpler: when the Spanish Flu finally broke out, the Flea Market—having already covered it—and my mother's company, which made the masks, would both draw notice.
Flea Market office.
All the way back to the company, Brian fretted over whom to hand the boss's article to. The senior reporters, with their gang roots, were out. That left the rookies.
"New hires, conference room. Now."
"Gather up!"
The rookies shot to their feet and filed into the meeting room. Once they sat, Brian tossed a sheaf of papers and several masks onto the table.
"Read it. Only raise your hand if you're confident you can write this."
One by one the rookies skimmed what Kieran had written; some studied the masks while waiting their turn. After a moment, one of them asked carefully,
"A cold spreading dangerously, and masks preventing it… is there any basis for this? It all just looks like speculation."
"That's why you have to make it sound plausible."
The kid hummed, then signaled he was out. The others followed suit. Then one red-faced rookie quietly raised his hand.
It was Ruben.
"You're raising that because you're confident, right?"
"Sorry, but I really need the bathroom…"
"You looking to die? Hold it in and dry it out, you little shit!"
"I'm serious. Just once—have mercy…"
"Ha. Fine. Hurry up and get back."
Ruben rose, pleading, and on the way out snagged a mask without missing a beat. Brian glanced around.
"Anyone friends with that kid?"
No hands. Brian clicked his tongue and shook his head.
"No instincts. No close colleagues. What the hell am I supposed to do with him?"
Maybe stick him on basement casino or dance-hall cleanup duty. A little later Ruben returned—wearing the mask. He sat, reread Kieran's draft, then cautiously raised his hand again.
"Put it down before I hit you."
"I'm raising it because I'm confident…"
"Confident of what?"
"You want a sensational piece that looks like an ad without being an ad—a mask article that sells without selling. Right?"
"That's right. Well, well. This kid had a revelation in the bathroom."
Ruben nodded hard and pulled the mask off.
"It's surprisingly easy to wear, and it works. I went to the bathroom and thought I was home for a second. Who wrote this, by the way?"
"Why?"
"Because it sounds plausible. Eight years ago Charles Chapin argued that disease spreads through direct contact or droplets. After Pasteur discovered germs, research into microbes has been active, but people still don't understand the exact mechanism of infection—just air and contact. Chapin, the health officer for Rhode Island, only recently introduced the idea of droplet transmission. Looking at this draft, though… it's wild, but it has an expert feel to it."
Brian looked pleased and pointed a finger at Ruben.
"Next week half a page of the Flea Market is going to colds and masks. Write the article."
Eastern Trucking Company office.
Having received Kieran's message, Noh decided to search Franklin's office.
"Would a guy set on running leave anything behind?"
"Or he left it precisely because he planned to run. Let's find the safe key first."
Noh manufactured an alibi and put the employees to work, all so he could leak information to the traitor Charles. One employee, boiling with spite, even suggested they just smash the safe open with an axe.
"And when the cops make an issue of it?"
"As if they would."
They had filed a missing-person report, but two days later the police still hadn't even visited the company. Supposedly they were investigating Franklin's house and the surrounding area—none of it inspired confidence.
"Noh, just let me grab an axe—"
"Found it!"
Noh, who'd been crammed under the desk, shouted. He waved the key that had been in his pocket all along as if he'd just discovered it.
"Hurry and open it!"
He fitted the key and turned. The safe swung open and every eye locked on the interior. Noh pulled out a ledger, skimmed it fast, then swept a look across the employees.
"Found it."
"W-what's written in there?"
"Everything that bastard Franklin's been doing. Every fraud he pulled. He was in on it with the Metropolitan Transport & Supply Company from the start."
A sidelong glance at Charles showed the man thoroughly rattled. Noh swallowed a private sneer and asked the staff,
"I was planning to visit the company that bought the trucks this afternoon. What do you say we go talk it over together? They're victims of Franklin's scam too."
As long as Metropolitan Transport & Supply claimed ownership of the trucks, Silver Chain Logistics was also a victim of a double contract—at least on the surface. The contract had been forced out of Franklin under threat, but it didn't look that way from outside.
"Maybe Noh's right—joining forces could help. If there's enough of us, the cops can't just ignore it."
"Let's do it that way, Noh."
The employees agreed. Panicked, Charles quietly slipped toward the back. A notebook detailing Franklin's frauds had suddenly appeared; he had to stop it from reaching the police. Charles hurried out of the company—and Union members followed him.
Late afternoon.
Near the South River East River docks on the eastern edge of the LES, Silver Chain Logistics—SCL—used one of five warehouses of varying sizes as its office. Close to the port, with plenty of ground, it suited a logistics and distribution operation. Kieran had bought the warehouses of a company that folded the moment he founded his own logistics firm, and he still had his eye on the neighboring ones.
Inside the converted warehouse office, Derek and Rosenthal—who held one pillar of SCL—sat with Noh, who had just arrived, heads together.
"Noh. Once this is over, I'm thinking of putting the truck company in Warehouse Five. It's got the most parking space. How does that sound?"
Derek asked while looking over papers.
"No reason for me to object."
"Then that's settled. The real issue is the staff. You can bring all the truck drivers over, right?"
"Everyone except that bastard Charles. The rest will follow me when I come. If not, we hire others."
"You'll be the one running it anyway, so you'll handle it."
Looking a little sheepish, Noh turned to Rosenthal.
"Kieran isn't coming?"
"He's at Allen Street. The boss doesn't really need to be here, does he?"
"True enough."
Boss. Through Derek and Rosenthal, Noh had learned that Kieran had succeeded Tanner Smith as boss of the Marginals—and that the Marginals now formed the core of the Union. His nephew was only eighteen. How much further would he grow? Noh couldn't even picture him a few years from now.
When the family finds out later, how will they all react?
Noh was scratching his cheek when another member of the family arrived: Ted of the NYPD.
"Hey, everyone's already here."
"Welcome."
His older brother Noh and brother-in-law Derek needed no formal greetings. Rosenthal was a first meeting—but a corrupt cop and a fence shook hands without awkwardness and traded meaningful looks.
"Isaac Rosenthal."
"Ted O'Connell. Fourth in the family. You used to work Hell's Kitchen, didn't you?"
"Oh? How'd you know?"
"I did a short stint in Hell's Kitchen as a rookie. Think I heard the name back then. Man, those days I was walking West Tenth every day with the rest of them."
"Oof. Starting your police career in the worst possible place."
Ted and Rosenthal clicked at once. Their conversation flowed as if they'd known each other for years.
"By the way, the guys outside—company staff?"
Rosenthal answered Ted's question.
"Not official employees. Members we put in until things settle."
"Members… you mean—"
"What, does the name matter?"
At Rosenthal's reply Ted glanced between Derek and Noh, catching the silent warning not to speak the name. Ted roughly understood the connection between his nephew Kieran and the Union. He cleared his throat, about to change the subject, when a member from outside came in with fresh news.
"Rosenthal—people from the Metropolitan Transport company are heading this way."
The members watching Charles must have passed the word. Ted knew how the situation was unfolding, but as a cop his angle was different.
"Noh, if a shootout starts or anyone ends up dead, we're in trouble. If the NYPD digs around here they might trace it all the way to the Union."
"We're handling it by the book, so don't worry. Why do you think we called a cop?"
"Ted, nothing's going to happen."
Derek backed Noh up, trying to put Ted at ease.
A group was approaching the SCL company: Candy Phil and the fence Old Nicky's crew.
"Nicky. You go in first and negotiate with them."
Old Nicky shot him a look. Candy Phil's plan was to step in only once he knew where Franklin's notebook was.
"When I give the signal, hit them hard. Don't hesitate and screw it up."
"This ain't my first job."
Only after getting Candy Phil's firm confirmation did Old Nicky approach the office with three men. Night had fallen; among the warehouses only one showed light. Finding the office was easy. No employees in sight. Old Nicky strode up without caution and opened the door—
and the instant he saw who was inside, his breath locked in his throat.
Shit…
Roughly ten men had guns trained on him, every eye fixed. He realized the trap and started to back out when—
Click.
The sound of a round being chambered hammered his eardrums.
"Have a seat. We've got a lot to talk about, don't we?"
At Noh's sneer Old Nicky ground his teeth, then bellowed toward the outside of the warehouse.
"It's a trap! Run!"
The shout rolled across the grounds. Startled, Candy Phil and his three men broke from the scene at once.
"Shit, that bastard Noh played us!"
"What do we do now?"
"What the hell did he mean, a trap?"
The rattled men peppered Candy Phil with questions. Instinct had them fleeing, but their heads only filled with more question marks. Once they had put a decent distance behind them, Candy Phil slowed. He caught his breath and forced himself to think.
"The only trap Nicky would mean is the cops."
He'd heard nothing about a gang being involved. If Nicky had yelled in that kind of panic, it had to be police. In a flash the coming picture assembled itself: Old Nicky arrested for conspiring with Franklin in the fraud, and the investigation reaching Candy Phil himself.
He had drifted in and out of station houses his whole life. Sometimes he'd even sat in a cell. Hadn't he been in Sing Sing until just two years ago? Five years of it.
Do that again?
Candy Phil clenched his fists. After spinning the problem hard he reached a conclusion.
"Don't go back to the company. Lay low for a while."
The men scattered as if they'd been waiting for those exact words. They were all acquaintances from prison or the gambling dens—less subordinates than temporary partners for a score. Loyalty? Not a chance.
Unlike what he had told them, Candy Phil headed for the company himself. The Union members who'd been chasing the runners from the warehouse exchanged a few words.
"That guy looks like he's heading for the Metropolitan Transport company. Ask the boss what to do about Candy Phil."
"And the others?"
"Small fry. Don't bother."
Allen Street twin buildings, second-floor office.
Good news and bad arrived together. The good: they had seized Old Nicky, the head of the Metropolitan Transport & Supply Company who had conspired with Franklin. The bad: they had lost Candy Phil—far more dangerous than any fence of a merchant.
Given his bad blood with the three O'Connell brothers and his role as the real power behind this affair, there was no telling how Candy Phil might strike later.
I stood up abruptly. Leo's eyes went wide.
"You're going yourself?"
"It's night."
The distance wasn't far. And a man who ought to be running instead going to the company—what did that tell you?
Dressed all in black, I stepped outside with Leo, guns and knives ready. On the street we caught an expensive taxi rather than a carriage and headed for Houston Street. At the destination a shadowy figure approached—one of the members who'd been chasing Candy Phil.
"Still inside the office, Boss."
A soft light leaked from the second-floor windows.
"Good work. We'll handle the rest. Go get some rest."
Once the member left, Leo and I ran through the plan.
"It's a little… one-dimensional."
"Who cares? As long as it works."
Leo hid in front of the company building while I slipped into an alley the streetlamps didn't reach. Roughly ten minutes passed. The second-floor light went out, and a man carrying a heavy bag came down the stairs. The moment he was fully outside, Leo lunged. A knife-hand strike to Candy Phil's throat, and in the same motion he snatched the bag—then bolted straight toward me.
He looked clumsy when he ran, but the whole sequence flowed like water. All that training had paid off.
"You—you son of a bitch!"
Coughing, Candy Phil scrambled up and gave chase. He tore into the alley where I was waiting, a gun in one hand. The first real tension I'd felt in a while. The closer he came, the more every nerve in my body seemed to twitch.
The instant he passed me I swung the knife from the dark.
Shhhk.
Clutching his throat, he twisted his head to look at me. Eyes bulging, he tried to bring the muzzle up—I seized the barrel and drove the knife-point into his chest.
He crumpled.
Dead at the company entrance would have looked like a planned hit. An alley looked like a random mugging. With any luck, the cops would see it the same way.