It's Not Our Blood, That's Certain

The owner of the Metropolitan Transportation & Supply Company.

Old Nikki had been arrested by the NYPD on charges of conspiring with Franklin in fraud.

Ted had seized Old Nikki and handed him over to the East Village precinct officers, while a warrant went out for Franklin on financial fraud charges. Charles, the inside truck driver who had colluded with them, was likewise indicted and under investigation.

As for Candy Phil, found murdered in the alley out front of the company, the probe was focusing on robbery-homicide.

Second-floor office of the Allen Street twin buildings.

I was going through the contents of the bag Candy Phil had taken from the company.

Twenty thousand dollars in cash. A considerable haul of jewelry whose origins were anyone's guess.

On top of that: contracts between Franklin and the Metropolitan Transportation & Supply Company, ledgers, fake invoices, forged payment statements.

Candy Phil had clearly grabbed the evidence documents intending to use them later. Fat lot of good they would do him in the afterlife.

I shoved the junk onto Leo.

"Get rid of it."

"Got it. But damn—this is something else. With this, you just swallowed the whole trucking company for free, didn't you?"

"Nothing in this world is free."

I had worked my brain harder than usual.

The members tailing Charles and Candy Phil had done their jobs too.

Everything locked into place, and SCL secured full legal recognition of truck ownership—complete rights, airtight.

The twenty thousand in cash and the jewelry were just gravy.

"Looks expensive enough. I'll ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have Rosenthal move the jewelry."

I was stuffing the cash into an envelope and packing the jewelry into the bag when company arrived.

Uncles Noh and Ted, Uncle Derek, and Rosenthal.

We put our heads together around the table.

The Eastern Trucking affair was settled for the moment, but fifteen thousand dollars remained—the bank loan Franklin had taken out when the company was founded.

"With Franklin on the run, I have no choice but to shoulder the joint liability."

"You filed for bankruptcy, right?"

"Did it today. It'll take time, though."

"Noh hyung, even if you filed, the bank won't just walk away."

Ted cut in. Judging by past cases, his view was that a legal fight was unavoidable in the real world.

"Depending on how much the court decides you were involved in your partner Franklin's fraud, embezzlement, and breach of trust, the size of the debt will change too."

In other words, even if Uncle Noh found work elsewhere, he could end up handing a slice of every paycheck over to the bank for years.

Of course I could clear the bank debt for him.

But why should I?

The bank would try to cut its losses by selling the company.

Yet the biggest asset—the truck ownership—had already transferred to SCL. All that remained was office furniture.

So the only real lever left to the bank was to sink its teeth into its partner, Uncle Noh. Joint liability, legal action—the path was obvious.

"On top of that, the bank will assume Uncle can't mount a proper legal defense."

"…Well, that's true enough. I just filed for bankruptcy. Where am I supposed to find lawyer money?"

"If you simply sit still, the judgment will go exactly the way the bank wants."

Therefore we had to push back—only then would there be room to negotiate.

"I'll cover the legal fees."

"You?"

"Even if we lose, it'll still cost less than paying the whole debt off clean."

Uncle Noh's eyes glistened.

At that moment Ted, who had been lost in thought, spoke up.

"Kieran, you know any lawyers by chance?"

"Not a one."

"Then shall I dig one up? Fellow who spent three years as a prosecutor in Westchester County. Just opened his own firm."

"Is he clean?"

"Would I have opened my mouth if he was?"

A lawyer comfortable with corruption.

That was a rare specimen. My interest sharpened at once.

"Then let's put Uncle Noh's defense in the hands of the man Uncle Ted mentioned."

"Yeah. I'll make contact."

Separate from the legal mess, we turned to absorbing Eastern Trucking itself.

Noh actually smiled as he delivered the employees' decision.

"Everyone except the traitor Charles is coming over to SCL. Didn't even hesitate—they were happy about it."

"That's good news. By the way, didn't they say their wages were unpaid?"

"Well, they'll have to live with that."

One month's back pay—roughly five hundred dollars by my reckoning.

I flicked a glance at Leo. He pulled an envelope from the desk drawer and handed the thickest one to Uncle Noh.

"Pay the men their back wages under SCL's name and take the rest home. There's a thousand dollars in there."

"What?"

"The household just went bankrupt. How hard must Auntie have taken the blow?"

Past Uncle Noh's round eyes I held out another envelope to Uncle Ted.

"It's a bribe."

"Hey, this is a bit…"

"Kidding. I put in what your work was worth. You bagged Old Nikki, after all."

Two hundred for Uncle Ted.

Same treatment for Uncle Derek.

Rosenthal slid his hand out as well.

So instead of an envelope I pressed the bag into his palm.

"?"

"Ten percent of whatever you move. That's your cut."

Rosenthal peered inside, clapped a hand over his mouth, then gave me a deep, emphatic nod.

Hard to argue it was the biggest reward in the room.

He had done heavy lifting on SCL's founding and the warehouse purchase. Fair price for results.

Paying people for performance mattered that much.

I had no idea how they felt taking money from their nephew, but they would have to get used to it.

I had another reason for making the gifts so public.

Groundwork for the next job I was about to hand them.

"From here on, SCL concentrates on liquor distribution. Hide every transaction record cold. I mean to fill the warehouse wall to wall with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠booze. Absolute secrecy."

"Kieran—do you really think Prohibition is going to pass?"

Uncle Ted asked.

His face said he was skeptical.

Not opposition so much as worry.

Fair enough. On December 18 last year the resolution for the Eighteenth Amendment had been nothing more than "a resolution calling for a constitutional amendment to enact Prohibition."

In short, preparatory groundwork for the actual enabling legislation. It had cleared both houses, but the road ahead was still long.

A constitutional amendment needed ratification by three-quarters of the forty-eight states—thirty-six. So far only eleven had signed on.

Even if that hurdle fell, the enabling act still had to pass and take effect. Nothing about the process would be easy.

"Even so, I'm one hundred percent certain. And if it somehow doesn't land inside two years, we just sell off whatever's sitting in the warehouse."

"True enough. Whiskey in bottles doesn't expire."

Keep it out of direct sun, high heat, and damp, and whiskey would still taste right a century later.

In my previous life I had watched videos of bottles buried during Prohibition selling for tens of millions of won apiece. Unlike groceries, whiskey was worth stockpiling.

The meeting broke up. Since they had come all this way, I wanted to show them more.

"You free for a bit longer?"

"If the nephew says make time, we make time. Why?"

"Leo, give them the tour of the businesses."

"Businesses?"

Leo shepherded the still-bewildered uncles and uncle-in-law down to the basement.

Basement level one: the dance hall.

The floor was packed with couples moving to the band.

Leo murmured something into a server's ear; a moment later three beers appeared.

"First—cheers…"

Noh raised his glass; Derek and Ted met it with a solid clink.

"Pocket money from the nephew, and now this? What kind of business is it supposed to be? I can't tell dream from waking."

"Want me to slap some sense into you?"

"I'll pass."

Derek and Ted drained their beers and stared out over the floor, voices turning serious.

"I've been watching Kieran. The kid's not ordinary. Honestly, he scares me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a little."

"After the way he cleaned this mess up, I think I finally get what you mean. Ten years from now—just the thought gives me goosebumps."

Noh clapped both of them on the shoulder.

"A genius finally showed up in the O'Connell clan after all the years we limped along. Whose blood do you think that is?"

"Sorry to Father and Mother, but it isn't ours, Noh hyung. That's certain."

"Exactly why we help him. It's the only way left to apologize to Nora and her husband for ignoring them all those years."

"When you put it that way… brother-in-law was extraordinary too. We just never saw it."

What a cheap reason skin color and birthplace had been for looking down on Kieran's father. The shame of it still sat bitter on the tongue.

I emptied my glass with a wry twist of the mouth just as Leo stepped in.

"Next stop, gentlemen."

"There's more!?"

Basement level two: the illegal gambling den.

Officer Ted clicked his tongue at the open scene.

"I want to haul every last one of them in."

"Family first, family first."

"Only joking. We're here—might as well play a hand, right?"

Ted's stride lengthened as he scanned the tables. He dropped into an empty seat at the poker table and grinned.

"Does he act like this in Harlem too?"

"Not a chance."

"Derek, first time for you as well?"

"Only heard the stories. First time setting foot inside. Makes you wonder what else our sneaky nephew is still hiding."

The two of them drifted naturally to the dice table.

Noh gave Derek a pointed look.

"As human beings, let's leave the money Kieran just gave us alone."

"I do have a conscience. We'll keep it light and go."

Roughly an hour later Ted and Derek dragged a protesting Noh out by force just as he was reaching into his envelope.

"What the hell are you doing making a scene in the nephew's place?"

"Noh hyung, from this day forward you never set foot in a gambling den again. You'll sink the whole family."

"I only lost five dollars."

"Five becomes fifty becomes five hundred. You never used to look twice at gambling—why start now that you're older? Should I tell Larry hyung?"

"Sorry, you bastards."

Under their scolding Noh scrubbed his face with both hands.

Good mood had clearly killed his self-control.

Still, the younger brothers had saved the day.

Out front of the building Leo bowed low.

"Take care getting home."

"You too, Leo. Good work."

They were just turning to leave when two uniformed officers strolled up.

"Well look who it is—Ted?"

"Hey, Michael, George. Right—this is your patch, isn't it?"

"What about Harlem? Why are you down in the LES?"

"Family get-together for once. This is my big brother; this side is my brother-in-law."

"Pleasure. But what's worth gathering for around here? The dance hall, maybe?"

The joke earned awkward answering laughs from Noh and Derek.

Ted, perfectly at ease, simply pointed at the lingerie shop.

"You boys been inside that place yet?"

"Of course. It's hot right now."

"Buy the wife some underwear and suddenly the treatment improves."

"That so? My sister runs it."

"Sister?"

Michael and George's eyes went round as they peered through the glass. The door swung open and Kieran stepped out wearing a bright, open smile.

"Perfect timing. Introduce yourselves—my nephew."

"Kieran's your nephew?"

"Looks like you already know each other."

"I'll be damned. No wonder ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the kid's manners were so good and he seemed raised right. Ted's nephew all along."

Noh and Derek exchanged glances that said they had felt this before.

His face really is different now.

It was the pure, sunny face of a properly raised eighteen-year-old.

Before they parted Ted drew Michael and George a few steps aside and quietly slipped them two ten-dollar bills.

"Keep an eye on my nephew from now on."

"Between us? What's this for?"

"Ted, if he's your nephew he's as good as ours. No need for the request."

"Just hearing that is enough."

How to turn those two into the next generation of NYPD brass. That was the thought turning over in Kieran's head as he watched from a distance.

The instant I finished the article I summoned Brian, vice president of Flea Market.

"Who's Ruben?"

Brian, thoroughly cowed, scrubbed his face and answered.

"A rookie. The same little shit who went sniffing around the Boss's mother's company a while back. The piece… went too far, right? Shit. I'll go straighten him out myself so the next one—"

"No. Tell him to keep writing the follow-ups. Give him a bonus too."

"Huh?"

The article sat perfectly with me.

A ten-dollar bonus was a bargain. Ruben already showed every sign of being a reporter born for yellow journalism.