Brothers Handle Brothers' Affairs

I was planning to move anyway—what was a school transfer next to that?

I was about to brush the whole thing off when a brilliant idea struck me like lightning.

Roa had said "big brother," not "oldest brother."

So the brother in the poem wasn't me—it was Liam.

If I just claimed my crazy middle-school-syndrome little brother put on a show every night, wouldn't that be perfect?

There was no better escape hatch.

Right. Pin it all on Liam…

"Roa seems to have a special gift."

"…Pardon?"

"I know we shouldn't compare her to the other students, but she's on another level entirely."

The teacher showed me poems written by the rest of the class. Compared to Roa's, the handwriting alone was barely legible—never mind the content or the craft.

I was looking at Roa's poem with new eyes when the teacher went on.

"She really seems to love and cherish her older brothers."

"Brothers?"

"She said she wrote it thinking of her big brother and her little big brother. Do you happen to know what the box is?"

A crate full of weapons and loot…

No—something else came to me all at once.

Our eyes met, and the teacher smiled and nodded.

"It's a shoe-shine kit. The things that shine like glittering stars are the polish her brothers use."

The long stick with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a handle was a hammer and a shoe knife. The shadows were the footrest, and the smoke was the soot from working up a shine.

Seen that way, the poem looked completely different.

A few of the turns of phrase still made me tilt my head, but I could chalk those up to poetic license.

"When I asked her why it was night, she said her brothers fix up the kit the night before so they can leave for work early in the morning. Honestly, Roa's sensitivity, her metaphors, her expressiveness—you almost never see that in children her age."

So my little sister was a genius.

And she had a warm heart, too.

I finished the conference and left the school.

I was about to head straight home when I stopped a little ways off and looked back at the red arched doorway.

I want to help Roa develop her talent. That's only natural for a school. But the most important thing is family. I hope you'll cheer her on and give her attention at home.

I was turning the teacher's words over when children started filing out one by one, some with leather bags that had handles, some with small satchel-style cases. A few had books tied up with string. That one was empty-handed.

Were they even allowed to come to school like that?

There were no parents waiting out front.

Walking to and from school with siblings or friends was the culture here. Besides, hard-pressed parents rarely had the luxury of standing outside the school waiting for their kids.

I was craning my neck toward the entrance when Roa appeared—the only one with a backpack, or rather, the only one carrying one in her hand.

She'd been chattering away with a friend, but the moment our eyes met her already big eyes went even rounder. Then she came scampering over.

"Big brother, you waited for Roa!?"

"Yeah. I met with your teacher."

Roa had zero interest in what we'd talked about.

"So why aren't you wearing the bag? Why are you carrying it?"

"Oh, this. Roa's friends don't have one. And it stands out too much."

"So my little sister doesn't like getting attention?"

"The bag isn't Roa."

That was a deep answer. Over-read it a little and it almost meant that if her own ability, her true self, wasn't what got noticed, none of it mattered.

From school to home was about two hundred fifty meters.

In under ten minutes we were home. Roa tossed the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bag aside and ran out to play with the other kids from the tenement. The children had to pass the time under the care of neighboring elders until their parents came home from work.

*

The office on Allen Street.

A visitor was waiting for me—Dopey Benny Fein, who ran a garment factory and, behind the scenes, was working with Tanner Smith to get into the waterfront unions.

"Been busy lately?"

"I had something to take care of for a bit. What brings you by?"

"We've got things to discuss."

At present, Tanner Smith controlled the Chelsea and Hell's Kitchen docks on Manhattan's West Side, while Dopey Benny Fein was steadily pushing south from the Lower East Side docks on the East Side.

"You ever been to the Fulton Fish Market?"

"Not yet. Are you making a move there?"

Dopey stroked his chin and nodded.

"It's a hard nut to crack, but the take is solid."

The Fulton Fish Market, founded in 1822, was the largest seafood distribution hub in New York City. In Korean terms, it was the Noryangjin Fish Market.

It sat outside the LES proper, near the East River at the southern tip of Manhattan, where Fulton Street met South Street—very close to the Wall Street financial district.

There was a famous incident tied to the place: the so-called Ice War.

In an age of limited refrigeration and few freezers, ice was essential for preserving seafood.

The market merchants needed massive amounts of it every day, harvested from the Hudson River and Maine and shipped into New York.

Naturally, gangs fought tooth and nail over the ice trade as a way to seize control of the Fulton Fish Market. That conflict exploded in 1916 as the Ice War.

Gangs made outrageous demands and threats; companies abandoned the business; merchants who resisted were beaten, murdered, buried, or had their stalls set on fire.

That summer, murders at the Fulton Market spiked, and ice dealers and gangsters killed each other in the clashes.

"There are two big factions—Italian and Irish."

The Italians were a mix of the Five Points Gang, Sicilians, and Neapolitans.

What interested me was the Irish side—because the White Hand Gang was involved.

"Come to think of it, cross one bridge and you're right in Brooklyn."

"It'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be stranger if the White Hand, who already own those docks, didn't want a piece."

The Fulton Fish Market was barely three hundred meters from the Brooklyn Bridge. Cross the bridge and you were in White Hand territory. By water, the East River was only about six hundred meters across to the Brooklyn docks.

"But does Fulton have anything to do with the ILA?"

"No. That's exactly why they want it."

The market's unions were mostly informal, ethnic outfits looking out for their own. Nothing like the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠professional ILA.

I wasn't indifferent myself.

In the Prohibition era, the Mafia muscled into all kinds of rackets, and the Fulton Market was one of them—held for a long stretch by the Genovese family, one of the Five Families.

I'd planned to take Fulton in my own time.

"What did Tanner say?"

"He doesn't want to get tangled up with the White Hand. After the Ice War, the Italians and the Irish settled into a rough balance, or so he says."

Dopey pouted, clearly unhappy with Tanner's caution.

"He doesn't want to poke a sleeping dog. We still have to do business with the White Hand's boss, too."

"We push the Italians out and split the market with them. With the way things are going, a deal should be possible."

"Dini Meehan isn't that easy a man."

Dopey raised his eyebrows, surprised.

"You know the White Hand boss?"

"I've never met him in person, but I've crossed paths a few times."

The Red Hook pier. The Newtown Creek sniper job.

And the deal Tanner had cut with Dini Meehan over the bar he'd opened on Coney Island.

"No need to poke them for nothing. And Fulton needs time. We don't just charge in swinging—we need a decent pretext."

"Pretext? You sit around waiting for a pretext and you'll never find a crack to squeeze through. Those Fulton bastards are already pushing out to the docks and messing with the unions."

For example: the gangs demanded protection money, and if you refused, they stopped you from unloading the catch off the boats. Leave fish sitting even a few days and it rotted, so the companies had no choice but to pay.

"Think about the money—Fulton Fish Market plus the waterfront. The cash that moves through there in a single day is enormous."

"Somehow I don't think that's the whole story. Spit it out. Why the sudden obsession with Fulton?"

Dopey's lips twitched. He sighed.

"A few days ago there was a scrap at Pier 17. We went at the Italians and got our asses handed to us."

So that was why he hadn't wanted to say it—pride.

"Numbers problem?"

"Those sons of bitches hit and run like nothing you've ever seen."

Whenever a brawl broke out, the laborers working the market poured out to join in.

"And the way they run—bolt straight into the market and vanish. There's nothing you can do."

Unlike the dockworkers, once they disappeared into the maze of the Fulton Fish Market, you couldn't find them.

"So the ones who work the market are the backbone, and that means the network is rock-solid."

It was less a gang affiliation than ethnic solidarity.

Looked at another way, even among the Irish the White Hand's influence wouldn't run that deep—and charging in from outside wouldn't make taking Fulton easy.

"Dopey, leave Fulton to me. This one needs a long game. And while we're on a different subject—"

I asked how the backpacks from his garment factory were doing on the market.

"The accounts are growing little by little, but not as much as we'd hoped."

"People just aren't used to them yet."

I'd bought Roa a backpack as a school gift, and she still carried it by the handle instead of wearing it on her shoulders.

Changing an unfamiliar culture took time. To change it—

"We need to invest big, Dopey. Consider it penance for all the sins you've racked up—make a nice fat donation."

"What are you talking about? Why throw money away on charity?"

"Don't you want to put on a clean suit and climb into high society?"

"Stop trying to sell me. It won't work."

I leaned in closer and whispered to the indifferent Dopey.

"Front of the card: successful businessman. Back of the card: ruthless labor slugger. One shot and it's done."

"…What is it?"

*

The tenement house.

Mother asked about my trip to Roa's school.

"They said she has a special gift. That we should pay attention and encourage her."

"Is that so?"

When I recited the poem Roa had written, Mother's eyes grew damp.

"Oh my. She must take after me."

"I don't think that's it."

"Well! Then who does Roa take after?"

In the middle of the conversation, Liam cleared his throat and cut in.

"I also… my teacher asked for a conference, Mother."

"Oh, Liam too? When?"

"Tomorrow at three."

"Ugh, I have a meeting tomorrow as well."

Mother looked at me. Of course I was going—it was my brother's business.

"I'll go. Honestly, looking at my little siblings, aren't I the reliable one?"

Roa quickly raised Teddy Bear's hand.

"Yes, Teddy, not you. Put your hand down."

"Big brother. Teddy is a little sibling too, you know?"

Liam didn't answer. He dry-washed his face and started to turn away.

"Stop. What's wrong with your hand?"

"Huh?"

He looked at his own hand and gave an awkward smile.

"Scraped it up."

I had a bad feeling about this.

*

The next day.

P.S. 62, Seward Park School, near Grand Street. Like Roa's school, three arched doorways marked the entrance.

I went through the same routine as yesterday.

The guard stopped me, checked a few things, and only then let me see the teacher.

"You're Liam's brother?"

A middle-aged man with a mustache stared hard at my face.

"Kieran Graves."

"You two don't look a thing alike. Sit down."

So Roa's teacher had been an angel.

This was a hundred and eighty degrees from yesterday's mood.

Eyes fixed on the student record, the teacher asked,

"No father in the picture. Mother's working, so you came in her place?"

Couldn't he tell by looking? Asking the obvious.

"Something urgent came up for her today."

"So if nothing urgent came up, she could have been here? She doesn't work?"

"She does."

"Anyway, Liam's grades are nothing to complain about. No—they're excellent. He took two years off, but he's hungry enough that at this rate he should graduate on schedule."

So that was why they'd called me in.

My siblings' gifts really were this outstanding.

A pleased smile was just touching my lips when—

"But separate from his studies, he's violent."

"…"

"Well, at that age you can let a lot slide. But those two went too far."

"Those two?"

"Wherever he learned to fight, he planted both of them into the floor. Their faces were a mess. Come on—even you have to admit that's a bit much?"

I shouldn't have come. I should have pawned this off on Mother.

While I kept my eyes closed, the teacher kept talking.

"To be fair, those kids' behavior wasn't great to begin with, so you can't pin it all on Liam. He says he held back more than once before it came to this. Still—I was going to let it go, but I can't rest easy."

School violence was common on the LES.

The problem was when a fight wasn't just kids clashing, but spilled over into turf wars between immigrant gangs.

"You know how it is. The school is about ninety percent Jewish and Italian. Which means the Irish are a tiny minority."

Given the nature of the LES, poor immigrants were overwhelmingly Jewish and Italian.

What the teacher was worried about was retaliation.

"Something similar happened not long ago. That student was Russian, but a petty school spat got out of hand."

On the way home, the kid had been stabbed.

He'd lived, but he'd dropped out of school.

"The ones Liam hit—what are they?"

"Italian. One of the kids he put down, a boy named Romano—I hear his brothers are in a gang."

So one of the two Liam had planted was a gangster's little brother.

The teacher's worry wasn't unreasonable.

"You live on the LES, you know everyone's situation. So for Liam's sake, I'd like you to apologize and smooth it over. Can you do that?"

"Will talking work?"

"Of course not. Money will. I know things are tight, but it's for Liam."

For all the bad first impression, the teacher was genuinely worried about my brother. Either that, or the school had handed down some kind of directive.

He held out a scrap of paper.

"That's where the brothers are. Show a little goodwill and they'll probably let it slide, don't you think?"

An address was written on the note.

The Fulton Fish Market.

Fratelli was Italian for "brothers."

"Brother business should be handled by brothers."