It's Really No Big Deal
After the meeting with the homeroom teacher, I walked the school hallway.
From Kieran's memories, school violence at LES was as natural as the air itself.
Immigrant kids formed packs and cliques; having gangster brothers was almost routine. The weak either joined a group for protection or, if they couldn't, quietly endured the beatings—or dropped out. In short, school was a training camp for future gangsters.
How was Liam supposed to live a normal school life in the middle of that?
None of it was Liam's fault.
Just then the bell rang and doors clattered open. Students poured out in a rush. The noisy chatter died the moment it reached me. Oriental. Chinaman. What the hell is that guy?—the words drilled straight into my eardrums.
I ignored them and kept walking, only to come face-to-face with the problem child who had just stepped out of his classroom.
Liam flinched and took a step back.
"You should've said something."
"It was nothing. What'd you talk about…?"
The kids nearby started yapping loudly.
"Liam! Put him on the floor!"
"What's with the staring? That ain't like you!"
"Orientals get—"
Liam glared, and every mouth snapped shut.
"Anyway, see you at home."
As I left the hallway, more voices floated after me. Who is that? Why didn't you just deck him? Should've stepped in for you. Only when Liam barked, "That's my brother, you bastards," did the noise finally die.
So there had been some change after all.
They used to pretend not to know him and avoid the brother who looked different.
Still, the way the kids quieted at a single word from Liam made it look like school life was going smoothly enough.
That evening Liam rushed through dinner so he could get to night school.
Mother, who had heard the situation from me, watched him carefully. Roa shook her head at him.
"Little Oppa should write a poem too. Apologize to Big Oppa. You should've said something about that beforehand."
"Why should I? It was really nothing."
Liam's voice got louder.
"They actually apologized to me. Said they were sorry. That was the end of it!"
"And?"
I raised an eyebrow and his volume dropped.
"The teacher just overreacted… We're actually closer now, okay?"
"Oh? So he thanked you for breaking his arm?"
"It's a guy thing. That whole communicating with fists. Strong recognizing strong—you wouldn't get it."
Eighth-grade syndrome was lasting longer than expected.
Roa seemed to feel the same way.
"Roa's scared of turning fifteen, Mom. Can't I just skip straight to being a grown-up?"
"Everyone has to go through it once. But Roa will handle it just fine."
"Wow, everyone's so mean."
"Enough. Eat your food."
The moment dinner ended, Liam grabbed his bag for night school.
When I put on my coat to follow, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"I keep telling you it's really nothing!"
"I know. Lead the way."
I left the house side by side with a pouting Liam.
265 Henry Street.
Henry Street Settlement
A social-welfare institution founded by activist Lillian Wald for immigrants and the poor. It mainly served students who worked during the day; Liam was the rare case who attended solely to graduate early.
"What time does it end?"
"Ten. You gonna wait till then?"
"Of course."
"Ugh."
Liam disappeared into the building. I headed south.
About a kilometer away lay East River Pier 17, the waterfront attached to the Fulton Fish Market. Close enough.
When a convenient pretext drops into your lap, you go check it out.
Thanks to Liam, the Fulton Fish Market campaign had been moved up.
Eight o'clock in the evening.
The cold air was thick with the East River's salt and the sharp, fishy reek of the market. The closer I got, the more the ground glistened with melted ice water and fish scales.
On one side, wooden crates just unloaded from boats were stacked high. Workers in rubber boots hauled them onto carts; merchants haggled prices with customers. Occasional rough curses, laughter, and thick jokes mixed together until the whole market thrummed with the same raw vitality as live fish.
I pushed through the crowds, asking directions until I found the shop in question.
Fratelli Romano Fish & Co.
I stood in front of the crate-stacked storefront and looked up at the sign. An employee approached.
"Looking for something?"
A man three or four years older than me wiped his hands on a greasy apron stained with fish blood and seawater.
New York's biggest fish market drew every kind of immigrant. No reason to hide my face behind a scarf, so I asked openly.
"Are you related to Luca Romano?"
"I'm his older brother. Why? Did Luca cause trouble?"
He squinted and glanced toward the back of the shop. So the kid was inside.
"Not your brother. Mine caused the trouble."
"Huh?"
I told him about the meeting with the teacher, carefully omitting any talk of retaliation.
After listening, Luca's brother—Filippo Romano—snorted and shook his head.
"Boys fight. What compensation?"
That… was not the reaction I wanted.
"You sure? I heard his arm got broken."
"The one who got hit was the idiot. And it wasn't broken—just a crack. Teacher was probably worried we'd come looking for payback. We won't. So relax."
What the hell was this?
The reaction was so open-handed it threw me off. I couldn't let a perfectly good pretext evaporate like this.
While my head spun, he asked,
"By the way, I heard you taught your brother how to fight. That right?"
"Living in LES isn't easy."
"True. But that can turn into poison. Touch the wrong people and you'll get hit back."
Damn. Now he was giving me advice. The pretext kept slipping further away.
I was wearing a sour expression when a group approached. Luca's brother's face hardened.
"If you're done, get out of here."
"What's your name?"
"Vito Romano."
"Kieran Graves."
"Fine. Now leave."
I turned and a cluster of men formed a wall behind me. They looked me up and down; one of them finally stepped aside. Their target wasn't me—it was the Romano brothers' shop.
I pulled my scarf up and slowed my pace, pretending to browse fish so I could watch.
They spoke in Italian. One man went inside; raised voices followed. At that signal the men outside started kicking crates and smashing the place up.
I watched from a neighboring stall. The employee in front of me asked,
"Need something, say so."
"Looks like that shop over there has a problem?"
He gave me a once-over and narrowed his eyes.
"Mind your own business. If you're not buying, leave."
I moved and kept watching the Romano brothers' fish store. The thugs soon finished their show and moved on.
Vito and the staff started cleaning up the wrecked crates. Among them a younger man with a splint on one arm was picking fish off the ground, face burning red with rage.
That must be Luca Romano, the one Liam hit.
I memorized the face and walked away.
What exactly was going on inside the Fulton Fish Market?
I circled the Irish- and Jewish-run stalls. The dark undercurrent beneath the lively surface never quite showed itself.
Puddles everywhere; my shoes were soaked by the time I finished checking Pier 17. Time was about up.
I turned back toward Liam's night school.
Ten o'clock. Walking home after night class.
"You've smelled like fish since earlier. You go to the waterfront?"
"Just got some air. By the way—Luca Romano, was it?"
"…Why?"
"Be friends with him."
Liam pouted at the sudden request, then brightened almost immediately, mood lifting.
Second-floor office of the twin buildings on Allen Street.
Dopey Benny Fein came to see me.
A few days earlier I had given him the marketing strategy for selling backpacks—spreading them through donations. He had been lukewarm then, but apparently he had gone in person to the Benjamin Altman School where Roa attended. He even knew the student count.
"Whole school's 1,125 kids."
"More than I expected."
"Shit, donating bags to every student is at least fifteen hundred dollars. You want me to just hand that over?"
"It's an investment. You don't have that much?"
Dopey ran a garment factory and shook down workers for protection money; even after kicking some of it up to me he still raked in a fortune. But for a man who only knew how to take and had never heard of giving, the decision was hard.
Time to toss another piece of bait.
"I'll get you a reporter."
"A reporter?"
"You meet the principal of Benjamin Altman School, take pictures, get an interview printed. Not mug shots—a chance to put your name out in the community. Clean up your image."
Dopey's eyes lit up.
"You know a newspaper?"
"Who do you think I am? Just decide, and a reporter will show up for the interview the same day."
After a brief struggle Dopey finally nodded.
"Fifteen hundred. Fine, I'll go big. Shit, I gotta get into heaven too."
Dopey was properly hooked. From now on Roa would never have to carry a backpack herself.
I changed the subject to the Fulton Fish Market.
"I stopped by yesterday. Even among the Italians there are factions, and people with grievances."
"Yeah, Italians fight hard by region of origin. So what's the play?"
"I think we should start the campaign now."
I laid out the concrete plan.
"First thing we need is intel on the inside of the Fulton Fish Market. That kind of information never leaks outside."
So we needed to plant one of our own inside.
Dopey and all his men were Jewish. I would insert people into the Irish and Italian sides—as employees.
"And what do you get out of that?"
"A union."
Dopey's eyes went round.
Right now the Fulton Fish Market only had informal networks—immigrants banding together by hometown.
"We build the union ourselves. And while we do it, we remove whatever gets in the way, one piece at a time."
"Damn. You're actually going to found the union yourself."
Dopey whistled and clicked his tongue.
Most labor sluggers just played existing unions against the bosses or took one side and started trouble. But founding the union from scratch and packing the leadership with our own people?
Long-term, controlling the entire Fulton Fish Market became possible.
After Dopey left I scribbled notes and sorted through suitable candidates among the members.
One of them had recently finished training under me and Anthony—the organization's only Italian. Joseph Lanza, from Palermo, Sicily. I called him in.
"Fulton Fish Market?"
"I'll pay you double what you're getting now. Go in and gather intel."
"Double!? Got it. But whose crew am I under?"
Fratelli Romano Fish & Co.
That evening I gently worked on Liam.
"You want me to ask Luca Romano for a job for someone?"
"There's a kid so hard up it'll make you cry just listening. Quick on the uptake, good worker, fast hands."
Especially at lifting wallets. Not that he did that anymore… probably.
"Anyway, he says his dream is to run a fish shop someday. He'll take any wage as long as he can learn the trade."
"Hard up but money doesn't matter? That make sense?"
He was sharper than he looked.
"Learning the job matters more to him. So tell them they can use him without any pressure."
"Mm. I'll mention it."
A few days later.
Fratelli Romano Fish & Co. took Joseph Lanza on. He started work at the Fulton Fish Market that same day.
And that same day a heartwarming piece appeared in the local paper that ran secondhand ads, want ads, and flea-market notices.
A special donation ceremony was held at Benjamin Altman School in LES.
Dopey Benny Fein, proprietor of the local garment manufacturer Dopey Shirtwaist Factory, provided 1,200 backpacks free of charge to the entire student body.
The event was organized by a company that has recently entered the backpack business, with the dual aim of contributing to the community and giving students a more convenient way to carry their books.
At the ceremony Dopey Benny Fein stated, "I wanted to give the children a small bit of help so they can dream of a better future," adding, "I hope they carry their bags on their shoulders instead of in their hands, so they can run more freely."
Parents and teachers in attendance responded positively: "Backpacks are still unfamiliar because they haven't become widespread, but this will let the students experience the convenience for themselves."
The donation carries meaning beyond simple charity. Dopey Benny Fein, once labeled a "labor slugger" because of conflicts with unions, now has the chance to build a new image as a philanthropist.
Some observers also see the gift as opening a new market for bags.
Remarkably, the backpacks themselves were developed by Free Your Body—already praised for its women's undergarments and brassieres—and brought to the public through collaboration with Dopey.
If the backpacks receive a warm reception from students and parents, they could spread across New York and eventually the entire country.
"Students who start out carrying bags in their hands will eventually sling them over their shoulders. Practical things get accepted in the end," said Nora Graves, president of Free Your Body, who developed the backpack. "This donation is the first step toward establishing a new consumer culture."
In fact, a student this reporter met outside Benjamin Altman School (Roa, age 7) beamed while wearing her backpack and declared, "It's way more comfortable than carrying it by hand."
Perhaps backpacks will no longer be strangers to New York's schoolchildren.
"Good article. Really good."
Alone in the office I clapped. Ruben had understood my intent perfectly. The piece balanced Dopey Benny's notorious past as a slugger with the good deed and the backpacks themselves, turning the whole thing into an advertisement that didn't look like an advertisement.
Dopey himself was furious it wasn't a major paper, but he liked the philanthropist title just fine.
That was enough.
I was still flipping through the flea-market paper when Morris the real-estate man showed up at the underwear shop.
"A decent three-story villa just came on the market."
At last it was time to leave the tenement house.
I decided on a move to a middle-class neighborhood near the intersection of Orchard and Delancey, on the northern edge of LES close to the East Village.