Only the Good Parts
The core value of any union is protecting its own interests from outsiders.
The unofficial Italian union at the Fulton Fish Market had been organized for the same reason—to keep the Irish and Jewish factions in check.
Ironically, rather than shielding the merchants, the union exploited its own members for personal gain. Protection rackets, forced exclusive contracts with favored suppliers, the shunning of non-members, and iron-fisted control over the laborers—all of it. The internal tyranny, far worse than any threat from outside, only grew more vicious once the two unions joined forces.
They called themselves La Guardia—the Guardians—but in truth they crushed Italian merchants under the heel of violence. Anyone who resisted was met with bloody retribution, and the rank and file were ruled with absolute dominion. And then—
A force that appeared out of nowhere shook the union to its foundations. On the same day, no less, they hit the shops twice.
“Have you figured out who they are?”
“Word is they’re gangs operating out of the LES, but we can’t pin down which ones for certain.”
The man receiving the report was a middle-aged fellow in his fifties. Donato Russo, a Sicilian immigrant who had crossed to New York in the 1890s. After opening a modest fish shop he had risen to be called the King of Fulton Market, one of the twin pillars of the alliance that ran the union.
Yet even Russo’s own store, for all his influence, was a ruin. Stacked crates lay toppled and smashed; fish had been trampled into garbage across the floor. The display cases were wrecked beyond repair and would have to be rebuilt from scratch.
“To pull a stunt like this… I’ll have to see Cardone.”
Russo set out for the shop of the other pillar who dominated the union—Bio “Silvy” Cardone.
“You useless bastards! What the hell were you doing while the place got turned into this? Twice! You got hit twice and did nothing!”
A roar of pure rage rolled out from inside the shop, followed by the dull thud of something heavy landing. Russo stepped calmly over the fish and splintered wood strewn across the floor and went in.
Inside, Cardone was in a frenzy, beating his men with an iron pipe. Where Russo had succeeded as a merchant, Cardone had clawed his way up with his fists. He crushed rivals by any means necessary and never hesitated at torture or murder when the situation called for it.
“We need to talk for a minute.”
“Hah. Kids these days are soft, Russo. Back in our time we didn’t get rolled like a bunch of idiots.”
Cardone flung the pipe aside and wiped the blood from his face with a towel. The two men moved to another spot and began to sort through the mess.
“Outsiders hit only the union leadership. Think it was the Irish?”
“Not a chance.”
Cardone shook his head at Russo’s suggestion. The attackers had been a mix of nationalities, not just Irish. Did the Irish at the market even have the reach to call in multi-ethnic crews? And if the White Hand Gang from Brooklyn had been involved it made even less sense—those boys were pure Irish through and through.
“Besides, the word is they’re active inside the LES.”
“What about the Jews, then?”
“Even less reason for them.”
The Jewish side had no motive to strike at the Italians. For years the two groups had left each other’s plates alone and coexisted against the Irish.
“So who the hell did this, and why?”
“What about the Romano brothers?”
“The Romanos?”
A family that had been rubbing the union the wrong way for some time. There had even been a knife fight recently; it was more than plausible that the Romano brothers, nursing a grudge, might have decided on payback.
“But how would they pull it off?”
“They could’ve cut a deal with a gang. Paid them off, say.”
“The Romanos don’t have the cash to move that many men. Honestly, I don’t think it’s them—”
“No. Think carefully. What do we need right now?”
Cardone looked at Russo as if he were an idiot.
“If we just sit here guessing, what are the members going to think? What about the Irish and the Jews?”
They needed a scapegoat—for show, for a warning. Whether the Romano brothers had been involved or not, they would pin it on them. If the brothers couldn’t take the heat, they would eventually leave the market altogether.
“While I lean on them, you set up a meeting with the Irish and Jewish unions. If LES gangs are sticking their noses into the market, those boys will be on edge too.”
“Mm. All right.”
The way Cardone handed out orders like Russo was one of his underlings grated, but Russo let it slide. Cardone had always been like this—sly, cruel, forever solving problems with violence. This was no different. All the talk was just window dressing; in the end he had simply chosen the Romano brothers as his punching bag.
When they had been enemies Russo had despised and scorned the man. Now he felt the opposite. How convenient to have someone who handled the dirty work on his own. Russo could simply pocket the profits from behind Cardone’s violent back. If things went wrong, Cardone would take the fall.
Russo swallowed a sneer and left the shop.
Cardone’s rage headed straight for the Romano brothers’ shop. More than forty union men trailed after him.
“You bastards brought in outsiders.”
“That’s stupid. We don’t have that kind of power.”
“Denial won’t help you. Don’t even dream of doing business for a while.”
Crates shattered. Fish that should have been sold went tumbling across the floor like trash. The staff of the Romano brothers’ fish shop took a collective beating, and Lanza was no exception.
“That’s enough for today. Clean it up. We’ll be back tomorrow.”
The shop looked as if it had been bombed in a war. The workers stood frozen, veins standing out in their eyes, not even daring to start the cleanup. What was the point? Cardone would only come again.
Vito Romano, grinding his teeth, dragged Lanza off to a quiet corner. He seized him by the collar, slammed him against the wall, and glared with burning eyes.
“You start something and the sparks land on us. What the hell do you want?”
“I’m… sorry…”
“Sorry?”
Vito bit his lip and forced the words out through his fury.
“When did I ever ask you for help!?”
“You didn’t…”
“Then why the useless meddling? And who the hell is this big-shot ‘brother’ of yours?”
“That’s…”
“Spit it out!”
Vito tightened his grip. Pressure clamped around Lanza’s throat until breathing became hard. Lanza slapped at his arm; only then did Vito ease off.
The rage in Vito’s eyes slowly gave way to pity. Lanza’s face was already a mess of bruises and blood. He had come here to learn the trade and ended up like this—by any measure he was the biggest victim of all.
“I’m sorry. I got too worked up.”
“It’s… fine.”
Vito released the collar and let out a long breath.
“We stood there and watched those bastards get wrecked and cheered, and now we’re blaming you. Hell, I must be losing it. Go rest.”
As Vito turned away, Lanza spoke.
“This is only the beginning.”
“What?”
“Hang on a little longer and you’ll see. Who gets smashed.”
In everything Lanza had watched so far, the “brother” he knew always had a plan. Vito, who knew none of that, only twisted his face further.
“Cardone’s a maniac. Cruel, sly, the kind of bastard who kills people.”
“My brother is worse, Vito.”
“Then who the hell is this damn brother of yours!?”
Second-floor office of the twin buildings on Allen Street.
I heard the latest on the Fulton Fish Market from Leo and Marcus.
“A guy named Cardone just wrecked the Romano brothers’ shop.”
“No proof they were involved—just a little stress relief and a warning. Lanza’s face is a mess again.”
Cardone’s name sat at the very top of the list Lanza had given me. If it was a kill list, he was priority one.
“From what we dug up, most of the market merchants are terrified of Cardone.”
“People who stood up to him have turned up dead under mysterious circumstances, or just vanished.”
I asked next about the name that sat right beside Cardone’s—Russo, the other pillar of the union.
“He’s been running a shop for a long time, so his reputation isn’t bad. Plenty of influence, too.”
“Lanza says that before he teamed up with Cardone he even got along with the Romano brothers.”
“So the problem is Cardone.”
Maybe I should remove him first and watch how the pieces fell.
Leo and Marcus, working with the crew, mapped out Cardone’s daily routine and brought me the weakest time and place.
“You doing it yourself?”
“Of course.”
I hadn’t jumped in just for the Romano brothers’ little fish shop. I intended to use the pretext they had handed me to pull in the Irish and the Jews as well.
Before starting the job I stopped by the first-floor shop and asked Ida.
“A wig?”
“Yeah. I need blond.”
“You’re not planning to cross-dress, are you?”
“Why? Think I’d pull it off?”
Ida looked me over from head to toe and shook her head.
“With that frame? People would stare even harder. Don’t you dare.”
“Guess I’ll go as a man, then. Where do they even sell those?”
“I’ll come with you.”
Without waiting for agreement she casually picked up her handbag. We left the shop in Leo’s care, pulled on masks, and stepped out.
I had wanted to buy wigs and disguise tools for a while. Money had been the problem then; now there was no reason not to.
“If you want to do it right you should get a custom toupee. But we don’t have the time, do we?”
Ida knew her way around wigs.
“What’s a toupee?”
“Partial hairpiece. Bald guys mostly wear them, but some people get full ones that look real. Expensive, though.”
“I’ll have one of those made too. Do you own a wig, Ida?”
“Mm. Secret.”
The two of us found a barbershop on Broadway.
Carlo’s Barber Shop
“Aspiring stage actor, you say?”
“Yes.”
The barber measured me for the toupee without much suspicion. While he worked, Ida picked out blond wigs that were easy to put on and take off and that suited me.
“Light brown wouldn’t look bad either.”
“Buy that one too.”
“Oh, this style would look good on you.”
The wigs were cheap artificial hair, but good enough for a quick deception. Ida went all in and chose four. Separately we ordered a toupee that matched real hair as closely as possible; those usually took a week or two to make.
Price: five dollars for a regular wig, twenty for a high-end custom toupee. All told I paid forty dollars.
“We’ll come back for it in two weeks, plenty of time.”
As we left the shop Ida stared straight at my face.
“If we’re going this far, let’s do the eyebrows too.”
“How?”
“Follow me.”
Broadway was thick with theaters, so shops selling related supplies were everywhere. Ida led me into a store that stocked props for stage actors. We bought makeup powder and cream, wax, oil, the works.
“Now you can even change your skin tone.”
“Enough to walk around shooting people in broad daylight and not get caught?”
“Not that good. By the way, where are you headed today?”
“Fulton Fish Market.”
“Then wear an apron while you’re inside.”
“Nice.”
We stopped at a general store and bought a rubber apron of the kind a fish-shop worker would wear. Shopping finished, we returned to the shop.
“Ida, what do we do when we come back from outside?”
I held out the hand sanitizer. I had bought the ingredients at Walcott Pharmacy two days earlier and mixed it myself. Of course Ida had been skeptical about whether it would do any good.
“If you want to live long, you do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leo’s eyes narrowed as he watched the two of us. All the way up to the second-floor office he kept grilling me about what I had been doing with Ida.
“A grown man chirping behind my back. If you’re interested, just confess already.”
“I’m just curious.”
“Then ask Ida yourself.”
“Forget it. She’s got ten years on me.”
That night, after closing the first-floor shop, Ida came up to the office and began disguising me with the things we had bought.
“Boss, I think you’ve gotten taller. Bigger frame than when I first saw you, too.”
“That’s the meat talking.”
“I shouldn’t eat any, then. Sit in the chair.”
She settled the wig on my head and painted my eyebrows blond with greasepaint, the kind used heavily in stage makeup.
“Come to think of it, your skin’s pretty fair. No need for powder. You take after your mother that way?”
“You could say I only inherited the good parts.”
Ida’s breath brushed my face. When the disguise was finished she held up a mirror. With blond brows and hair, the distinctly East Asian look had faded a great deal.
“Scarf and a hat and you’ll be perfect.”
Pleased with her handiwork, she even set a hat on my head.
“It’s night, so no one will notice. You could even shoot someone.”
“Yeah?”
I had planned to take only a knife, but maybe I should bring a gun too.
Ida headed for the dance hall; I left the office only after ten o’clock.
The Fulton Market grew busier after midnight. Between one and four in the morning the fishermen unloaded their catch and the wholesalers and merchants traded at full tilt.
When I arrived the market was packed. Mask, scarf, apron—I wet the apron with ice from the floor and slipped into the crowd, melting into the market.
I drifted past the Romano brothers’ fish shop. It looked as if it had taken a bomb hit; broken wooden crates and fish littered the front. The workers cleaning up all had faces swollen and mottled with bruises.
Among them I thought I caught a glimpse of Lanza…
Yeah. That was Lanza.
I felt a twinge of guilt for sending him here to suffer.
Just then my eyes met Vito’s. He was squatting off to one side, puffing on a cigarette. He blew out a long stream of smoke, then turned a bleak gaze toward the ceiling.
I’ll finish this soon.
My steps turned toward Cardone’s shop.