LES's Most Vicious and Cruel Gang

The first streetcar of the morning delivered me to the office on the second floor of the twin buildings.

The reek of blood, the stench of fish—some foul, unidentifiable smell hung so thick that I slept not at home but in the makeshift bedroom set up in the back of the office.

I closed my eyes for a moment and opened them again. It was eleven in the morning.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I moved into the office proper to find Leo waiting for me.

"Everything go all right?"

"More or less."

The LES gangs had stirred up the Fulton Fish Market, and Cardone had finally been killed. How would the unions react from here?

My quiet hope was that outside forces would be dragged in and the market plunged into even greater chaos.

"We'll see once we keep watching."

"Oh—Cale brought this by this morning."

Leo held out an envelope.

It was Order No. 13 from the newsstand. A certain ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠face came to mind at once.

Sure enough, the envelope contained a request form like this:

"Drug—that's a junkie, right? A hophead?"

"Not wrong, but more precisely, someone who sells the stuff."

"Someone you know?"

The second client, "Drug," was almost certainly George Walcott, the pharmacist of Walcott Drugs.

He had seemed to brush off what I said—yet he had gone all the way to the newsstand and submitted a request form.

"But asking someone to take a life for two hundred dollars? That's pretty shameless, isn't it?"

"A person's worth differs from one man to the next. To someone drowning in debt, that could be every last cent he has."

"What's gotten into you? That doesn't sound like you."

Of course, looking at the rent on the townhouse Walcott was living in now, the fee really was low. If debt were the real problem, he should have moved house first.

Still, the fact that he had gone so far as to place a hit suggested Walcott was backed against a cliff. Did he even understand what connection might exist between me—a complete unknown—and the man he wanted dead? He looked desperate enough to ignore that kind of risk.

"You taking the job?"

"First I need information on the loan shark, Archie 'Black Hand' Roselli."

As Leo wrote the name in his notebook, Brian, who managed the Flea Market, came in. He was here for me to review the paper before it went to print.

"No trouble filling the ad space these days?"

"We're packed through the end of this month. The boys are already out hustling for next month."

"We'll have to pay them a summer bonus."

"Oh-ho."

I opened the Flea Market and scanned the pages. The first thing that caught my eye was the mask advertisement placed on the front page, along with a newly added article on hand sanitizer—Ruben's flamboyant penmanship was shining again.

"I ought to raise this kid into a major figure in the yellow press."

"He earns a thrashing now and then, but he works hard."

I skimmed the miscellaneous company ads and turned the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠page.

The help-wanted and situations-wanted columns were packed solid. I always made a point of reading the situations-wanted section carefully; one of the original purposes of founding the Flea Market had been to make it easy to hire the talent I wanted.

Plenty of them padded their résumés, but every so often a decent prospect turned up. Ruben of the Flea Market and the new hires had all been filled that way.

And sometimes you got the absurd and the entertaining. A few of them caught my eye today as well.

"Well now. Just looking at that makes me want to meet him."

"Seems like a nutcase to me."

"We'll know once we meet him. Add him to the interview list."

Leo scribbled on a sheet of paper. Next:

Job seekers of this type were usually former police, soldiers, or veterans of places like the Pinkerton Detective Agency. The thing to watch for was that they might also be informants for the NYPD—or for the BOI, the Bureau of Investigation.

"We'll have to meet him first. Add him."

Next candidate:

A Wall Street man would have plenty of connections—so why bother advertising in the Flea Market?

Two main suspicions came to mind. Embezzlement, breach of trust, or entanglement in financial fraud that made him unemployable in the banking world. Or discrimination—a Jew or a German driven out.

Everyone knew American society ran on WASP lines—White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. In this era especially, most of the big banks and financial houses on Wall Street were locked down by WASP stock. Germans, as the villain nation of the Great War, went without saying—and discrimination against Jews was nothing new either. Jews and Germans who had lost their jobs when investment houses collapsed found reemployment far from easy.

"I should meet this one too."

"You're interviewing all three?"

"I can't sit around waiting for capable people to wander in."

If they passed the interview, I would keep them on the side for a while and watch. If they proved trustworthy, I would pull them in deep; if not, I would rotate them on the outside and eventually cut them loose.

"Get in touch and set interview dates. The day before the Flea Market goes out would be best."

I needed to see them before anyone else snapped them up. That was one of the Flea Market's strongest advantages.

"All right—I'll contact the candidates—"

"Wait. The one about finding people who can't be tracked—I'll go see that one myself."

I wanted to gauge his abilities. I would put him to work investigating Archie "Black Hand" Roselli, the man George Walcott wanted dead.

Third floor, 250 Broadway.

Raymond Kane was running an office out of a space no larger than three pyeong or so. He looked to be in his early thirties, and the moment I saw him I flinched and took a step back.

A clay pipe the length of a palm—white, molded from clay. A checkered deerstalker and a cape draped over his shoulders.

Whether he was a Sherlock Holmes fan or simply committed to the bit, Raymond Kane sat at his desk in a Sherlock cosplay, the office thick with tobacco smoke.

Maybe I should just leave. This guy's a lunatic.

Raymond called out to me as I hesitated.

"How did you find this place?"

"You're supposed to be a specialist in infiltrating personal information."

"True enough—but I haven't officially opened the office yet. How on earth did you know to come here?"

"Why not guess? If you're curious."

Raymond laced his fingers, interest sparking across his face. His eyes glittered as they raked me from head to toe with sharp attention.

"I already know. Do I really have to play along?"

"If I give you a job, this will count as the deposit."

"…… You're an Oriental."

"Any kid walking by could tell you that."

Raymond snorted and went on.

"Not just any Oriental. Meaning mixed blood. What's certain is that your mother is Chinese!"

"My father is Korean, actually."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"What!?"

Raymond slammed the desk, then stroked his chin.

"A combination outside social convention. That one left the realm of deduction."

A white father with a mother of various ethnicities was the usual pattern. As Raymond said, it was unusual.

His pride wounded, Raymond scanned me again. Then he began to tilt his head at an odd angle.

"Fascinating. Family money, then?"

"We're not destitute."

"I thought as much. LES, and given your parents' combination, you should have grown up among the poor—yet your eyes, your bearing, your speech all reek of confidence. Well then—enough of that. Let's get to the point."

What had he accomplished? Raymond was trying to change the subject on the sly.

"You still have to figure out how I found this place. If you can't even manage that, how am I supposed to entrust you with work?"

Raymond's brows knitted, then he nodded.

"A fair point. Very well—I shall begin the deduction. Wait a moment. If you interrupt midway, it may introduce distortions, so keep quiet."

Not a fortune-teller. He suddenly started muttering to himself.

"No one should know I'm opening a detective office… how did he find out? Hold on—a few days ago the situations-wanted column was cheap, so I placed an ad… Okay. That was it!"

Slap!

"You're a Flea Market reporter!"

I turned my back. An urgent voice chased me.

"Not a reporter—connected to the Flea Market! You happened by, saw a galley proof—a pre-press sample—and learned about me!"

Anyone with a brain could have inferred that much. Disappointing, but I decided to be satisfied for now. What mattered was how faithfully he would carry out the actual commission.

"I need information on Archie 'Black Hand' Roselli, fifth floor of the Cash Building at 62 Norfolk Street."

"Right in my specialty."

"From what I hear, this Roselli is a man with a great many problems. I want to know as much as possible."

"His location ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is solid, so it shouldn't take long. As for the fee…"

Raymond eyed me carefully.

"…Ten dollars?"

"Fine."

Without hesitation I pulled the money from my wallet and paid. Raymond clapped a hand over his mouth and nodded.

Before leaving the office, I handed him a business card. Raymond's eyes lit up at the sight of it.

"Antimo on Allen Street. The underwear shop on the ground floor of the Pumpkin Dance Hall."

"Oh-ho. Correct."

"Couldn't be wrong. LES sits in the palm of my hand. Somehow I feel I'll come to know you in even greater detail."

I'm sure you will. Writing off the ten dollars as a loss, I left the office.

And the place I headed next was a basement building on Bowery Street. Time to meet the second client, George Walcott.

A client had to pass the body search conducted by the members guarding the entrance before he could meet me at all.

The hunched client even trembled as he set foot into the gloomy basement.

I faced George Walcott under the light—hat and scarf pulled down tight, every muscle clenched with tension.

I dropped my voice low and spoke.

"I want to hear the situation."

"About Archie Roselli, you mean?"

"Who else would it be?"

I nodded, and Walcott swallowed dryly before beginning to unspool everything that had happened.

"I was running three pharmacies in LES with the aim of building a pharmacy-chain business."

At first he had operated only a single pharmacy on Essex Street. Then he grew interested in systems, and began to dream of a chain like Walgreens or Rexall.

"So I needed capital. I was confident I would succeed."

He took out a loan from a Wall Street bank. That was how he expanded to a second and then a third location.

"But once the pharmacies multiplied, the neighborhood started threatening me."

Neighboring pharmacies that were losing the price war and having customers stolen from them escalated their harassment. Eventually they hired gangs who regularly caused trouble inside the stores and camped out front, intimidating anyone who tried to enter.

"Naturally, sales collapsed. I couldn't even cover the loan interest, let alone pay the staff."

That was when the loan shark Archie Roselli appeared.

"He said he'd lend me money and even hold the gangs off. In the end I believed him and drew five thousand dollars."

Yet the situation did not improve—the gangs' tyranny only grew worse.

"Roselli told me later he couldn't help it either. That it was the Union gangs—the most vicious and cruel in all of LES."

"……"

Vicious? Cruel?

Roselli had framed the Union.

For that alone, he deserved to die.