Please Find the Boss

Raymond Kane had compiled his findings into a report.

True to his Pinkerton detective credentials, the document followed a clear format, with its contents organized in a crisp, concise manner.

“······.”

Honestly, I hadn’t expected this much. Cross-checked against George Walcott’s account, the facts looked solid enough.

“You turned up a great deal in a short time.”

“You’re my first client. I put a little extra into it. Suit you?”

One corner of Raymond’s mouth lifted. He held a clay pipe between his teeth but never lit it—just chewed the stem out of habit.

“Anyway, hope it helps.”

“This is more than enough. Aren’t you curious why I need information like this?”

“I don’t care to know a client’s purpose. Everyone has their reasons.”

An answer I liked a great deal. Judging by the work, he had to rank among the more capable Pinkertons. The question of how to pull him into the Union began to turn over in my mind.

As I scratched my chin, Raymond asked:

“You witnessed a murder last year, didn’t you?”

As if there had been only one or two. I blinked and thought it through. The only case in which I was known as a witness was—

“The Johnny Spanish affair?”

“Killed in a fabric warehouse. And the one who put Kid Dropper down—that was a friend of yours?”

Probably got himself fired after cutting backroom deals with labor sluggers.

He knew enough about me that Uncle Ted’s story looked to be true.

“You ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠investigated me as well?”

“Your name rang a bell. I already knew a little about the Johnny and Kid Dropper cases.”

“Quite the coincidence.”

“My thought exactly.”

Raymond studied me with a meaningful look. Was he probing because he suspected something?

An interesting experiment occurred to me.

“Would you take another commission?”

“I’ll have to put your name on the preferred-client list. Go on.”

I looked at him with a deliberately grave expression.

“Find me the Union boss.”

“······ Hm?”

— One week. Ten dollars up front, five hundred on success.

— Call!

Raymond answered with confidence and left the shop. Through him I meant to test the Union’s secrecy and security, and at the same time draw him into the gang. I decided to wait out the week.

It was time to move on Archie Rosselli in earnest. I called for Cale, who managed the units.

“You looking for me, Boss? I was about to come up anyway.”

A collection bag hung from Cale’s hand. While he was here he dumped the protection money and tribute gathered from LES onto the table. I pushed it aside and spoke.

“The ones impersonating the Union?”

“Not our units. We weren’t actually collecting protection from those two places.”

We didn’t shake down every business. Relatives running a place, or shops with the right connections, sometimes got a free pass. If Rosselli had the Tammany Hall and police ties Raymond’s report claimed, he could easily have been exempt from protection fees.

“Time to poke the hive. Have a unit collect protection from the pharmacy. If they refuse, smash the place up and threaten to report the illegal drug sales—we know about those.”

“Okay. I’ll put them on it today.”

“And tell the men to watch. I want to see how the pharmacy reacts.”

Cale left. Next I sent for Rosenthal. Before he arrived, Leo returned to the office from a stop at my mother’s company.

“How are the factories?”

“Plant One’s scrambling to meet delivery quotas. The masks from Plant Two are still stacking up in the warehouse.”

At present, Free Your Body was running two factories side by side. Brassieres from Plant One sold better every day; the masks from Plant Two still drew a lukewarm market response.

“What did Mother say?”

“‘I trust our Kieran.’ That’s what she said. There’s no one on earth as angelic as your mother.”

For the record, last ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠night I had taken an earful—and two solid smacks across the back—for pouring brassiere profits straight into the masks. I fought the urge to open my mouth.

“Leo, for the time being I need you and five men watching Archie Rosselli.”

“So the assassination starts now.”

“Just removing him leaves nothing behind.”

A loan shark would be moving no small amount of cash. I intended to take every last dollar of it.

I was still laying out the concrete plan with Leo when Rosenthal, the fence, arrived at the office.

“Boss—you only called for me, right?”

“Sit down first.”

Leo stepped out. I explained George Walcott and Archie Rosselli. For this, I needed Rosenthal’s help.

“Why me, though? If he’s a loan shark dealing illegal medicine, he might know me. Wouldn’t Derek be better?”

Underworld fences handled narcotics as well. If Rosselli used that network, he could know Rosenthal.

“What does a customer’s line of work matter when he’s coming to borrow money?”

“He might get suspicious.”

“No. A man like Rosselli would like it even better.”

I laid out the plan in detail, grabbed a bag, and left the office with Rosenthal.

We headed for Archie Rosselli’s loan office.

“What’s with the hair?”

Today I wore a brown wig. Mask and scarf on top of that, and brown powder Ida had bought to darken my brows.

“How’s that? Spot on, isn’t it?”

“Yeah… But Boss, do you take every job that comes in? This one doesn’t look like it pays.”

“The client is my neighbor.”

“······ You’re telling me that’s the reason?”

I smiled at Rosenthal’s disbelief.

“Gangs need pharmacists too. A pharmacy is a place where whiskey can be handled legally.”

“I don’t recall the Eighteenth Amendment saying anything of the sort.”

“The actual enforcement bill for Prohibition will carve out an exception for prescribed whiskey. Ban medicinal use and the backlash would be fierce.”

Rosenthal thought it over a moment.

“Assuming it plays out the way you say. You wouldn’t stop at one pharmacy—you’re planning a chain to handle distribution?”

“You’ve got it. By the way—have you looked into warehouses along Newtown Creek in Brooklyn?”

“I’m seeing a realtor over there tomorrow.”

“While you’re at it, check on pharmaceutical and chemical manufacturers as well.”

Newtown Creek reeked, and the water ran black—effluent from the factories lining the banks. That same density meant plenty of manufacturers.

“You think a factory on the brink of closing is just going to appear? If you want to buy, you start the rumor now that a buyer is looking.”

“Once Prohibition hits, breweries will fold one after another. Wouldn’t it be smarter to pick those up cheap? Buy now and you’re looking at tens or hundreds of thousands.”

“Fair point. But medicinal whiskey only works from licensed premises.”

What would the government do once Prohibition passed? Dumping barrels into the sewers was a given. They would also regulate, monitor, and control every related acquisition with bloodshot eyes.

“Finishing the permit process beforehand will draw less suspicion. For the first year or two you can run a legitimate business.”

“Damn… How do you even come up with schemes like that?”

“Instead of admiring me, think about what SCL needs to prepare. Anything come to mind?”

Rosenthal considered, then snapped his fingers.

“Medical transport!?”

“Exactly. Have Uncle Noh secure trucking permits for pharmaceuticals in advance. If anything stalls, tell me at once.”

We had poured no small amount of bribe money into Tammany Hall. Pharmaceutical transport and manufacturing permits would require their influence.

“If they’ve taken the money, they’d better work for it.”

Rosenthal stared at me, openly impressed.

“Hate to say it, but you would have gotten rich even if you’d never become a gangster. You’d have succeeded just fine in legitimate business.”

“That’s not true.”

Without becoming a gangster, the start would have been slower and the obstacles greater.

“I became a gangster, Rosenthal—and that’s how I got to meet you.”

Rosenthal tipped his head back and rubbed at his eyes. The line must have landed.

62 Norfolk Street, fifth floor of the Cache Building.

Private Loan Shark.

“You say you need capital?”

A low, measured voice. An Italian man in a sharp suit, hair slicked back with oil.

Meeting the loan shark Archie Rosselli ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠proved easy enough.

“The company was only recently founded. We need emergency financing.”

Rosenthal produced the company papers—capital, liabilities, and documentation for the real estate that would serve as collateral.

“Let’s see… Substantial bank debt.”

Of course the capital and liabilities were forged. Changing a few numbers had been nothing.

“We started without much money, so the debt is on the high side.”

“How much are you looking for?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

“Not a small sum. Ever used a private lender before? The interest runs steep.”

“We came prepared. Short-term only—we’ll repay within six months.”

I was merely the employee who had come along with Rosenthal, mask on for a cold. While Rosenthal and Rosselli sat on the sofa talking, I mapped the office—from the entrance through the reception room—into my memory.

“Then I’ll visit SCL tomorrow and decide then. Have to verify, after all.”

Lending on paperwork alone only happened after a certain level of trust. Most of the time a man was sent for a site inspection.

The conversation ended. As they shook hands, Rosselli suddenly refused to let go and fixed Rosenthal with a sharp stare.

“Isaac Rosenthal. Looking at you, you’re the same man as the Hell’s Kitchen fence.”

We had prepared for this possibility; Rosenthal answered without a flicker.

“That’s right. I’m that Isaac Rosenthal. Didn’t realize my name was so well known.”

“Famous, I don’t know. I heard it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from Dominic Mileno.”

Dominic Mileno—the man who had stabbed Rosenthal in the back over the counterfeit-plate printing. The name must have dragged up the murdered girlfriend; Rosenthal was silent a beat before he spoke.

“You did business with Mileno?”

“A little here and there. I hear the two of you didn’t get along.”

“Ancient history. Dead men don’t interest me.”

Rosselli smirked and released the hand he had been crushing.

“I’ll stop by SCL first thing. A logistics company founded by a fence—I’m dying of curiosity.”

“If you’re interested, think about investing.”

“I’ll consider it.”

We left the office.

“Manhattan really is small. Never thought he’d recognize me. Boss—this is still good, right?”

“Did you miss the look on that bastard’s face?”

Right before we parted, Rosselli had been a hyena that had caught the scent of prey. The aroma alone had him salivating.

“The same way he went after George Walcott’s pharmacies. Once he gets a look at SCL, he’ll want to put it in his mouth, chew it up, and swallow.”

“He’ll die without even knowing it’s poison.”

“Dying alone isn’t enough.”

He had to cough up everything he owned first—then die.

After parting with Rosenthal, I headed home by way of Walcott Drugs on Essex Street. The staff had gone; only George Walcott was left serving customers.

While I waited, I turned Rosenthal’s words over again.

He’ll die without even knowing it’s poison.

Poison, huh.

“Need something?”

Walcott’s face was dark again today. The gloom looked contagious just from looking at it; someone had to smile.

“Got any poison?”