A Faint Scent from a Newborn Baby
His fever had climbed past 102, a dry cough producing sputum flecked with blood. Stretched out on the makeshift cot, Gunsmith looked too wracked by agony and muscle aches to lift even an arm. Judging by every symptom, Spanish flu was the most likely culprit.
I dragged Hazel into another room and questioned her. She was already wearing the mask I had given her.
“How long has he been like this?”
“Since yesterday. It looked like a bad cold, so I told him to go to the hospital, but he flat-out refused. You know how stubborn he is. He’s been taking medicine, though.”
Hazel was worried, yet she still seemed to think of Gunsmith’s condition as nothing more than a severe cold.
Then she saw my face, and her eyes flickered.
“You’re… not a doctor. So what do you know? Why are you looking so grim?”
“When I handed you the mask and hand sanitizer, I told you a deadly flu might be spreading soon, remember?”
Hazel had used what I gave her diligently; Gunsmith had shrugged it off. Of course the mask and sanitizer offered only limited protection—the causes of the flu were complex.
Gunsmith, his mouth melted away by burns, had suffered from one lingering illness after another for years. That might have been the root of it.
“We have to take him to a hospital.”
“Blunt as it sounds, if he goes like this he’ll infect half the place.”
“So we just leave him?!”
Hazel’s voice sharpened. She hurried back to Gunsmith and shook him.
“Get up. We’re going to the hospital.”
“I’m fine… it’ll pass… cough, cough!”
“Damn it, get up! He says it’s serious. Not me—Kieran, the genius you keep calling him, says you might die.”
Hazel’s eyes filled with tears while Gunsmith let out a wheezing chuckle.
“I’ve got ten good years left in me yet… cough…”
Spanish flu was lethal enough to destroy the lungs of young, healthy people in two days flat.
Only a day had passed and he was already this far gone; the outlook was grim.
Hazel tried to haul him up by force; Gunsmith dug in his heels and refused. It looked exactly like a pig-headed grandfather and his granddaughter at loggerheads.
“At least let’s move him somewhere else.”
“I said I’m fine…”
“Before Hazel starts crying.”
Still lying down, Gunsmith turned his head to look at her. I forced him upright and hoisted him onto my back.
He was lighter than I expected. The burns had made him wrap himself head to toe every day, but underneath he was just a gaunt frame.
“Hazel, let’s move him to the second floor—somewhere with better air.”
The basement workshop, choked with dust and clutter, was a death trap. I had no idea how much it would help, but we needed to get him out of that sealed space.
Hazel quickly opened the hidden door that led upstairs. I carried Gunsmith into the bedroom and laid him on the bed by the sunlit window while she threw the casement wide for ventilation.
“What else do we need to do?”
“No ice packs, so we’ll have to make cold compresses… You’ve got ethanol, right? Bring that and a bucket of water.”
Before I finished speaking she was already gone, returning with ethanol, a bucket, and towels.
I mixed the ethanol into the water and soaked a cloth.
When the cold towel touched his face, Gunsmith managed a faint murmur.
“Cool… ahh… finally feels like I might live…”
“Why go down to the workshop when you’re this sick?”
“If I was gonna die… I wanted to die there…”
“Fair enough. Familiar places put the heart at ease.”
I loosened his clothes and wiped his neck, shoulders, and underarms. Burns had crushed and warped the flesh across his entire body.
He had left a fine sunlit room empty and slept instead in that gloomy workshop. Maybe the burns had left scars on more than just his skin.
I was still wiping him down when he spoke again.
“Heard the gang’s… under attack…?”
“About that time, yeah.”
“Know who…?”
“I’ve got a few ideas. Nothing solid yet.”
Gunsmith’s lips moved, forcing the words out.
“Frankie Yale…”
I stopped wiping. He glanced at me sidelong.
“Keep going… or I won’t talk…”
“…”
I dunked the lukewarm towel back into the bucket, wrung it out, and started over. Only then did he continue.
“Don’t touch… Little Italy.”
Huh? How did he know about that?
Anthony, who didn’t even know Gunsmith, couldn’t have come here to tell him, and the timing didn’t line up either.
“Why not Little Italy?”
“Frankie Yale’s… pointing his enemies… straight at you…”
Little Italy was packed with Italians. Touch it and two massive organizations would instantly set their sights on the Union.
“The Sicilian and Neapolitan gangs,” Hazel cut in, speaking for the struggling Gunsmith.
Frankie Yale headed the Sicilian alliance. And he was dumping his enemies onto me?
What Gunsmith said next needed careful thought.
“You came to me… for weapons… That’s just doing Yale a favor…”
“Who are Yale’s enemies?”
“Sicilians, Neapolitans, Irish gangs. Frankie Yale’s got plenty of enemies—and plenty of friends too,” Hazel answered.
In the mafia lineage Yale had never been a major player. From what I remembered he was a gangster who never quite made the leap into the true mafia era.
That meant he would eventually be brought down by enemies inside and out.
So why manufacture extra enemies and accept the bloodshed?
Gunsmith opened his mouth again.
“Better to…”
Hit Yale’s stronghold in Brooklyn instead of Little Italy. That was Gunsmith’s solution.
“Your skill… no question… but the timeline’s… too short… You need to lock down LES tighter first…”
Putting Gunsmith’s and Hazel’s words together, the picture was clear.
I had grown the organization by eliminating enemies one by one, but there was a hard limit. Sicilian and Neapolitan gangs were fundamentally different from ordinary street gangs.
Outfits like the Five Points, the Eastmans, the Marginals—named after a person or a place—were built around a single key figure.
Kill or arrest that figure and the whole structure crumbled and dissolved.
The Union was no different. Anything happened to me and the whole thing would collapse overnight.
The Neapolitan and Sicilian gangs were another breed entirely.
They were bound by Italian blood, their base deep and broad.
Even if a boss died, successors were lined up waiting.
Any war against them would be a long war. Gunsmith was asking whether I had LES locked down solid enough to endure that kind of fight.
“Turns out both of you are first-rate strategists.”
“Just stuff I overheard.”
“When you’re in… illegal business… you meet all kinds…”
Those people were Gunsmith’s informants.
Like it or not, you hear things. Some of them even liked digging into power structures and analyzing the balance of gangs.
“I’d like to recruit them. Who are they?”
“Leave that one alone…”
I filed it away for later.
Gunsmith and Hazel had passed along the words of someone who could read the board. It was worth serious thought.
Gunsmith erupted into another violent coughing fit.
“I survived the fire… and I can’t beat a damn cold…”
“You can beat it.”
“I’m… starting to doubt it…”
At the end of the sentence he turned his head toward Hazel. She was hovering near the doorway, hanging back.
“She’s a good kid…”
“W-what’s that supposed to mean all of a sudden?”
Hazel shot back, voice sharp. Gunsmith ignored her and kept going.
“Not a drop of my blood… but she’s my granddaughter… That’s just… how it is…”
Silence settled. Gunsmith closed his eyes and said nothing more.
“Don’t worry. He’s only asleep.”
Behind me I heard Hazel’s relieved sigh. I stared at Gunsmith a moment longer, then rose.
“Whatever the outcome, get yourself ready for it.”
“Is that really what you say right now?”
If Gunsmith’s condition worsened, would she blame me for not taking him to the hospital? If he died, there would be no question.
I didn’t answer. I simply walked past her.
Unless Gunsmith made a miraculous recovery, I doubted I would see her again.
I was almost out of the house when her voice stopped me.
“Thank you.”
“You’re going to end up hating me.”
“No. That’s the first time I’ve seen him sleep so peacefully. Whatever happens, you were right. But I’m still going to hope you were wrong.”
“I hope I was wrong too.”
I had come for weapons and left Hell’s Kitchen having done nothing but nurse a dying man.
My steps felt heavy as I headed for the office.
It was a day of thunder, lightning, and pouring rain.
Water was seeping into the basement workshop.
He hated water with a passion, but drowning in a flooded workshop was even worse.
He had no choice. He opened the iron door and stepped outside.
There was a raised threshold at the top of the stairs, yet the water still found its way in.
Damn it. The drain’s clogged again.
Sure enough, the alley was full of standing rainwater. The cause was easy to spot.
A large mass of trash was blocking the sewer grate at the side of the alley. The work of those punks who hung around here day in and day out, no doubt.
Bastards! If I ever catch them I’ll stitch them full of holes with the Gatling.
He pulled on a rain cape and went out to clear the drain. The closer he got, the clearer it became that it wasn’t trash.
What was blocking the sewer was a girl of about ten.
He rolled her onto her back—and, damn it all, she had a gun in her hand. Blood was mixing with the pooled rainwater; she was hurt somewhere.
Just what I needed.
He casually shoved the girl aside.
At once the standing water began to swirl and drain away with a satisfying rush.
How many corpses had he seen in alleys over the years?
Touch one and you only bought yourself trouble—especially with the police. The last thing he wanted was them banging on his iron door.
The real problem was that this one still had a pulse. After a moment’s internal struggle he slapped her cheek.
Hey. If you’re gonna die, do it outside the alley.
A few more slaps and the unresponsive girl forced her eyes open. She mumbled something.
“There was no other way…”
What?
“They said… this was the only way…”
She repeated the same words with a slightly different nuance.
Then lightning cracked overhead.
The girl’s eyes flew wide and she tried to raise the gun. She had no strength left; the barrel barely lifted.
For God’s sake.
He understood the reaction.
Scarf wound tight around his face, hood pulled low, and a lightning strike for good measure—no wonder she was terrified.
Either way, the gun was confiscated first.
Another crash of thunder. The girl shuddered hard. This time it wasn’t fear.
“I’m cold…”
What a piece of work.
After a final moment of hesitation he scooped her up.
Splashing through the rainwater, he carried her into the workshop.
Damn it. This was a women-free zone until today. Consider yourself honored.
He added more wood to the stove and draped a towel over her. A cup of hot tea brought the color back to her face.
She was exhausted, nothing more; no real wounds that he could see.
So the blood wasn’t yours.
“…It was the same blood.”
A strange answer.
Tell me the truth. This old man isn’t a cop—just a criminal.
“…You’re a criminal?”
Look at me. Isn’t it obvious?
The girl gave a solemn little nod. Then:
“I shot my father…”
For a second he doubted his ears.
Had he just brought a witch into the house? No question. This tiny, human-looking thing had cast a spell on him.
And then:
“He sold me to a brothel. For a hundred dollars. He sold me for a hundred dollars.”
…A Black slave a hundred years ago would’ve gone for more than that.
“Really?”
The girl’s eyes narrowed and she ground her teeth.
So what’s your name?
“Hazel. My mother gave it to me.”
The reason was interesting.
Her mother had known only the reek of alcohol from a father who beat her whenever the mood took him. But when the baby was born, a faint hazelnut scent rose from the infant.
He had never held a newborn; he couldn’t say whether it was true. He figured the name was simply what her mother had hoped for—or yearned for.
And your mother?
“She died two months ago. In a fire.”
Fire. The moment the word left her mouth it felt as if electricity had ripped through his entire body.
March 25, 1911. Near Greenwich Village in Manhattan, the Triangle Shirtwaist clothing factory had gone up in a massive blaze.
One hundred forty-six dead. The owner had locked the doors to keep the workers efficient—and that had been the fatal mistake.
The factory occupied the eighth, ninth, and tenth floors.
With the doors locked, the workers burned alive inside or leapt from the windows to their deaths.
Most were poor immigrant women. Hazel’s mother had been one of them.
Of all things, a fire. His whole body ached.
As if that were a signal, the way he looked at Hazel began to change.
But Hazel—where did you get the gun?
“She gave it to me. Told me to kill him. Said it was the only way.”
What kind of lunatic handed a ten-year-old a gun and told her to shoot her own father?
Who was the lunatic?
Hazel answered with a vacant look.
“Ida-unni…”