Real Men Don't Use Umbrellas
At approximately two o'clock this morning, Donato Russo was shot dead by an unidentified sniper on the pier at Fulton Fish Market in lower Manhattan.
The killing comes only days after Cardone was stabbed to death near Pier 13.
According to witnesses on the scene, Russo was inspecting the day's catch with his bodyguards at the pier entrance when a single bullet struck him in the head. He died instantly.
"We were just walking. Suddenly there was a dull thump, blood sprayed, and Mr. Russo collapsed right there," one merchant recalled of the moment.
Police are searching the vicinity of the crime scene and attempting to determine the shooter's position, but the exact firing point has yet to be established.
One police source stated, "The gunshot was quiet. It is highly likely a suppressor was attached to the weapon used."
Because Fulton Market remains partially busy even in the early hours with longshoremen and merchants, speculation has also arisen that the shot may have been fired from a boat near the pier.
452 Warren Street, Red Hook, Brooklyn.
The man who had been reading the newspaper with fierce concentration stroked his chin and sank into thought.
The day before, Robert McGrady, the Irish union boss from the market, had come to see him.
"Russo was murdered at dawn. That's the second one after Cardone. The Italian union is completely collapsing."
"If your competitors are dropping dead, isn't that good for you, McGrady?"
"Not at all. I don't think those bastards are only after the Italian union. I could be next. And there's a chance the Union gang from the LES is mixed up in this."
That damned Union. Lately the name of that miserable gang had been ringing in his ears until they hurt.
In any case, the hot-tempered McGrady had been trembling with anxiety ever since Cardone died. Now that Russo had been killed as well, the man had slid into outright terror.
"It's not because I'm a coward. How the hell am I supposed to stay calm when I don't know when, where, or how I'm going to die? Cardone took a knife. Russo got sniped."
"Sniped?"
"One shot, dead on the spot. Russo's bodyguards say it came from a boat on the river, but is that even possible?"
Whether it was possible or not, a certain figure suddenly rose in the man's mind.
The man who had put down six Italian gangsters on the Red Hook docks and another twelve in the Newtown Creek warehouse.
"Nox."
He had nearly forgotten. But simply speaking the name sent a shiver racing through his entire body.
Dini Meehan, boss of the White Hand Gang, swallowed a low growl and clenched his fists.
If you fitted McGrady's words into the puzzle, a string of seemingly unrelated incidents snapped together into one picture.
The assassination of Five Points Gang boss Izzy Joe.
The bloody storm that had swept through Fulton Fish Market.
The Union and the sniper named as the force behind it all.
Could Nox actually belong to the Union gang?
There had been ridiculous rumors for a while that he was an IRA agent for the Irish rebels, but Dini Meehan never bought them. A real IRA man would have no reason to be in America in the first place, and he certainly would not waste interest on Tanner Smith's Coney Island saloon.
Dini Meehan sank deeper into his chair and stared at the ceiling.
With skill like Nox's, the man had to be at least a gang officer—or a boss. Bosses rarely took the field themselves, yet Dini Meehan had never been above joining his men in the work either. Nox could easily be the same.
Interesting. Very interesting.
Knock-knock.
"Dini, the ironing's done."
At the sound of his wife Sadie's voice, Dini Meehan slowly rose. When he opened the door she stood there holding a black suit jacket and overcoat.
"Looks like rain. Want me to get your raincoat? Or at least an umbrella?"
"Forget it. A real man doesn't hide from a little rain."
Knowing her husband's nature well, Sadie simply shrugged.
"So whose funeral is it today?"
"An old man I know from Hell's Kitchen."
"That's the West Side of Manhattan."
"I owed him a few favors once."
Boys who grew up in the big cities of the East carried a vague longing—almost a fantasy—for the West. Wild Bill Hickok, the legendary gunslinger of the cow towns. Billy the Kid, who made his name as a teenager. Texas gunfighter John Wesley Hardin. Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday at the O.K. Corral. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid of the Wild Bunch.
Just hearing those names made a man's heart pound. Eastern kids who dreamed of joining gangs lost themselves in tales of outlaws racing across the wilderness on horseback, blazing away, and the sheriffs who hunted them.
Dini Meehan's teenage years had been no different. He had yearned for the West and taken an interest in firearms. When he finally had money, he went looking for a gunsmith—an illegal weapons modifier—so he could own something more powerful and more impressive. Later, when he formed his own gang, he needed a gunsmith to arm his men.
Gruff voice. Dead-accurate shooting.
The old gunsmith of Hell's Kitchen knew every firearm there was. Once he had taken a broken Colt Peacemaker Dini brought him and repaired it in thirty minutes flat, a display of pure authority.
"And now they say that old man died of a cold. Hard to believe."
"The flu's been vicious lately. Here—wear this just in case."
"A mask? You want me to put that thing on?"
"Think of our baby."
Sadie smiled sweetly, lifted the child from the cradle, and waved its tiny hand. Dini Meehan clicked his tongue and put the mask on.
"I'll be back. Might run late, so don't wait up."
"I'll wait anyway. Up all night if I have to. Be careful."
Outside, his men waited with three Ford Model T's, engines already growling. Dini Meehan climbed in and patted the driver's shoulder.
"6604, Fourteenth Avenue."
Juliano & Yale Funeral Home.
Rain had begun to fall.
As the hearse arrived through the drizzle, funeral-home staff swarmed it. Moments later they lifted a wooden coffin from the trunk.
A short distance away, a man with a cigar clenched in his teeth watched, eyes narrowing. It was Frankie Yale, owner of the funeral home and undertaker.
"The gunsmith from Hell's Kitchen…"
"Probably came this way because Manhattan's out of cemetery plots."
"Even when you're dead you need connections or you got no place to stretch your legs. Manhattan really is a shit city."
Unlike the sprawling Midwest, Manhattan barely had room left to bury the dead. Living or dead, if you lacked money and reputation, the city shoved you out.
While Yale studied the wooden coffin, one of his men craned his neck, attention elsewhere. His gaze stayed locked on a young woman who had stepped down from the hearse.
Black dress, white blouse. A black veil hid her face, which was a shame, but the cut of the clothes still let a man guess the figure underneath.
"They say the only family he had left was a granddaughter. That must be her. We're short on girls as it is—body like that, she'd pull customers. Even if she is an Irish bitch."
"What the hell does that matter? Long as she makes money."
Frankie Yale ran a lot of businesses. Protection money, of course, but also ice delivery, a cigar brand stamped with his own face, saloons, and whorehouses.
Yale was still following his man's stare toward the woman when another voice cut in.
"Agnello from Fulton Fish Market showed up too, Yale. We can start the meeting whenever you're ready."
"Be right there."
Yale drew deep on the cigar and let the smoke out in a long stream. On a rainy day the heavier air made the cloud hang thick before it slowly faded.
He was about to turn when another car arrived. As the smoke cleared and he saw the figure climbing out, Yale's brow furrowed hard.
"Tanner Smith."
Original boss of the Marginals out of Hell's Kitchen. Now the labor slugger who, with the ILA—the International Longshoremen's Association—at his back, controlled the Manhattan East Side waterfront unions.
ILA Vice President Paul Kelly had pushed Kid Dropper for the seat, but after Dropper's sudden death the post had gone to Tanner Smith. Kelly might be ILA vice president now, yet he was also the man who founded the Five Points Gang. Handing power to Tanner Smith—who was not even one of his own—made no sense. On top of that, Tanner had opened a saloon right under the nose of the Coney Island "Harvard Inn."
In every way, a thorn in the side.
Yale's eyes narrowed further the moment his gaze met Tanner's. Tanner snorted, ignored him completely, and walked straight into the place where the wooden coffin had been carried for the encoffining rites.
More people kept arriving. Among them was Isaac Rosenthal, the Manhattan fence.
What was so special about a Hell's Kitchen gunsmith that this many people showed up?
"Goddamn Irish."
Yale was giving the guests a cold once-over and about to look away when three cars rolled in. The instant he saw the man climbing out of the lead vehicle, Yale ground his teeth.
The biggest Irish cockroach of them all had come calling.
"Yale, everyone's waiting. You starting the meeting or what?"
"You won't be saying that once you see that bastard."
The man followed Yale's pointing finger.
"Shit—Dini Meehan of the White Hands?"
The White Hand Gang, the outfit they had been bloodily fighting across Brooklyn over every scrap of business, had walked into the funeral home. Unbelievable. In a heartbeat the place had become a battlefield between Brooklyn's two great powers—all because of one dead man from Hell's Kitchen.
At the words "White Hands," the men who had been waiting in the conference room poured outside.
"Who's here? I must've misheard."
"Here he comes. Front of the pack—yeah, that's Dini Meehan."
"Tch. No reason to give those White Hand bastards a dry place out of the rain."
A roof was a luxury the Irish didn't deserve.
Yale started forward. Nearly twenty men fell in behind him.
Dini Meehan sneered at the approaching pack that tried to radiate menace.
"Frankie Yale. That's a hell of a way to greet a customer."
"Customer has to act like a customer. Anyway, looks like New York's short on funeral homes for Irishmen. Why don't you open one yourself?"
"Sorry, but I only know how to kill. Never picked up the hobby of burying them."
In the middle of the knife-edge confrontation, a police car suddenly pulled into the funeral home grounds. Yale's brow tightened; then he turned a mocking smile on Dini Meehan.
"These days the cops only follow two-bit crooks like you. Waste of good public money, isn't it?"
Dini Meehan currently had three cases pending—robbery, truck hijacking, silk theft. Exactly the small-time charges Frankie Yale had just mocked, nothing worthy of a gang boss. Dini knew it and felt the shame; his face flushed dark red. He growled, putting an edge on every word.
"Nice talk, Frankie. Maybe I should cut your head off right now and finally shed the two-bit crook label. I'll wrap the skull nice and neat and ship it back to Italy for you."
"All mouth, as usual."
Their staring match ended the moment the police car stopped.
Had someone tipped them that Brooklyn's two poles—the Italian gang and the Irish gang—were gathering in one place? The car doors opened.
"This is Juliano & Yale Funeral Home."
"…Appreciate the ride."
A policeman and a man in a black suit stepped onto the ground. The man wore a mask.
"Next time you don't know the way, grab a cab. Don't stand around looking lost on the street. Brooklyn's as dangerous as Manhattan—especially those types over there. Real dangerous crowd."
The man in the mask turned his head, following the policeman's gaze. His eyes slid coolly over Frankie Yale and Dini Meehan. Then he opened the umbrella in his hand with a crisp snap.
At that moment Tanner Smith appeared out of nowhere and whispered to him.
"Kill a guy two days ago and show up in a police car. Respect, for real."
Barely ten minutes earlier.
I had been wandering around Fourteenth Avenue in Brooklyn. Whether I wrote the address wrong or not, no matter how many times I scanned the streets the destination never appeared. Who would have guessed a man from the city of Manhattan would end up gawking like a lost tourist in Brooklyn's sticks?
Apparently someone noticed my ridiculous performance; a car glided up beside me. A police car—not exactly a welcome sight.
"Looking for someplace?"
"…Juliano & Yale Funeral Home."
"Get in. I'll take you."
Corrupt cops on my side, helpful cops on my side. Truly the people's stick.
As a token of thanks I even gifted him a mask.
By the time I reached the funeral home, two packs of men were locked in a murderous standoff. One of them was Frankie Yale—the same Frankie Yale who had been standing right next to Five Points boss Izzy Joe just before I put a bullet in him.
Anyway, why the hell weren't these people using umbrellas in the rain? The moment I opened mine, Dini Meehan rumbled low.
"What the hell is that umbrella? What kind of man—"
The policeman scowled.
"Dini Meehan, don't go looking for trouble. And what are you doing here?"
Dini Meehan? Had the White Hand boss himself come to the funeral? Must have had some old Irish connection with the gunsmith from the underworld.
"Why the hell else would I come to a shit place like this?"
"If you're a guest, stop standing out here and go join the service."
"Cops these days stick their noses into everything."
Dini Meehan showed no fear of the police. If anything, the police found him awkward to handle.
"Anyway, don't start anything. Finish your business and clear out. And you—Kieran, was it? I'll take good care of the mask."
Apparently the officer had no desire to get tangled in whatever mess the Italian and Irish gangs were cooking. He left without a second glance.
Frankie Yale seemed equally unwilling to share air with a policeman for even a second; he and his men vanished from sight.
That left me, Tanner Smith, Dini Meehan, and his men standing in an awkward cluster. Before anyone else could speak, Rosenthal called out.
"The encoffining is about to begin!"
Inside the well-made coffin, the gunsmith lay dressed in a black suit. The burns had twisted his face, yet it looked peaceful—the same peace that had settled over him when we wiped his body with cool cloths just before the end.
I still could not understand why he had chosen this place for his funeral. It could not have been merely to point out Frankie Yale's location. The idea that he wanted the man eliminated made even less sense.
My eyes drifted to Hazel, who was receiving quiet words of comfort from the people around her. Not a drop of blood related her to the old man, yet everyone treated her as his only family.
Had he meant for the people gathered here to look after Hazel now that she was alone? But that still failed to explain why he had picked Frankie Yale's funeral home of all places.
Once the encoffining ended we immediately fell in behind the funeral procession and headed for the cemetery. The meeting with Frankie Yale had lasted only a few fleeting moments.
While I was still turning the puzzle over in my mind, my eyes met Hazel's. She gave me a faint smile. It lasted only a second before the corners of her mouth fell again, drained of strength.
Did Hazel know what the gunsmith had intended?
He was buried in Calvary Cemetery. We lowered the coffin into the earth and each of us cast a handful of soil. That was when I caught the soft words Hazel whispered beneath her veil.
"Silas Madigan. I'll remember you not as Gunsmith, but as Silas. Thank you for everything. In heaven… I hope we meet again, and this time I'll be your real granddaughter…"
Only after he was dead had I finally learned the gunsmith's true name. Through someone's lengthy prayer I also learned the short outline of his life.
Silas Madigan.
He had worked as an engineer for the UMC firearms company in Connecticut. In 1906, sixteen tons of powder exploded in the Success Hill magazine, covering him in terrible burns. Afterward UMC merged with Remington, and Silas began his life as a gunsmith in the gloomy basements of Hell's Kitchen.
When every rite of the funeral was finally finished, Tanner spoke quietly beside me.
"Dini Meehan wants to meet Nox."
Just as I expected, the Russo sniper hit had given Dini Meehan his clue. He said he wanted to talk about the Fulton Fish Market problem—and requested a meeting with Nox.