One Minute, The Last Victim
The Robert Hotel.
A place that handled everything at once—lodging, restaurant, and bar. We sat on the first-floor dining room sharing a meal and drinks with the men, Captain River, and the sailor Carly.
Today Leonard and his crew were here as well. They were staying at the Robert Hotel too.
"Came from Manhattan on business? A canning factory, of all things?"
"What do you think? Killer idea for a business, right?"
Leonard cackled like he was about to choke, then fixed me with a sinister stare.
"Your head's full of shit. Look around this island before you open your mouth. How many people do you think make a living fishing off boats?"
This bastard was negative too. No need to waste breath convincing him. The canning plant had just been something I threw out there.
"And you. You look young. What kind of decision-making power do you even have?"
"That's none of your business."
Maybe I had mocked him a little too hard. Leonard glared at me like he wanted to devour me whole, then dropped his voice into a threat.
"I don't like your attitude one bit. You showed up, so sit quiet and get lost when you're done."
"Come on, we're both from New York."
"Idiot. You think all of New York is the same New York? Since when was Chinatown part of New York? That's another country where coolie bastards like you pile up and live."
Leonard cackled and jeered at me, looking down on my background.
"I'm not from Chinatown. I'm from the Lower East Side."
"We're from Hell's Kitchen."
Leonard and his men flinched, their expressions shifting. That was the power of LES and Hell's Kitchen.
If you ranked the difficulty of criminals, the most dangerous district in America was without question the Lower East Side. Hell's Kitchen came next—violent and full of clashes centered on the Irish, but nothing like LES as a hub for multi-ethnic gangs.
In short, Manhattan was a melting pot of races, and LES was a melting pot of multi-ethnic gangs. Whereas—
"You live in Chelsea, don't you?"
Chelsea was about the only place in Manhattan where French immigrants clustered. Compared to Hell's Kitchen and LES, crime was lower and the arts and culture were developing—a relatively pleasant neighborhood.
When criminals traded credentials, an LES man like me came out on top. Was that too childish? A sudden wave of secondhand embarrassment hit me. What was there to brag about growing up in a den of criminals?
"Let's drop it."
"Mouthy little punk. This isn't a place where you get to run wild however you please."
Had he greased a few palms too? I had spent a few days doing the same myself. How else could a canning factory alone have won over the governor and the gendarmerie commander? I had slipped them hundreds of dollars in bribes. That was no small sum. The fact that we had our freedom back was, in truth, the power of money.
I casually let slip that I had dined with the governor and the gendarmerie commander. Shock and confusion flooded Leonard's face.
"A green kid like you sat down to eat with them?"
"Check it yourself if you don't believe me. Anyway, let's not turn red in the face over nothing. Fellow American citizens and all."
Leonard's eyes narrowed. He and his men rose from the table. From the sequence of his reactions, a few things seemed clear. Having stabbed Armand in the back and seized his place, he hadn't had much time to consolidate control. The way he startled at the mention of a simple meal with the island's key leadership suggested his network here was still incomplete. The same went for his men. Aside from a few, their faces were dark. He hadn't fully locked down his own subordinates either.
Just remove Leonard and that seat is mine again for the taking. I treated the people I worked with as colleagues. That bastard treats them like underlings. That's the biggest difference between him and me.
At his core Armand was a smuggler, not a gangster. Leonard, though, seemed to fancy himself a gang boss. Killing Armand's friend, the smuggler who handled Boston, fit the same pattern. When you steal and kill what belongs to someone else, you had better be ready for the same treatment. I could say that looking myself straight in the mirror. The reason I kept building power and making money was ultimately so I would never be the one robbed or taken down.
Around the time we finished eating and rose from the restaurant, a new group appeared. Similar to Leonard's crowd, yet carrying a different air. Smugglers who supplied goods to other regions of the United States, just as Armand had described. They gave us a once-over, then whispered something into a waiter's ear. Whether they paid attention or not, I finished settling the bill and left their interest behind us.
The moment we stepped out of the restaurant, River Grey pointed toward a vessel moored at the harbor dock.
"That Leonard's boat?"
"That's right."
"Originally Armand was the owner?"
When I nodded, River spat on the ground.
"Son of a bitch. He runs a schooner himself and he still looked down on my boat?"
A schooner was a sailing vessel with two or more masts rather than a steam engine. River Grey's ship and Armand's were schooners of similar tonnage and age.
"Our captain's surprisingly petty. He's been nursing that grudge the whole time."
"Carly, you should be pissed too, you little shit. This isn't someone else's problem."
"Of course I'm pissed. I thought he was hauling around a hundred-ton steamer at least."
"Same here."
While the two of them were badmouthing Armand, Declan shoved his face close to mine.
"But Boss. No matter how I look at it, the harbor's way too quiet."
"Wasn't it always like this?"
"What I mean is, taking Leonard out won't be easy. Silencer, knife, whatever. Dumping a body won't be simple either."
Declan pointed to the hill on the far side of the harbor. The old man was up there again today, staring down at the docks and the sea like some earthbound spirit.
"Dodging that old geezer's eyes is half the job."
"Declan."
"Yeah?"
"There might be a little chaos soon. No law says an island has to stay quiet forever."
I grinned. Declan blinked, then—
"Got it. You're going to blow up a ship?!"
Ah, this bastard for real. I patted his shoulder.
"Drop it."
"But Boss."
"What, you little shit?"
"Where are we killing time today?"
"I should stop by Sophia's place."
"Huh? Don't think you need to bother."
Declan pointed ahead. Sophia was walking toward us from the opposite street, surrounded by a crowd of villagers. From what I had observed over the past few days, when they moved in a group like that it meant they were heading to load cargo onto a ship. When smugglers arrived, the villagers became dockworkers hauling contraband aboard for a day's pay.
When I approached, no one reacted much. Their wariness toward us had faded that far. The one who grew more uncomfortable the closer I got was Sophia herself. Her gaze and movements were unnatural. Fair enough—it was the first time we had met since I left her house. Not an easy thing to manage on a tiny island like this.
I spoke to her as if we were strangers meeting for the first time.
"I heard you live up on that hill over there?"
"Yes? Yes, that's right."
"I have something quick to ask. Do you have a moment?"
Sophia glanced at the older woman beside her. Definitely her mother-in-law. Only after getting the woman's leave did Sophia step out of the group.
"If I ask you back to the hotel for a minute, people will get the wrong idea, right?"
"Is that even a question? You're young and your mouth is something else..."
"Then let's talk somewhere quiet."
Leaving the others behind, I moved with Sophia behind one of the warehouses on the pier.
"Is Armand still well hidden?"
"Yes. But what happened? I heard you even got an entry permit. Armand was shocked too."
"That much is nothing. Anyway, looks like there's work today."
Because of his history with Armand, Leonard never gave Sophia any work. Which meant new smugglers had arrived who would hire her—exactly the group we had just run into at the restaurant, as I expected. When I described their appearance, Sophia nodded.
"The man with the curly hair and mustache is Della Villepromo. He brings goods in from Canada. He's also a friend of Armand's."
Della Ville... what? The name was a mouthful.
"Do they usually gather around the same time?"
"It's been like this ever since Armand went to prison. I hear it's so he can keep them under control."
"How does he control them?"
"Two gangsters always stick close to Leonard. Italian."
Putting Sophia's words together: Leonard was using the violence, extortion, and threats of an Italian gang to keep the other smugglers in line.
"Sophia, this is a bit much to ask, but I need you to spread a rumor."
"A rumor...?"
"Once it gets around, Leonard might suspect you. Or he might suspect the other smugglers."
Sophia hesitated. Looking closer, her face was worn with exhaustion.
"I'm helping because of my brother, but... my situation isn't great either. And I don't want to put the children in danger."
"I understand. In a few days there will be good news."
"Good news? What is it?"
"You'll know when the time comes. For now, have Armand write a letter and spread the contents."
I held out a slip of paper with the letter's contents written on it to the frowning Sophia.
"Armand is coming here to take revenge on Leonard—the man who betrayed him and killed his friend Sébastien."
"What?!"
The next day, November 9, 1918.
A strange rumor reached Leonard's ears. Absurd, unpleasant, and foul all at once.
"Armand coming after me for revenge? The same bastard who got out on bail and then ran off to hide because he was scared?"
He laughed it off, but his heart grew heavier by the hour. Anxiety crawled up his spine. What bothered him was how the rumor kept growing flesh. Specific claims were circulating now—that he had informed on Armand to the police and stolen his place.
Even the looks he got from people he passed at the harbor had changed completely. Their eyes toward Leonard were full of suspicion and wariness. By now the rumor would have reached not only the governor but the bureaucrats as well.
"Damn it. How does a rumor like this just spring up out of nowhere?"
"We can't just sit on it. At the very least we need to find out where it started."
Beside Leonard, the Italian gangster Nicolo Mancini spoke as if Leonard were pathetic.
"I've got a pretty good idea of the source. Either Armand's family or those other smuggler bastards."
"Then we start leaning on them."
"If violence breaks out on this island, our whole meal ticket could dry up."
"We keep it measured. That's our specialty."
After some thought, Leonard and his men began hunting down whoever had spread the rumor. Their first suspects were the other smugglers. They went looking for Della Villepromo, the Canadian smuggler who had arrived on the island right around the time the rumor started.
"I don't know anything about any rumor. I haven't been in contact with Armand for quite a while."
"Hope for your sake that's true."
Villepromo shot Leonard a sharp look. That was when Nicolo walked over, flexing his fists.
Smack!
He backhanded Villepromo across the face.
"If you don't want to lose everything, mind your attitude."
"......"
Smack!
Another slap across the face. Nicolo wore a sly grin as he seized Villepromo by the throat.
"A worthless piece of shit putting on airs."
"...... Ghk."
"If I find out that rumor came out of your mouth, you better be ready. I'll carve you up and pack you into a wooden crate."
Nicolo flung Villepromo to the ground. As if simply turning away left him unsatisfied, he kicked the man hard in the leg. Once they were gone, Villepromo's companions helped him up.
"Those sons of bitches. Villepromo, I think we need to meet Sophia again."
"Meet her for what?"
When the rumor first spread, Villepromo had gone straight to Armand's sister Sophia. And he had confirmed the truth of it.
Armand sent a letter. He's coming back soon to take revenge on Leonard.
And one more thing. The letter never specified when or how the revenge would come. Honestly, Villepromo hadn't put much stock in it. What difference would Armand's return make? He had treated it as nothing more than an angry letter written by a man fresh out on bail.
Villepromo spat a mouthful of bloody saliva.
"We're dealing with an Italian gang. They'll cling to us like leeches and keep tormenting us."
"So we just keep taking it forever? When Armand comes back, Édouard, Lucien, and Gaspard will stand with us too."
The names he listed were colleagues who delivered contraband to the big cities of America. They were also suffering under Leonard and the Italian gang's extortion and threats. Ordinary people shook with terror when a gang made them a target. That was the normal reaction. Armand and his companions had been ordinary French immigrant laborers. Only after diving into smuggling and tasting the cruelty of the Black Hand firsthand had they begun to understand exactly what they were dealing with.
November 11, 1918.
The Meuse-Argonne Offensive front in France. Near the village of Chaumont-devant-Damvillers in the Meuse region of Lorraine.
Company A of the 313th Infantry Regiment, 79th Infantry Division, was approaching a road sealed off by two German machine guns.
"Ernest. The German bastards' resistance seems to be fading. What do you say we just charge?"
Sergeant Henry Gunther asked First Sergeant Ernest. The two were close friends.
"Waste of time. No engagement until we get orders from above."
"Look over there. The German bastards are just sitting there even though they can see us. This is our chance."
"Don't make me say it twice, Gunther."
Ernest frowned and cut Gunther off. Not long ago Gunther had written a letter criticizing the army and been demoted from first sergeant to sergeant. Maybe that still rankled him. Gunther was seized by a need to prove something to the officers and his fellow soldiers. Today his fixation on charging was so intense it bordered on impatience. Finally—
"Gunther!"
Defying First Sergeant Ernest's order, Gunther seized a Browning automatic rifle and charged the enemy lines. The German response was bizarre. They fired into the air and simply tried to drive him back rather than kill him. But when he ignored the warnings and came right up to them—
Bang!
Bang!
10:59 a.m.
Gunther was hit by German bullets and died instantly.
One minute later.
November 11, 1918, 11:00 a.m.
Gunfire ceased across the entire front.
The end of the First World War. The armistice signed between the Allied and German forces had taken effect. The war that had lasted four long years was finally over.
In the original history, Henry Gunther is recorded as the official last combat fatality of the First World War. Posthumously restored to first sergeant, he received a division citation and the Distinguished Service Cross, and the Veterans of Foreign Wars post in East Baltimore was named after him.
Word of the armistice raced across the nations. The time difference between France and Saint Pierre and Miquelon was roughly four hours. Via the transatlantic cable from Europe to North America, the news traveled from Canada to Saint Pierre and Miquelon and reached the island by noon—five hours after the armistice was declared.
"Commander!"
"What's all the fuss?"
"The Germans have surrendered! The war is over!"
The same news reached the governor at the same moment it reached the gendarmerie commander.
"Tell the villagers!"
Word of the armistice spread across the entire island in no time. The sparse population of the fishing village poured into the streets, shouting and cheering.
"The war is over!"
"My son is finally coming home!"
"On a day like this we have to raise a toast!"
The quiet fishing village was swallowed whole by a festival atmosphere in an instant.
"A festival needs fireworks."
Ugly memories of the past flickered for a moment, but today the meaning was different, so it was fine. I pointed at the ship while looking at the stunned Captain River Grey.
"What are you doing? Go get the fireworks."
"You... you really knew?"
"Boss, are you even the same person as the rest of us?"
River and Carly stared at me like they could not believe it.
"I had a feeling the war was going to end."
"You can tell that from a feeling?"
"Exactly!"
River and Carly brought three crates of fireworks from the ship—the ones I had told River to prepare before we left Manhattan harbor.
"Everyone grab a crate. Take them to the governor."
"From now on I'll believe the Boss even if he says you can make corn porridge out of potatoes."
"I'll believe him even if he says a potato is a hand grenade."
Leave it to Irish bastards. No matter what they compared something to, it was always potatoes. Anyway, Declan and the men let out shouts of admiration and stuck up their thumbs.
"I told you. We need to plant a good image on this island. Let's set off a hell of a fireworks show and then go."
On the way to the governor's with the crates, we ran into Leonard and his crew. They stood watching the festival from the sidelines, their faces far from bright. I brushed past them, sweeping my eyes over Leonard and the Italian gangsters.
I'll send you all up with the fireworks.