Hang in There Today, See You Later!
"Big Brother, Big Sis! Hang in there today—see you later!"
See you later?
That was what Roa had called out when I left for work.
On top of that, Hazel had walked out of the house empty-handed. If I was back, she ought to have packed her things and moved out of the room. She showed no sign of intending to.
"Roa said I should stay a few more days. What, you want me gone already?"
"Why do you always have to put it like that?"
"So that means I can stay? Okay."
Hazel hummed a little tune under her breath.
Roa wanted her to stick around a few more days; I couldn't just coldly send her packing. I had no idea what I was supposed to say or how to say it.
At any rate, the two of us were walking side by side toward the twin buildings for work. The streets thronged with people heading to their jobs, and Hazel and I hurried along with our faces buried behind masks and scarves.
If I had to sum up the impression of being back after nearly a month, it was how many people were wearing masks. The second wave of Spanish flu that had begun in the summer had swept across the entire world and claimed countless lives. It was far deadlier than the first.
According to the papers it had peaked in October and was finally starting to lose steam by November. But two hundred thousand people had died in the United States alone during September and October, so the fear still ran deep. People clung to their masks more tightly than ever, and a good many of those masks were Free Your Body products.
Hazel spoke up.
"Oh, did you hear from Mother? The New York Red Cross chapter put in another order."
"She didn't mention that yesterday. Anyway, if they ordered after the war ended, it's for domestic use?"
"Yeah. They're distributing them to hospitals and health clinics."
"Anything else?"
Hazel thought for a moment, then continued as if something had just come back to her.
"Your cousin Brandon stopped by the house. With that cousin from Chicago—Pierce, I think?"
"Pierce?"
He had been arrested for slipping Mickey Finns to customers, but Uncle Ted must have gotten him out. Had he dropped out of college?
Hazel read the look in my eyes and answered.
"No, the semester ended and he's on break, so he came home."
"You know more about my family than I do."
"I was stuck in the house the whole time you were gone. Want me to tell you more?"
Yesterday I had gone on and on about Saint Pierre and Miquelon and never got around to hearing about my siblings. Hazel filled me in.
"Liam's back at night school. He's working hard to make up for the two years he lost. And Roa—from what I can see…"
"From what you can see, what?"
"She's sharp as a tack. A prodigy. Quick on the uptake, talks well, picks up anything she learns right away. It's like looking at little me."
"…"
"You don't believe me?"
I looked around for somewhere to put my eyes and spotted a familiar face. The moment our gazes met, the guy flinched and immediately changed direction.
The one who had killed this body and let me inhabit it. The one who had introduced me to Tanner Smith. Gary.
I had run into him plenty of times coming and going. There was never any real reason to acknowledge him, so I usually just passed by the way I was doing today. But his face caught my attention. He was swollen and purple with bruises—someone had worked him over good.
"Someone you know?"
"Yeah. Used to give me a hard time."
"And he's still breathing?"
"…"
"Guess I shouldn't mess with that one. Means he's more dangerous than you. Scary."
I couldn't remember the name of the outfit, but last year Gary had joined a street gang that had just been formed. One of the units under the Union operating inside LES.
Tanner was still sponsoring Irish boys the same way he had when we first met. Gary had been one of them for a while, but in the end—against Tanner's hopes—he had chosen the gang path.
"Is his face always like that?"
"He must've gotten into a fight. Or taken a beating."
"Wow. The guy who used to bully you is getting smacked around by someone else? The food chain around here is no joke. Classic LES."
"You finding this funny?"
"Yeah."
We followed Allen Street until we finally reached the twin buildings. On the ground floor, Intima and O'Connell's Investment were still closed.
"See you later."
Hazel headed downstairs; I went up to the second-floor office. When I opened the door, Leo was buried in a chair, dead asleep.
"You could've just slept late at home and come in later."
Leo jerked upright in the chair, startled. He wiped the drool from his mouth and stared at me with round eyes.
"When did you get to Manhattan?"
"Last night. Anything happen?"
Leo's expression turned serious as he brought over a thick stack of papers from the desk. The moment I saw them, a creeping unease rose in my gut.
"Good news, bad news. Which first?"
"Bad news."
Leo opened one of the files.
"Two weeks ago, the Life Style factory got hit. About five hundred dollars stolen, and the thieves still haven't been caught."
"Well, these things happen. Next?"
"The Tenderloin gambling house was raided."
"Shit. Damage?"
Leo smacked his lips and went on.
"Shane and the crew managed to hold them off, but the place got trashed inside. We couldn't open for three days. And—"
"There's more?"
I was starting to get irritated. I scrubbed a hand over my face and waved him on.
"Keep going."
"This one's a little ambiguous. There was a shootout at a gambling house on Chrystie Street. Two men dead."
People usually draw the line at Bowery Street—west of it Little Italy, east of it LES. Chrystie sat only a single block off Bowery, still inside LES territory. Which meant it fell under the Union's influence. In reality, though, it wasn't our gambling house, and the dead men had no connection to us. They weren't even from our units.
"Still, it's our territory."
"Territory? What do you think that word even means? We can't perfectly control all of LES. We never will."
The idea that a gang could completely dominate a neighborhood was nonsense from the start. Especially here—Manhattan, America's greatest crime city, and within it the Lower East Side, where crime boiled over. No single gang had ever monopolized the district since the city was founded.
Not the gangs that had claimed to rule LES, not even the ones that left their mark on history: the Bowery Boys, the Dead Rabbits, the Whyos, the Eastmans, the Five Points.
"There have always been competing outfits, or small crews that simply stay out of each other's way."
A brand-new gang could spring up overnight; an existing power could quietly start operating. Outsiders could drift in and start throwing their weight around. How were you supposed to control all of that?
Dominating a territory never meant absolute control. It meant practical primacy. And you could tell which gang held that primacy by a few simple measures.
One: how much of the protection-money line in the district they owned.
Two: whether they ran the entertainment—smuggling, prostitution, gambling, dance halls.
Three: whether other gangs had to ask permission before they moved.
Four: whether the residents, shopkeepers, politicians, cops, and reporters of LES acknowledged it.
In short, to dominate meant sitting at the very top of the food chain, at the peak of the hierarchy pyramid. Even if petty gangs swarmed, the district was still the one the Union could chew up, tear into, taste, and enjoy. That was what it meant to be the boss.
"Was that too long-winded?"
"No, I get it clearly now. But setting the territory question aside, there's something interesting about the Chrystie gambling house."
Both the operators of the house and the men who hit it were Italian outfits. Word was they were even from the same Sicilian side.
"Interesting. Definitely an ambiguous piece of news—but if Sicilian gangs are tearing each other up in our territory, that counts as good news."
"Then I'll move it."
Leo shifted the relevant papers over to the good-news pile.
"All right, now for the actual good news."
"I'm listening."
"First, Morris Rodenberg was acquitted at trial."
"Oh."
Morris—who had entrusted me with the Manhattan gambling-house intelligence and the Tenderloin operation—was a free man. That meant Lenny Goldstein, who ran the tables and the house, and I could expand into more venues.
"Good. Next?"
"Uncle Noh's Eastern Trucking lawsuit got dismissed. No reason left to pay the debts that dead owner bastard left behind."
Uncle Noh no longer had to file for bankruptcy. He could put money into a proper bank account without any trouble.
"And next. The lawsuit over George Walcott's pharmacies that the loan shark took. He won that one too."
Same story: the dead loan shark's extortion and threats were proven, and George Walcott got both pharmacies back.
"That's everything."
"…All of them are lawsuit cases?"
None of it was directly connected to me, but in the bigger picture it all was. It was definitely good news. We had committed every kind of crime imaginable and still won every legal fight.
At this point I couldn't help but praise the lawyer who had handled the cases. William Fallon, was it? I ought to retain him as the Union's house counsel.
I spent the entire morning in meetings at the office. Brian, who managed the flea-market lifestyle information sheet. The owner of Life Style, whose factory goods had been stolen. And Ida O'Connell, editor-in-chief of the business magazine The Ledger…
"Boss is back, so Hazel must've left the house too?"
"Uh, well. She said she's staying a few more days."
"Why?"
Ida asked in her usual flat tone.
"My little sister told her to stay a few more days."
"Not Liam, then. Has to be cute little Roa."
With that, Ida turned her back. She was already heading out of the office the moment she arrived.
"What, no meeting?"
"Magazine sold twenty percent more than last month. I'll show you the January issue as soon as it's ready, Boss."
If nothing was wrong and sales were up, what was there to meet about?
Ida left, and I was alone with my thoughts when Brandon—Uncle Noh's son—knocked on the door.
"Brother. Trip go well?"
"Not a trip, Brother. Business trip."
"Right, of course."
Brandon grinned as he handed over a sheaf of papers. They meticulously listed the stocks we had invested in and the current profits. I could see why his face was so bright.
"After the armistice the market went vertical. Peace rally, armistice rally—absolute chaos."
"Then we should sell. Dump everything tomorrow."
"Sell now?"
"You think this rally's going to last?"
Brandon's smile vanished and his expression turned serious. Behind the surprise, curiosity lit his eyes as he looked at me. He must have been thinking the same thing.
"Kieran, you see it as a short-term rally too?"
"That's how I see it."
"Why? What's your reason?"
"Don't tell me you're testing me right now, Brother."
I narrowed my eyes. Brandon flinched and shook his head.
"No, never. I was going to say we should sell today anyway."
"Reason?"
"Once the war's over, munitions exports are over. Workers lose their jobs. And the inflation pressure that built up during the war is going to be enormous."
Right now everyone was still drunk on the joy of peace, but the market would sober up soon enough. Economic restructuring, unemployment, inflation, Spanish flu—with that many uncertainties, a correction was inevitable. That was Brandon's view.
"I completely agree."
"But even if I've been grinding it out on that side for a few years… how can you analyze it like that? Honestly, I'm impressed."
I didn't actually go that deep, Brother. But as long as we reach the same conclusion, it's fine.
"Anyway, sell the whole position tomorrow. I'll watch before we get back in."
"Okay. Lunch together?"
"Sure. I've got a favor to ask you anyway."
A nearby Italian restaurant. Brandon ordered spaghetti and meatballs, and gnocchi—potato dumplings.
"Menu okay?"
"I'll eat anything."
"Yeah, looking at your height, I believe it."
Brandon wasn't short, but even among the O'Connells I was on the tall side. We placed our orders with the waitress, and while we waited Brandon brought up family. The favor he wanted to ask concerned Pierce, Uncle Ted's son.
"You heard about the Chicago thing, right? Pierce nearly went to jail over that waiter-and-drugs mess."
"I heard you two stopped by the house together."
"Yeah. Figured we'd pay a call on Aunt Nora while we were at it. He was thinking of…"
The little bell over the door jingled. Two men stepped into the restaurant—scarves wrapped, hats pulled low, winter coats on. My eyes met one of them. The man scowled at once.
"…so Uncle Ted told him to quit college, I guess. Honestly the tuition's a waste…"
While Brandon talked, the two men came toward our table. Empty tables everywhere—why us? And once you walked into a place, you usually took off your hat and coat, didn't you?
I casually took the fork and knife already set on the table and slipped them under the edge, out of sight.
"…better to just tell Pierce to work here in Manhattan. Make some money, and he…"
The two men were right in front of us. My hand tightened on the fork and knife under the table—then the lead man simply walked past. Right. There were private rooms farther back.
But the man behind him leaned in slightly as he passed and whispered.
"If you don't want to get mixed up in this, leave the restaurant."
A familiar voice. One of the ones growing under Arnold Rothstein. Salvatore?
"Kieran, that guy who just walked past—did he say something to you?"
I thought for a second, then stood.
"Brother. You smoke, right?"
"Huh? Yeah."
"Let's step outside and have one until the food comes. I'll keep you company."
"Huh? Well, okay. But your coat? It's freezing out there, Brother."
"Just shut up and come outside."
I grabbed the doorknob and started to push the door open with my shoulder.
Bang!
Bang!
Gunshots cracked inside the restaurant.