Just What Kind of Country Is America?
Every gang had its own way of bracing for Prohibition.
Some would focus on cooking hooch and locking down distribution. Others would start prepping smuggling routes or illegal speakeasies right away.
The Hudson Dusters—the ghosts of Hell’s Kitchen, limping along for years after their so-called dissolution—had chosen the easy path. Straight truck hijackings. Crude, stupid, effective. And they weren’t the only ones. Small-time crews all over the city were pulling the same stunts.
“How bad was the hit?”
Clifton hung his head.
“Two thousand dollars’ worth of whiskey. Gone.”
Fill a truck with the dollar-a-bottle bourbon most Americans drank and that was about the price tag. For an independent operator like Clifton, it was a gut punch.
“What about the other wholesalers?”
“Same thing happened in East Harlem yesterday. It’s only going to get worse.”
Clifton bought from the big wholesalers and sold to the retailers. Once Prohibition kicked in, that middleman network would be worth its weight in gold. It had always been a matter of time before I brought him and the other intermediates into the fold.
“Why not come over to SCL while you’re at it?”
The worry on Clifton’s face melted into a bright grin.
“Funny you should say that. That’s exactly why I came. Market’s too dangerous to go it alone anymore.”
“Agreed. It’s going to get a lot worse. If you can bring some of your colleagues along, even better. Uncle Derek will walk you through the details.”
“Got it. Heading straight to SCL.”
The moment Clifton left, Leo came over shaking his head.
“New year, and the whole city’s already on edge.”
He held out an envelope. Order No. 13—filed at one of the newsstands.
“Who tipped this one off?”
“We’ll know when we open it.”
I tore the envelope and checked the form.
Client (alias permitted): Maddox
Job type & purpose: Personal protection. Life hanging by a thread.
Fee & terms: Donation of talent
Deposit: None
Priority (urgency 1–5): A 5 that feels like a 10!
Additional compensation (success bonus or method): Capable of building triple-lock safes
Trusted referral: Hazel
“Hazel!?”
Leo, reading over my shoulder, looked like he’d been slapped with a fish.
“Wait—like how Nox isn’t always that Nox, this Hazel isn’t our Hazel, right?”
“If it weren’t, why put the name on the form?”
“Then why aren’t you freaking out? You know this guy?”
“Finbar Maddox. Met him at Gunsmith’s grave.”
Tanner, Rosenthal, even White Hand boss Dini Meehan knew him. From the way he’d talked with Gunsmith before the old man died, he’d sounded like a strategist…
“What kind of joke is this order? Fee is ‘donation of talent’? Is he even sane?”
“Hard to say. Give me a minute—I’m heading downstairs.”
I stood and walked down to the lingerie shop.
Hazel was explaining a brassiere to a customer. Another woman was ready to pay, so I stepped in and took the money.
“Two dollars fifty.”
“Can’t you knock a little off? I’m a regular.”
Expensive? I’d just watched a man lose two thousand dollars in whiskey.
“Sorry—fixed prices. But I’ll throw this in free.”
“What’s that?”
“An adhesive bandage.”
“?”
When someone got cut in this era, the usual method was gauze plus separate adhesive tape. I’d simply combined them—gauze and sticky tape in one piece.
Mother’s factory cut the gauze and cloth tape; the rest happened in Hazel’s basement workshop. Sterilized gauze centered on the tape, handmade adhesive applied, pressed flat, individually wrapped. Patent filed long ago. The machines still weren’t right, so everything was still by hand. Anyway.
“Try it and tell me what you think.”
“Okay, thanks! Lisa, let’s go.”
“Mm.”
Apparently the two women were together. They left side by side. Hazel watched them go, lips pursed.
“Hurts to watch?”
“I nearly killed myself making those and they just walk out as freebies. Of course it hurts. You have any idea how long that took last weekend?”
“You need the feedback if you want a better product.”
“I know that. Still—I’m finding an easier way.”
I watched her tidy the brassiere she’d been showing. Back at Gunsmith’s place she’d worn a scarf and hood; now it was just a simple mask over her face.
“You know, Spanish flu’s been a gift to the gangs. Perfect cover for robbery.”
“I’m standing right here. What am I supposed to say to that?”
“Anyway—did you mention the order system to Maddox?”
Hazel’s eyes went wide, then curved into crescent moons. She was clearly enjoying herself.
“Ran into him a few days ago. He said he was about to die, so I told him about the order forms. Looks like he actually filed one.”
She couldn’t exactly name the Union out loud, so she’d had to be careful.
“So what’s the story?”
“He’d been using my Hell’s Kitchen workshop. Not free—twenty a month rent. That was the problem. Some guy showed up looking to buy guns, not knowing Gunsmith was dead, and it turned out he and Maddox were enemies.”
“This customer was a well-known Hell’s Kitchen hood. Three years back he’d broken into a building and stolen stuff. Maddox saw it and testified. Thanks to that testimony the guy did a year and a half in Elmira.”
“He got out last year, still carrying the grudge, and then walked straight into the shop looking for guns.”
“At least he didn’t kill him on the spot.”
“No. Instead—”
Produce thirty pistols and five hundred rounds of ammunition, or die. Since the man had come shopping for guns, the demand almost made sense.
“So who is he?”
“Gugu Nox of the Hudson Dusters.”
“Wow.”
Another reason to wipe the Hudson Dusters off the map. This time I’d finish the job properly.
“He listed ‘donation of talent’ as payment. Is he a little off?”
Hazel’s eyes curved into moons again.
“That’s worth more than money. Work him and you’ll see.”
“Besides building gambling tables, what else can he do?”
“That’s just a fraction of it.”
Her smile was starting to bother me, but an order was an order.
“He wants protection, but the location…”
“Location? Don’t worry about it. We’ve got the basement workshop right here. If you’re taking the job, I’ll bring Maddox over.”
Why was she so eager?
I decided to go with her suggestion.
The next day I met Maddox in the basement workshop of the twin building.
He was studying a set of blueprints.
“What are you making?”
“Hazel tossed this at me.”
The adhesive bandages we gave out free to customers. Maddox turned one over in his hands.
“She wants a machine that cuts the adhesive tape and compresses the gauze. I’m sketching the drawings first.”
So that was it.
Choosing this place for his protection, maybe even telling him about the order system in the first place—Hazel was a fox.
“Kieran, right? Long time.”
Maddox recognized me instantly despite the mask. Same grease-stained work clothes he’d worn at Gunsmith’s funeral. Hair still a chaotic mess that made you anxious just looking at it.
“So you’re the one who took the job?”
“That’s right.”
“Tch. I was hoping this might get me a face-to-face with the Union boss. Guess small fry like me don’t rate.”
“He’s not that free.”
Maddox clearly had me pegged as some hired gun for the gang.
“Anyway, Hazel filled me in roughly. When’s Gugu Nox’s deadline for the guns?”
“Dawn, day after tomorrow.”
“His men?”
“He came alone that day. But who knows—they might swarm like dogs. At least three, I’d bet.”
Even if you loaded a truck, hauling thirty pistols and five hundred rounds into an alley took bodies.
“Why does he suddenly need that many guns?”
Maddox pulled a flat, curved metal flask from his coat—the kind of hip flask you saw in the movies, shaped to sit against the hip or thigh.
“Drink? Right—New York’s twenty-one, isn’t it.”
He took a swallow, then dangled the flask in front of my face.
“Because of this. Booze. That goddamn Prohibition.”
“So Gugu Nox is prepping for a big score?”
“Not now—looking ahead.”
A man who hijacked liquor trucks like there was no tomorrow, thinking about the future?
Maddox read my face and raised one eyebrow.
“You know Gugu Nox well?”
“Never met him. Never even seen him.”
“Figures. He’s in and out of prison like it’s a revolving door. Dumb as a brick, simple as dirt. So the idea that he’s planning for the future sounds ridiculous—because it is. He isn’t the type.”
“I’d like the point, please.”
My flat tone made him scratch his head.
“Meaning there’s someone behind Nox. Some sharp operator getting ready for after Prohibition hits. Without that guy, I never would have filed for protection. Nox himself? I could handle him.”
“So you don’t know who the smart one is.”
Maddox smacked his lips and nodded.
“No idea. But I’ve got one clue. When Gugu Nox just happened to walk into Gunsmith’s Hell’s Kitchen shop, he said:
Lucky for you I’m only here for guns. If I’d been hunting armored trucks, you’d already be dead.”
I almost doubted my ears.
“Armored truck?”
“Why so shocked? The war ended before the European front even really bloomed. Where do you think all the leftover surplus went?”
There was always someone flying higher than the guy who was running.
I hadn’t even considered armored trucks. And they were trading on the black market?
“Just what kind of country is America?”
“Huh?”
“...Talking to myself. So armored trucks are moving through the black market right now?”
“Rosenthal hasn’t told you? I heard you two work together.”
“Rosenthal’s been busy lately.”
I was going to have to hand SCL over to Uncle Noah and Uncle Derek and put Rosenthal back in the fence role. I’d nearly missed the surplus military market entirely.
“Kieran. While you handle this, I just hide here, right?”
“How would that work? If you’re going fishing, you need bait.”
“You’re going to use me as bait?”
Maddox pointed at himself with one finger.
His instincts, at least, were razor-sharp.
“Brian’s going in too? The flea-market vice president?”
Leo asked without looking up from the paper. On it was the list of members assigned to take Gugu Nox.
“He’s been stuck in the office too long. Leave a blade unused and the edge goes dull.”
“True. Brian’ll probably love it.”
Some men became gangsters because of their environment. Others were simply born rotten. Brian was the second type. Same went for the three who’d done nothing on Saint Pierre and Miquelon except eat seafood.
While writing the roster I felt a noticeable gap—Anthony’s absence.
Three months earlier Anthony had taken five men and left for Chicago.
Use this money. Settle in. Build a presence.
Ten thousand dollars?! You’re handing me that much? Wow—Boss really trusts me.
Can’t work together without trust.
Tissue. Just need to wipe my eyes a second.
He’d rubbed his hands over dry eyes.
Anyway, trust is trust. If I drop in unannounced and catch you dancing in some hall, you know what happens.
......
What’s that look? Planning to go even if it kills you?
No—it’s just so obvious. When would I have time for a dance hall?
Don’t forget I’m always watching.
So I’d given Raymond, who was already heading to Detroit on business, an extra task: stop in Chicago on the way and plant an informant.
The following evening the members gathered at the shooting range on the second basement level of the twin building. Fifteen of us including Leo and me.
“The target isn’t just Gugu Nox. We need to find out who the real body is. No mistakes.”
I laid out the plan. Before we moved on Hell’s Kitchen, everyone was itching to shoot.
“Hazel! Gun and ten rounds!”
“One dollar.”
“Twenty for me!”
“Two dollars.”
“Real men use double-barrel shotguns—ten shells!”
“Three dollars.”
Hazel cleaned up at the counter. Maybe because I paid them well, the kids burned through ammunition like money meant nothing.
“Boss not shooting?”
“I’m good. Knock yourselves out.”
We’d be moving to the underground range in Hell’s Kitchen soon enough. No point paying Hazel a fee when we could shoot for free later.
Bang!
Bang!
Gunfire thundered insanely through the range.
Leo and I stood with brows furrowed, hands over our ears, while Hazel sat behind the counter gazing happily at the growing stacks of bills.