She's Been a Bit Touchy Lately

"This is a rather sensitive question, but as a German immigrant, I imagine military service must have come with its share of difficulties. How did you find it?"

Hans Weiss shook his head without a moment's hesitation.

"Where I come from doesn't matter to me. All that matters is the sense of duty I felt as an American citizen, taking up a rifle for freedom."

"The looks you got around you couldn't have been friendly. Didn't that ever make you feel wronged?"

"It wasn't so much about feeling wronged. I wanted to show them. That I was a comrade they could trust."

"And did you succeed in earning that trust?"

At the reporter's question, Hans allowed himself a faint smile.

"Of course. The men I serve with now are living proof. We've crossed the firing line together more times than I can count, and every time we put our backs in each other's hands."

"So you trust them that much."

Moved by the answer, the reporter shifted the topic.

"In the recent shootout, you were the first to pull the trigger. What was going through your mind?"

"That it was dangerous. That my comrades could die if I didn't act. That I had to stop the company that hired us—and trusted us—from being burned and trampled. Something along those complicated lines, I think."

"So it wasn't purely instinct?"

"We're not butchers. We didn't fire because we had guns. The attackers' extreme behavior is what forced us to raise them."

The reporter nodded with a satisfied expression.

"A clear answer. There are people out there calling it excessive force, you know. I'll do my best to make sure what you just said reaches them."

"Thank you."

"Then let's leave the interview there. Appreciate you giving me your valuable time, Hans. Next time you're near the New York World, be sure to drop by."

The reporter carefully tucked away the notebook he'd filled with notes, shook Hans's hand, and left.

Stanis, a colleague who'd been lingering nearby waiting for his own turn, pouted and muttered.

"Hey, that reporter had all of us standing here. Why'd he single you out for the interview? You two from the same place or something?"

"Yeah. We are."

"Y-you are?"

"What was it again—he wrote a book called something like Inside the German Empire. Won a Pulitzer for it, I hear."

"There's an award like that? Anyway, blood really is thicker than water. Cheh."

The Pulitzer Prize had only been awarded for the first time in 1917—two years earlier. The first recipient after the death of Joseph Pulitzer, owner of the New York World, had been the very reporter who'd just conducted the interview. Naturally the public barely knew of it, and it carried no real authority yet. It was only natural that Stanis and Hans had never heard of it.

East 3rd Street.

A man was walking along with a pleasant look on his face.

Herbert Swope, reporter for the New York World, had just finished the interview and left SCL.

Until recently, Swope had been desperately searching for Noxtradamus—the man who had accurately predicted the Russian Revolution, the Spanish flu, and the end of the war.

At present Swope was shuttling between America and Europe, serving as head of the American press delegation at the Paris Peace Conference, where the fates of the Allied and defeated nations hung in the balance.

At the same time, he had long wanted to change the distorted way American citizens viewed German immigrants.

But writing a straightforward piece about German-American soldiers felt too obvious, too heavy-handed. He had been forced to look for a more refined approach.

That was when he heard about an interesting figure named Hans Weiss.

Hans was perfect material for an article—the right kind of man who might, even a little, shift Americans' prejudices against those of German descent.

After meeting him in person and listening carefully, Swope's conviction only deepened. Hans was not some stock figure trapped in the box labeled "German immigrant." He was living his life fully and completely as an American citizen.

That young man over there is probably the same.

Across from Swope, a tall youth was approaching.

The Spanish flu danger alert was lifted two months ago. Why is he still wearing a mask?

Ordinary white Americans didn't do that.

Even at the height of the second wave of the Spanish flu they had complained it was stifling and refused to wear one—yet this man still had his on?

An immigrant living on the margins, under the weight of prejudice, no doubt.

The sort who only felt at ease when he could hide.

The moment they brushed past each other, Swope confirmed the young man was Asian.

America, the melting pot of races.

A nation where immigrants of every kind tangled together and lived.

After the armistice people shouted about hope, but the reality Swope saw was thick with every kind of ill wind.

Returning soldiers struggling to re-enter society.

Spreading labor strikes.

The Red Scare and anti-communist fever.

And the surging hostility toward immigrants, the deepening white supremacism—already leading to the resurrection of the Ku Klux Klan that had thrived right after the Civil War.

Even during the war the Klan had attacked and brutally murdered German immigrants, making its presence known.

The Asian who had just walked past was nothing more than prey to them. Who could say whether he might be dragged off without a sound and burned alive the moment he drew their eye?

Swope took white-supremacist organizations seriously. Leave the Klan unchecked and it would surely keep feeding the endless conflict and chaos in American society.

Besides, Noxtradamus had mentioned the Klan in a recent letter—a warning that its influence would swell at terrifying speed after the war.

Noxtradamus had also prophesied an unprecedented economic depression. Even if that turned out to be true, Swope had no intention of touching the story once he considered the social shockwaves it would set off. In any case.

The moment the Paris Conference ends, I'll write a piece on the Klan.

Damn it. Should I just take the mask off?

Every passerby was glancing at me as if I were the Spanish flu itself walking around on two legs.

Starting tomorrow I'd switch to a scarf.

When I reached the SCL offices, Uncle Noh and Uncle Derek were already in the middle of an interview with a reporter.

The reporter was Reuben from the business magazine The Ledger.

Editor-in-Chief Ida planned to feature SCL heavily in next month's issue.

When else were we going to get this kind of attention?

We had to milk it for all it was worth while we could.

And there was something else: the veterans who had drawn even more notice than SCL itself.

One of my plans was to establish a private security firm.

I had originally given myself a longer runway, but the unexpected spotlight on security personnel made me decide to accelerate the timeline.

To turn that into something concrete, I put our heads together with Gavin in one corner of the SCL office.

"The paperwork's already being prepared, so you'll take the lead on that, Gavin."

"I've got zero experience with this kind of thing…"

"Don't worry. I'll assign someone to help you."

When I laid out the concrete plan, Gavin tilted his head.

"You're talking about pulling in more veterans. Boss, isn't there risk in that?"

Gavin pointed out the problems that would arise if the veterans recoiled from a gang. It was a fair concern.

"We don't have to run the business in only one direction. Split the men who operate in the light from those who work in the dark and the problem disappears."

"So we sort them from the first interview?"

"The righteous ones, the ones who only want money, the ones who enjoy combat itself. Same for the non-combat staff. Sorting them is your job, Gavin. And at the right moment, I'll take direct control of the organization myself."

"I understand what you mean."

If only the age problem would go away, I'd put my name on every single business as the representative. Funny thing was, I was still a minor. Goddamn it.

"Boss, have you settled on a company name?"

"Of course. I poured real meaning into it—a fine name that has no use for skin color, race, or nationality."

I'd agonized over it for a long time, yet Gavin's expression when he heard the name was less than bright.

"Well, the name's the boss's call. Anyway, where are you putting the company?"

"We need a registered address first, so headquarters in Manhattan. I'm still looking for a place for the training camp."

Manhattan was so overcrowded it would be hard to find space where new hires could actually train.

I'd been hunting for somewhere within about an hour's reach where men could fire live rounds and roll around freely. Staten Island, still underdeveloped and only about ten kilometers south of Manhattan, looked suitable.

After finishing with Gavin I met Uncle Noh and Uncle Derek.

"How did the interview go?"

"Reuben, was it? He asked a mountain of questions ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even though he can't possibly put all of it in the article."

"It's a magazine—they'll run plenty of content."

"That so? Anyway, talking that much made me thirsty."

I waited until they both had water, then asked.

"How's the situation around here these days?"

"Funny you ask. Yesterday we had a meeting with the East River logistics company presidents. Since the incident, no gangs have come calling."

"They're bound to keep their heads down in this climate."

The recent shootout had unexpectedly drawn public attention, and gang activity had quieted. Aside from the dead Italian crew, the other outfits that had been raiding warehouses had vanished as well.

"Once things settle they'll show up again."

"Everyone said the same thing. So a proposal came up—to form an association of East River companies while we have the chance."

Interesting news.

The East River waterfront was crowded with shipping firms, stevedoring specialists, freight haulers, and more.

The companies were tangled in complicated competition and occasional cooperation, but lately the owners had been plagued not only by gang threats but by labor strikes.

"The idea is to set standard wages and create a single channel for negotiating with the unions. The purpose didn't sound bad."

Not bad—this was another opportunity.

"Why don't the two of you take the lead?"

"Us?"

Uncle Noh and Uncle Derek blinked. Their company simply wasn't large enough to step out in front.

"Size can grow quickly. Timing is what matters. Right now, while politicians and the upper crust are paying attention to SCL—that's the window."

On the labor side I had Tanner, Duffy, and Paul Kelly.

On the management side, Uncle Noh, Uncle Derek, and Mother as well. Whatever I did from here on, the deeper and wider those roots spread, the better for me.

"There's no reason not to. I'll support you from behind. Step out front."

"Well… if that's what you want, Kieran."

After the meeting ended it was already afternoon before I returned to the Allen Street office.

The moment I arrived I summoned Raymond, deputy editor of The Ledger.

"I think it's time for you to take on something else."

"I was waiting for that, actually."

Raymond's smile deepened at my words.

Gavin was too green to run a private security firm on his own. His entire résumé was gang work and soldiering.

What I needed now was someone with real experience—and Raymond, a former Pinkerton detective, fit perfectly.

"Leo and Marcus are already handling the incorporation paperwork. Raymond, I want you to find a suitable headquarters in Manhattan and a large parcel of land on Staten Island."

"Staten Island?"

"If you're going to do real security work, you need training and live fire."

And every so often our own Union members would use the place as well.

Staten Island would also serve nicely as a training facility for the "shadow" side of the operation.

After we finished discussing the finer points, Raymond asked,

"You've already told Editor Ida, right?"

"Of course I have to tell her."

"You haven't yet?!"

"Why are you looking so shocked?"

"Ida's been a bit prickly these days. Handle it carefully."

Once Raymond left, I called in Ida, editor-in-chief of The Ledger. The moment she saw me she asked,

"Is Hazel just going to keep living with you indefinitely?"

"Huh? No. Why?"

"She doesn't seem to have any plans to leave. It got boring on the third floor without her around. Anyway, what's up?"

Ida crossed her legs and sat.

"Raymond isn't indispensable to the magazine, is he?"

"Other staff handle the company research, and he doesn't get that deeply involved in the magazine itself. Why?"

"I'm reassigning him."

I told Ida the plan.

She nodded calmly.

"I understand. And late as it is, I think I finally get what your grand dream is, Boss."

"What dream is that?"

"Raising an army of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠soldiers on Staten Island so you can overthrow the government."

"!"

I blinked at her. She had just dropped something enormous and still wore that same blank expression.

"Whatever it is, I'm on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠your side. A nice, satisfying revenge against this goddamn world. I'll help."

"…I'm not that bitter about the world."

If anything, I loved this America of endless opportunity. And yet—

"It's fine. You can be honest with me."

"…I'm not."

"All right. Who would I even tell? Oh, and this."

Ida, who had been about to stand, slipped a hand into her cleavage and pulled out a letter.

"No bag?"

"I only came from next door. Why would I need a bag? This is more convenient."

What she handed me wasn't a letter—it was an invitation.

The sender: the Metropolitan Press Club.

The clearest signal that the Spanish flu was truly over was the return of events like this all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠across society.

"They're not inviting every journalist in the city, I assume?"

"Of course not. Which means The Ledger has gotten that big."

"What about the flea market?"

"They'll have gotten an invitation too. Which brings me to this."

Ida fixed me with a steady look.

"I was going to wait until you were of age. But I can't."

"…What?"

"If you're free, come with me."