Why Is She Acting Like That?

May 9, 1919.

I went with Raymond to look at buildings for the headquarters of our private security firm, near the intersection of Broadway and Canal Street.

"The company occupying the third and fourth floors is moving out next week," the realtor said. "The location speaks for itself."

To the west, it wasn't far from the ferry terminals bringing people in from Hoboken, New Jersey. Trains and streetcars ran north and south through Manhattan. That made it easy for veterans scattered across the country to find their way to a private security company. And then there was this:

"It's less than five hundred meters from NYPD headquarters. That means it's safe."

Police headquarters?

When I turned his words over, though, the logic fell apart.

"NYPD headquarters sits right in the middle of Little Italy. The whole neighborhood's a den of crime, and you're calling it safe? How does that make any sense?"

"Ah—what I meant was, if anything dangerous happens, the police will get here that much faster."

The realtor smacked his lips and watched our faces carefully.

"Anyway, if it doesn't suit you, I can show you other places—"

"We'll take this one."

"But you just said it was dangerous..."

The darkest place is always under the lamp. Besides, what I was building was a perfectly legal private security firm.

"Name a corner of Manhattan that isn't dangerous. Just do this one."

"That's what I was saying. At least it's not the LES. I like a man who makes up his mind quick."

The realtor's expression flipped, and he fell right into step with me.

We weren't buying the building anyway. If I changed my mind, I could always move somewhere else.

We finished the contract with the landlord, and the next morning I boarded a ferry early at Manhattan's Pier 36 bound for Staten Island.

Yesterday, a building for the security firm's headquarters. Today, we were going to look over a site for an important training camp.

Within minutes the ferry slipped out of the East River and crossed Upper Bay, passing between Ellis Island—the immigrants' gateway—and Governors Island with its army base, then gliding past the Statue of Liberty.

Twenty-five minutes after boarding, we arrived at our destination: St. George Terminal on the north shore of Staten Island.

I found the realtor Raymond had already arranged things with.

"It's a fair distance, so we'll need horses. You know how to ride?"

"Of course."

"These days it isn't 'of course.' Plenty of clients coming from Manhattan have never sat a horse in their lives."

In an age of rapid change, the realtor kept horses so he could get around Staten Island's rough roads. He took the reins from the stable and led us to a place that rented mounts. We hired two horses and rode inland.

"As you can see, it's nothing like Manhattan. The roads aren't properly paved, and it's quiet and simple."

I had visited Staten Island in my previous life. Unlike hyperdense Manhattan, it had always felt sparsely populated, more like a suburban residential area. At this point in time, though, only St. George Terminal and its immediate surroundings were developed. Deeper in, the landscape was pure countryside—farmland, forest, wetlands.

Scattered towns appeared here and there. Off to our right, a large lake came into view.

"That's Silver Lake! Not a natural lake—a reservoir! The victims of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire are buried here!"

The worst garment factory fire in Manhattan history, where workers died because a greedy owner had locked the doors. The dead rested here on Staten Island.

Past Silver Lake we rode through a district called Sunnyside.

"Until a few years ago, this was Vanderbilt land!"

Cornelius Vanderbilt, the railroad king of the Gilded Age. We were riding past the traces of his family.

Not long after, on higher ground, handsome mansions appeared at intervals.

"This is Todt Hill! Probably the highest elevation in New York City. That's why the wealthy like it."

I had been here before, in my previous life. The memory was unforgettable because the mafia boss who had employed me had lived on Todt Hill.

My hands tightened on the reins.

If I had known I was going to get blown up, I should have come out here and cut the bastard's throat instead.

Todt Hill was also famous as the filming location for Don Corleone's estate in The Godfather. In the 1970s the drug kingpin Frank Matthews had lived here, and Paul Castellano, boss of the Gambino family, had built a house that looked like a miniature White House. In 2019, acting Gambino boss Frank Cali was gunned down outside his Todt Hill home.

One way or another, it was a neighborhood worth long-term investment.

We had ridden roughly seven kilometers. The realtor stopped at a place completely ringed by forest, with a ruined warehouse and two dilapidated buildings.

"There's nothing within a two-kilometer radius."

"What used to be here?"

"Hard to say. I only know someone ran some kind of business here decades ago and then moved the whole operation to Manhattan."

The buildings looked salvageable. The warehouse would have to be rebuilt from scratch.

"How much acreage did you say?"

"Fifty acres total. The owner said he doesn't mind if you want to buy it in pieces."

"Why split it? If we're buying, we buy the whole thing."

Raymond glanced at me as he answered. I was thinking the same thing. No reason to leave ourselves with neighbors.

Fifty acres was a little over sixty thousand pyeong—about the size of thirty soccer fields.

The important thing was the price: forty-five thousand dollars. Even after putting up new buildings and clearing the grounds, fifty thousand would still be a solid investment.

The problem was the distance from Manhattan. Rough calculation put the trip at nearly two hours. The realtor had a solution for that.

"There's no passenger terminal like St. George, but the Todt Hill shoreline is full of docks. The rich folks in those mansions take private boats into Manhattan. Cuts the time way down."

Two hours would shrink to roughly fifty minutes. That was good enough.

"What do you think, Raymond?"

"I like it."

"Then let's make the deal."

The moment Raymond and I decided, the realtor's mouth stretched ear to ear. He looked like a man finally rid of a white elephant.

We wrapped the transaction at lightning speed. After that I visited the site a couple more times to plan the training camp. Once I even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠brought along Archibald Blackburn, the architect who had built the dance hall in the basement of the twin buildings.

"Fifty acres—you could put a whole town in here."

"If I wanted to play land developer, I wouldn't have bought this place. All we need is a bunkhouse for fifty men, a shooting range, an armory, and some discreet underground facilities."

"Whew. Hauling materials out to a spot this remote is going to be a job."

I gave the complaining Blackburn a pep talk and dumped the rest of the work on Raymond, Gavin, and the men.

*

This morning I spent the entire forenoon shut inside the office's secret room, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠straightening the books. I really needed to hire an accountant, but finding someone I could actually trust was hard.

Cost of establishing the private security firm and building the training camp: sixty thousand dollars.

Expansion of SCL: thirty thousand.

Separate purchases of whiskey and rum: a hundred and fifty thousand.

Two armored cars Rosenthal had bought on the black market: twelve thousand. Honestly, they were such wrecks I wondered why we'd bothered.

Then, just to store the damn things, twelve thousand more for a bootlegging warehouse and lot near Hoboken, New Jersey. Another twenty thousand sent to Brian and Moretti so they could keep expanding their turf. And thirty thousand more to Anthony in Chicago for the same reason.

That wasn't all.

Fifty thousand into the manufacturing plant Standard Chemical Works, with pharmacist George Walcott as its face. Another thirty thousand to expand the Walcott Drugstore chain.

Lobbying and bribes to get firearms permits for the veterans and our own men, plus the regular payments to police, port officials, and politicians: fifty thousand.

By May of this year I had spent nearly half a million dollars. Add the men's salaries and it was five hundred fifty thousand.

Was it really all right to throw money around like this?

Yes. This was exactly the time to spend.

As long as income outpaced expenses, we were fine.

Protection money collected from the LES, profits from the Tenderloin gambling houses, cash from the business magazine The Ledger, the everyday information sheet Flea Market, the Intima shop, and Still Life—even after burning through cash like this, I still had two hundred thousand dollars in liquid assets. Now was the time to spend without holding back.

I finished the ledgers and stepped out of the secret room. Perfect timing: Ida walked into the office.

"The gathering's tomorrow. Shouldn't we go buy you a suit?"

"I'm broke."

I could waste money on anything else, but clothes felt like a waste.

My lukewarm response made the light go out of Ida's eyes.

"Don't skimp on clothes. A successful man shows it in his appearance. Fashion matters that much."

"Ida, fashion starts and ends with the face."

I pointed a finger at my own face. Ida stepped right up to me.

"We're going to buy a suit."

"..."

I had my reasons for hanging back.

Contrary to our expectations, Flea Market had not been invited to the "Night of New York Journalists." The traditional press had simply decided to ignore a lifestyle information sheet. Why bother going to an event that hadn't invited us?

Ida, of course, had manufactured a reason. She put me forward as deputy editor of The Ledger in Raymond's place and manufactured the pretext. Which was why I now had the nuisance of shopping for a suit—

"Right. Hazel picked out a suit for me once."

"Hazel?"

"Yeah. Christmas before last, at Macy's. Cost a fortune."

Ida made a soft sound through her teeth and nodded.

"Fine, then. Make sure you wear that."

"Yeah. Will do."

"Boss. You have to wear it."

"I said I would."

The moment I got home that day, I pulled the suit from the closet and tried it on. I walked into the living room to get my siblings' opinions. Roa scanned me from head to toe with those big eyes, folded her arms, and asked,

"Big brother, have you been sneaking meat somewhere?"

"Why?"

"The sleeves are shorter than before. That means you grew. Roa's arms and legs are still short, though. Look."

She stretched her arms and legs out and made a tragic face. To my eye she had grown quite a bit herself, but she didn't seem to notice. Same as me, really.

"Liam, what do you think?"

"Just wear something. Who's going to be looking at you?"

"Next time you ask me for money for clothes, I'm gonna—"

Smack.

Hazel, who had been in the kitchen, came flying over and delivered a clean smack to the back of his head.

"?"

"Watch your mouth. Watch it."

"Thank you, Hazel."

Mother smiled sweetly while she sliced potatoes. Hazel hovered beside me with a thoroughly annoying look on her face.

"So you're wearing this suit tomorrow?"

"It's the only one I've got. Feels a little small, though. Maybe I should have gone shopping when they asked."

"Ida told you to go and you turned her down?"

"I trusted this one, so I didn't. Maybe I'll buy something tomorrow."

Suddenly Hazel's eyes lit up and she patted my back.

"This suit is fine."

"Isn't it small?"

"No. It fits perfectly."

"Roa, take another look? Oh—yeah. Roa thinks Hazel unnie is right. Roa's eyes just slipped for a second. It fits exactly!"

Combination play. Was that what this was?

The next morning I took the suit and went to the office with Hazel.

Around six o'clock on Saturday evening, I was standing in front of the office mirror in the suit when the door opened and Ida appeared like a shadow, wearing a deep black evening gown.

The dress had the soft luster of velvet; the black that flowed across its surface was not a simple black at all. A heavy pearl necklace glowed along the line of her throat, and even larger pearl earrings scattered soft light from her earlobes. Thin, gleaming black gloves rose past her elbows. The dress, slit along the side, followed every clean line of Ida's figure—elegant, refined, and full of quiet dignity.

Ida stepped closer to me while I was still momentarily still. Then her gaze dropped to my shoes.

"They're shining."

"Of course. I used to be a shoe-shine boy."

She reached out, adjusted my necktie, and smoothed the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shirt and jacket with her hands.

"The clothes are small. Boss is still growing."

With her usual impassive expression she pointed toward the door.

"Shall we go?"

We waited for a taxi in front of the twin buildings. A prickling stare hit the back of my head—Hazel was plastered against the window of the lingerie shop, glaring daggers at us.

"Why is she acting like that?"

Ida snorted a quiet laugh and walked right up to the glass. She breathed on the pane ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and, with a perfectly calm face, drew a little smile.