This Time, I'm Stabbing You in the Back

The Ku Klux Klan.

In the immediate aftermath of the Civil War, an extreme white supremacist organization that attacked not only the newly freed Black population but also the white people who defended them.

In 1870, the federal government, determined to dismantle the Klan after its indiscriminate violence plunged society into chaos, passed related laws and shattered the organization.

Then, in 1915, the second-era Ku Klux Klan reorganized itself in Atlanta, Georgia—a city left in ashes by the Civil War.

Where the first Klan had focused its hatred on Black people, the second fixed its sights on the rapidly swelling ranks of immigrants. That shift reflected the character of its founders. The first had been founded by six former Confederate officers; the second was led primarily by Protestant ministers.

In other words, the second Klan expanded its targets far beyond Black Americans, railing against anyone on the wrong side of Protestantism and crying out against Catholics and Jews as it swelled at a furious pace.

Sunday evening, seven o'clock.

I summoned a select few of the men to the office in the Twin Buildings. Unlike previous jobs, the target this time was a reporter, so I couldn't just call anyone.

"Cale, Corey, Leo, Marcus. Tonight we eliminate O'Malley, the reporter from the City Record."

It had been a while since I'd called on Marcus. Like Liam, he was filling the gaps in his education and attending night school so he could get into college. If everything stayed on schedule, he would graduate this year and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be heading off to university.

After hearing the plan, Cale asked me,

"Is O'Malley even going to show up at the inn? I don't think he's that simple."

"You're right. I heard the bastard's sharp as a tack and slippery as hell. Back when the Marginals were still active in Hell's Kitchen, Tanner probably did business with him too."

Corey, the safe-cracker, looked just as skeptical. Both Cale and Corey had been Marginals once; they knew O'Malley well enough.

"If Ida were just some ordinary woman, maybe. But he's going to smell a trap for sure."

"So what's your alternative?"

At my question, Cale and Corey shut their mouths.

"One way or another, O'Malley's going to check whether Ida is actually at the meeting place."

There were two ways he would do that: show up at the inn himself, or send someone else.

"If he comes in person, the job's simple. If he sends someone, we follow the guy."

"Okay. We'll go with your plan, Boss."

At the same hour, West 13th Street.

The Silver Dollar.

In a private room of the saloon, two men had their heads together. The one with a cigarette between his lips was James O'Malley, the reporter who had come for a quiet deal.

"So? Doesn't a woman like Ida get your attention?"

"Attention, my ass. That's a poisoned apple. One wrong bite and you're finished."

"From what I saw yesterday, it looked like an adventure worth taking. Even those stuffed-shirt reporters were practically in heat, hovering around her trying to get a shot."

Across from O'Malley, Silverman—owner of the saloon and boss of the Pearl Buttons gang—lifted his whiskey glass with a smirk.

"I've seen plenty of men die over a woman, O'Malley. Just from the articles you've written, there must have been dozens."

"What, did you suddenly take holy orders? Where the hell did the Silverman who switched women every other night go?"

"Plenty of men have died for mouthing off in front of me, too. Oh, wait—you can't write your own obituary, can you?"

Silverman cackled and knocked back the whiskey. Watching him, O'Malley allowed himself a bitter smile.

I'll have to change the plan.

"I'm not telling you to do anything to Ida. Why do you think I'm handing you information this valuable?"

"Why?"

"Ida's last safe house was with the Marginals."

After the Gophers and the Eastman Gang collapsed, Ida had taken refuge with the Marginals. That meant she was connected to Tanner Smith.

"Of course, as you already know, Tanner isn't the boss of the Marginals anymore. Some kid took over."

"O'Malley, you're not the only one with ears. I already know that much."

"Then this will be even easier."

What O'Malley had been watching was the Marginals' trail after the new boss ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was chosen.

"They vanished from Hell's Kitchen like smoke. And Tanner, who was supposed to be retiring, has a stranglehold on the longshoremen's union right now."

A few months earlier, Silverman had met Tanner face to face. He already knew the Marginals were operating in the Lower East Side and that they were tied to the Union. But he kept his mouth shut and played dumb.

"So what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Think carefully. Tanner comes out of retirement as a labor slugger, and out of nowhere Ida becomes editor-in-chief of a business magazine."

O'Malley's eyes glittered as he pressed on.

"A broad who used to crawl through the gutters of Hell's Kitchen shows up at the Night of the Press. Wrong place, wrong dress, everything."

"Stop dancing around it and get to the point. You're starting to piss me off."

Silverman tightened his grip on the whiskey glass. O'Malley raised a hand for calm and continued.

"Something's happening, and if you follow the thread, it all leads to one place—the Union gang that's been rising so fast out of the LES."

O'Malley was certain Tanner and Ida had the Union behind them.

"The NYPD, even the Italian gangs—they all chased the Union and gave up. And now a woman with access to that kind of information just appears, and you're going to leave her alone?"

Watching O'Malley act as if he had the entire board figured out, Silverman snorted.

"You want to put your hands on Ida just to dig up that kind of information? Tanner would come after me. How is that any different from the old days when the Gophers and Eastmans shot each other over her?"

O'Malley's face fell with disappointment.

"Looking at how content you are with the status quo, I guess you've got no ambition to grow your gang."

"What?"

"Is there anyone left in Hell's Kitchen who can stand against the Pearl Buttons?"

The once-powerful Gophers and Hudson Dusters. The smaller outfits—the Fashion Plates, the Nineties, the Forties, the Boodle Gang—had all been smashed to pieces. Even the Marginals had moved their territory to the LES. Just as O'Malley said, Hell's Kitchen and even Chelsea belonged to the Pearl Buttons now—to Silverman.

"But holding onto it won't be easy. Once the Prohibition grace period ends, every bastard who wants a piece of the bootlegging market is going to come knocking."

"The bootlegging market..."

"Don't tell me you haven't prepared for it? Truck hijackings have multiplied several times over just this year. Every single one of them carrying whiskey, rum, or beer."

If it was already this bad now, what would it look like once Prohibition actually took effect?

Silverman still wasn't sure about the future. Since the federal government had written it into law, he figured the risks would be severe. And yet, when he turned over the Jersey City affair involving the Union and remembered Tanner's words, the urgency was real.

If you can't adapt to the new era, you'll lose everything. If you don't understand what's happening right now, you're fucked.

You've turned into a coward, Tanner.

It's called being smart, you asshole. Stay stuck in Hell's Kitchen and you'll get eaten. Don't you get that?

Fine. I don't get it. So we'll handle our own business our own way.

Stupid bastard. Do whatever the hell you want.

What would have happened if he had ignored Tanner's warning and stuck his nose into Jersey City? That damned Union gang, with Goo Goo Knox at the tip of the spear, had worked a kind of magic—wiping out the Hudson Dusters and the Italian gangs at the same time. If the Pearl Buttons had gotten involved, they might have met the same fate.

At the time he had only breathed a sigh of relief that he had stayed clear. Now, thinking about the future, the unease wouldn't leave him.

Little Italy, the LES, East Harlem. Besides the Union, other gangs had already coiled themselves through Manhattan. There was no telling when one of them might decide to hit Hell's Kitchen.

If you're so curious who our boss is, come join the Union.

Tanner's words kept circling in his head. Bowing his head would sting his pride, but an alliance might still be possible—the same way the Marginals and the Pearl Buttons had once formed a front against the Hudson Dusters.

Maybe I should use this chance to put out a feeler toward the Union.

Silverman spoke to O'Malley, who was still pumping out cigarette smoke.

"And if I refuse the deal?"

"Then I go find someone else willing to buy my information."

"You're not thinking of handing Ida over to the Italians, are you?"

"If the money's right."

"So you've thrown away even Irish pride."

O'Malley chuckled and started to rise from his seat.

"Never thought I'd hear the word 'pride' come out of Silverman's mouth. Looks like the deal is off—"

"How much do you want?"

"Five hundred."

"Half up front. The rest when we secure Ida."

For all his big talk, O'Malley knew nothing. He had no idea Silverman and Tanner had been meeting until recently, and he understood even less about how terrifying the Union gang truly was.

O'Malley, this time I'm going to stab you in the back.

Secure Ida, then offer O'Malley up as a gift to Tanner. It would make an excellent foundation for an alliance between the Pearl Buttons and the Union.

Perfect plan.

After getting the exact time and place of the rendezvous from O'Malley, Silverman issued orders to his men.

"Go bring Ida here. As gentlemanly as possible."

"So we just take her clothes off a little—"

"I said bring her gently, you idiot! If there's a single mark on her, you're the one who dies. And Marchel—take some boys and shadow O'Malley right now."

The moment they had Ida, they would grab O'Malley. After giving the orders, Silverman scanned the saloon outside his office. At a dim table, O'Malley already had a woman on his arm and was drinking whiskey. Silverman watched him with cold eyes.

You dare mock Irish pride?

A man ought to know where he comes from. Even if it had only been in his heart, Silverman had once dreamed of becoming an IRA agent for Irish independence. The memories of discrimination he had suffered as a poor immigrant at the hands of the English bastards in America played their part too.

And what about James O'Malley, a fellow Irishman? A piece of trash who would sell information even to the Italians if the price was right—a bat who flitted through Hell's Kitchen. He would make excellent bait to throw to the Union.

Meanwhile, O'Malley knocked back the whiskey the woman poured for him and laid out another plan of his own.

If Silverman managed to squeeze information about the Union out of Ida? He would simply sell that fact itself to the Italian gangs. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠That was how you turned a small piece of information into a larger one—the magic that turned five hundred dollars into five thousand.

"Reporter O'Malley, you seem to be in a good mood tonight. That smile won't leave your face."

"Damn right I am. Have a drink yourself."

One hand held the whiskey bottle; the other busily kneaded her thigh. The appointed hour drew closer.

The Rest House on Bowery Street.

It was old and rundown, with few guests. I had chosen it because it was the same inn where I had eliminated the labor slugger Kid Dropper. I already knew the layout, so I took the room across from 205—room 209—and waited.

Around the appointed hour of nine at night, footsteps sounded in the hallway. There had been other guests earlier, of course. What mattered was which door they knocked on.

The steps drew closer and stopped exactly in front of 205. Through the peephole I could see only the back of a man.

Knock, knock.

When there was no answer, he knocked again. Then he took the doorknob and twisted it a few times.

"Shit, what the hell is this?"

The man turned his head and looked back down the corridor he had come from. There was a second man.

"Go check whether anyone reserved 205."

"Won't that look suspicious?"

"Who cares? Just go."

The man pulled out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips. It definitely wasn't O'Malley. For all the talk about him being crafty and careful, he clearly wasn't stupid enough to walk in himself.

Hiss.

He lit the cigarette, and the smoke he exhaled stung my eyes. The peepholes of this era were nothing more than small drilled holes rather than proper lenses, so the smoke drifted in through the gap.

A moment later, hurried footsteps pounded on the stairs.

"Shit, they say nobody reserved that room."

"What?"

"A long-term guest checked out a few days ago and it's been empty ever since."

"Fuck! So the whole thing was bullshit?"

"But a guest who showed up an hour ago specifically asked for room 209."

Damn it. The innkeeper had clearly run his mouth. The man in front of 205 turned and stared at my door. I jerked my face away from the peephole.

He came right up to it.

Knock, knock.

He knocked, got no response, and twisted the knob. After a few tries he grew irritated and kicked the door.

"Ah, screw it! Let's just go. Crazy bastard. Who the hell does he think he is, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠standing the boss up?"

"Yeah, let's go. He's probably drowning himself in booze right now. We'll beat it out of him."

Boss? Drinking himself stupid?

Leaving only those cryptic words, the footsteps faded. I turned and went to the window, signaling the men waiting in the alley.

"Follow those two who just left."

They moved at once toward the inn entrance. I slipped out of the room myself.

Only Leo was left waiting out front.

"Where did they go?"

"They took a carriage to number 3 West 13th Street. Looked like they were heading for some saloon."

Marcus, Cale, and Corey were already chasing them in one of our carriages.

"Let's go."

We flagged a carriage and followed the same route—west along Canal Street, then north. After about thirty minutes we arrived at a basement saloon on West 13th Street.

Sunday night, ten o'clock. Not a pedestrian in sight. Only Corey was waiting for us.

"They went inside."

"The carriage?"

"Parked around back."

A carriage sat in the darkness. I turned my head and looked at the saloon sign above the basement entrance.

The Silver Dollar.

That name... sounded familiar.

I pulled my wallet from my coat and checked the business card inside.

Silverman, the man I had met at the Jersey City docks. Boss of the Pearl Buttons gang.

Why does this bastard keep circling around me?

I put the wallet away and was about to head down into the basement when a group of men came climbing the stairs. They were dragging a man by the scruff of the neck like a dog. It was Reporter O'Malley.

The target was crawling—no, being dragged—out to us of his own accord.

Thud!

The moment they stepped outside, someone kicked O'Malley hard.

"You're a reporter, so this is as far as it goes. Show your face around here again and we won't be so nice!"

They left O'Malley sprawled on the ground and went back inside.

Groaning, O'Malley pushed himself up into a sitting position.

"Shit..."

He patted himself down, then pulled out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth.

"That damned bitch... how dare she play me..."

Curses about killing her, about what he would do to her body—every kind of venom poured out of him as he reached into his pocket for a match. That was when I stepped closer. O'Malley lifted his head.

"Allow me to light that for you."

Hiss.

I struck one of my own matches and held the flame to the tip of his cigarette. O'Malley drew a breath; the tobacco glowed red and a thin thread of smoke rose.

Just then a carriage rolled slowly toward us. Cale sat in the driver's seat.

I pointed at it. O'Malley's eyes narrowed.

"Who the hell are you?"

"More importantly, if you keep sitting on the ground like that you'll get hemorrhoids."

I'm such a kind man. I held out my hand. O'Malley snorted and took it. I yanked hard; he came up without resistance. While I was at it, I seized him by the throat.

"Ghk!"

Clunk.

Right on cue, Leo opened the carriage door and shoved O'Malley inside. Marcus, waiting within, jammed a syringe already loaded with Mickey Finn into his chest while Leo clamped a hand over his mouth.

I shut the carriage door and handed the key to Cale, the driver.

"To the Hell's Kitchen workshop."

"What about you, Boss?"

"I need to take a look inside the saloon."

Neeeigh.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

The carriage rolled away, and I walked slowly down into the basement saloon.