Don't Be Scared
Around midnight, we loaded O'Malley into the carriage and left Hell's Kitchen for the LES district.
Cale and Cory took the driver's seat. Leo, Marcus, and I rode inside with O'Malley. The Mickey Finn overdose left him unable to hold himself upright, still dressed in full KKK regalia.
I watched the streetlights pass outside the carriage window. Canal Street, the east-west artery of Manhattan, still saw a fair amount of trucks and cars even at this late hour. The clop of hooves and the rumble of engines filled the quiet night. When I started pulling white cloths from my bag, Leo blinked at me.
"Just how many KKK outfits did you make?"
"Four. Besides O'Malley, there could have been others."
If O'Malley had brought his whole crew to the meeting spot, or if the Pearl Buttons had decided to go all-in on targeting Ida, the situation would have been completely different.
"So you were going to turn all of them into Klansmen?"
"Better several than one. And several looks more convincing, doesn't it?"
I handed the spare robes to Leo and Marcus.
"Put them on."
"Shit, if we take a bullet like this, we'll just die as Klansmen same as O'Malley, right?"
"Don't jinx it, you bastard."
Marcus threw the robe over his shoulders while scolding Leo. A moment later, minus the pointed hoods, the carriage interior looked like it held four Klansmen, O'Malley included.
The carriage followed Canal for a while before turning left onto the narrower Crosby Street, where streetlamps stood farther apart and the road grew distinctly gloomier. We headed north, one block short of our destination on Lafayette Street.
We hadn't gone far when it started.
Boom!
Boom!
Bang!
Bang!
Shotgun and pistol fire mixed together up ahead.
"Fuck!"
Cale yanked the carriage into a hard turn. At the same time the small hatch between driver's seat and cabin flew open and Cory shouted through it.
"Boss! Truck hijackers up front!"
"Fuck! Did they see us?"
Bang!
A round punched into the carriage.
They had definitely seen us.
The world was going completely insane. Truck hijackings had exploded during the Prohibition grace period, and of course we had to run into one right now.
All Leo's fault.
"You and your big mouth, you bastard!"
"How the hell is this my fault?"
Cale swung us hard into a wide alley. Naturally it was a dead end.
"Park it half out of the mouth so we can pull out easy."
He backed the rear of the carriage into the alley entrance. I yanked the strap hanging from the floor of the cabin.
Every carriage had hidden compartments for valuables or weapons. Union carriages had double and triple secret spaces packed with guns.
Click. Click.
I slammed a magazine into my Colt M1911 and grabbed a spare. Cale, Cory, Leo, and Marcus armed themselves right behind me.
"Boss, what about this guy? If he wakes up suddenly we're fucked."
Cale pointed at O'Malley. We had planned to finish him here anyway. Might as well end it now.
"Just put the hood on him."
I was pulling the pointed hood over my own head like a mask when the sound of a truck engine grew louder, then roared past the mouth of our alley at speed.
For a split second my eyes met those of the man riding shotgun, pump gun in hand. He stared wide-eyed as they flew past—probably because of our robes. And his face looked familiar.
"Huh?"
"Huh?!"
The whole crew had the same reaction.
The man riding shotgun was none other than a Union member—Dylan Buckley.
"Fuck, it was an SCL truck?!"
And then:
Dadadada.
The hijackers came sprinting after the truck, firing as they ran.
"Cory, stay on the driver's seat ready to move the second I say."
"Okay."
They had no idea we were armed. But it was the dead of night and we had no count on their numbers. I debated waiting to wipe them out versus just driving them off, then chose the latter.
I shoved O'Malley—our senior Klansman—out as a shield around the L-shaped corner, then hid behind him and raised my voice.
"We are 100% Americanism KKK! America for Americans! One Flag, One School, One Language!"
"Wh-what?"
The others blinked at me in shock.
One-hundred-percent Americanism. America for Americans. One flag, one school, one language. The Klan's most extreme slogans, claiming they themselves were America. And for the finish:
"Fucking spaghetti! Fucking sheeny!"
I spat the slur for "sly Jews," then shoved the muzzle of my pistol under O'Malley's armpit and squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Everyone except Cory poured fire from behind the carriage in support.
"Fuck! What the hell are those?"
"Is that the Klan?"
"Crazy bastards!"
The hijackers looked thoroughly rattled. They returned fire a few times, then started backing away. Once they realized we had numbers, they turned and fled.
"Pull the carriage out."
The rear of the cabin rolled back onto the street. The others climbed aboard one by one. Before I boarded I put two rounds into the crumpled O'Malley on the ground.
Bang!
Bang!
One to the head, one to the chest. Then I swung up into the carriage.
Clop-clop, clop-clop.
The moment we were moving I stripped off the robe and stuffed it under the seat with the luggage. Once we were clear of the danger zone we hid the weapons back in the secret compartments.
Leo let out a long breath and rubbed his chest.
"Whew. That was one hell of a day."
"My hands are still shaking."
Marcus, short on experience, clenched and unclenched his fists trying to work the tension out.
From the driver's seat Cale spoke through the hatch.
"Boss, what the hell was that you shouted earlier?"
"Yeah, I nearly jumped out of my skin."
"I thought you were the real deal for a second."
Every eye turned on me. Even Cory twisted around from the driver's seat to stare.
The lines I had yelled were actual Klan slogans. The crew immediately started grilling me about how I even knew that stuff, thoroughly denouncing my useless knowledge.
"Boss, shouldn't you be getting an ideological screening? You're starting to scare me."
"Shut it."
Cale smoothly changed the subject.
"Anyway, that Dylan bastard's got some grit, doesn't he? He actually fired the shotgun and ran rather than lose the cargo. I thought he was all talk, but the kid's got steel."
Dylan Buckley was one of the members who had gone through special training with me and Anthony. Like Cale said, during training he had mostly run his mouth without standing out. Surprising.
"But Boss. Everything's completely sideways now, right? We never even checked if there were witnesses."
He was right. The unplanned mess had left everything a disaster. Thinking it through carefully, the only possible witnesses were the SCL truck driver, Dylan, and the hijackers themselves.
How the cops would handle O'Malley and which way the investigation would go was impossible to guess this time. Honestly, my chest tightened a little.
"Boss, what's with that face? You okay?"
"Don't be scared."
"Huh? What are you talking about? Who's scared?"
I'm the one who's scared. Me.
Six o'clock the next morning.
A body was discovered near the intersection of Grand and Lafayette Streets in the LES. Lieutenant Nathan of the 9th Precinct, whose jurisdiction it was, rushed to the scene.
"Who made the initial report?"
"A vagrant ran up to me while I was on patrol, sir."
Nathan listened while he lifted the cloth covering the corpse again.
The body had gunshot wounds to the head and chest. From the wounds, the clothing, and the blood pooled on the ground, time of death was roughly the early morning hours.
The real problem was the clothing.
A white pointed hood with eyeholes sat on the head; the body wore a white robe. Judging by the outfit alone it was unmistakably Klan...
Fuck, he was walking around downtown dressed like this?
Worse, this was a main street in the LES, dense with Jewish residences.
"Any other witnesses besides the vagrant?"
"None, sir."
"Anyone who saw the body?"
"We covered it the second the team arrived. Nobody else could have seen it. Tony stayed on guard the whole time."
Nathan nodded and pulled off the hood. Blood had pooled in the mouth; the face was swollen and bruised beyond recognition.
"We've got statements from people nearby that a gunfight broke out around dawn."
"Any clue to the victim's identity?"
"We checked the pockets. Nothing."
Nathan shook his head and stood.
"Photograph the scene and keep everyone away."
"Sir... do you think the Klan is starting to operate in Manhattan?"
Nathan fixed his subordinate with a sharp look.
"Until the brass decides something, do not even say that out loud."
"Y-yes, sir."
Lieutenant Nathan was Jewish. He had been appointed specifically to serve as a bridge between the many Jews living in the LES and the police. That alone forced him to take the existence of a group that hated people of color and immigrants with deadly seriousness.
The NYPD leadership felt much the same.
That same evening at NYPD headquarters, senior officers held an emergency meeting on the case. In the short time available they had gathered additional information, and Lieutenant Nathan continued the briefing.
"First, the body has been identified as James O'Malley, a reporter for The City Record. Irish immigrant, age forty-two. He specialized in crime reporting out of Hell's Kitchen."
Sighs escaped the officers listening.
"Neighborhood canvass confirms a gunfight around one a.m."
Shortly after that, someone had shouted specific slogans while hurling abuse and curses aimed at particular immigrant groups—Jews and Italians among them.
"So there were two separate exchanges of gunfire?"
"Yes, sir."
One officer tilted his head and cut in.
"LES is crawling with Italian and Jewish gangs. Someone puts on white robes and starts doing Klan business at night? You'd have to be out of your mind."
"We already collected blood samples from the body this morning and ran analysis."
The medical examiner stepped forward.
Full results would take a few more days, but he cautiously offered the opinion that the victim had ingested Mickey Finn.
"Mickey Finn—that's the drug that caused problems in Chicago."
"Correct. Similar cases have turned up in Manhattan over the past year. Mostly bar waiters using it to roll customers for their wallets."
"So the purpose of Mickey Finn is to incapacitate the target, isn't it?"
"Not necessarily."
The examiner shook his head slightly and continued.
"Depending on the mix, the effects can vary wildly. My guess is it contained a heavy dose of morphine for strong hallucinogenic effects."
"Looking at it that way, the crazy behavior starts to make a little more sense."
The officers passed around the crime-scene photographs of the body. Only after the briefing ended did the real discussion begin.
The core issue was the fallout. If word got out that the Klan had appeared in the middle of the city, the backlash would be severe.
"There's also the possibility someone deliberately dressed him as a Klansman. Maybe to cover up a different crime entirely."
"Certainly a number of possibilities."
"I'm worried that even mentioning the Klan will only create more confusion."
"Wouldn't it be better to investigate further before deciding?"
The police commissioner thought it over carefully, then slowly shook his head.
He had not said it directly, but at the "Journalists' Night" event the commissioner himself had warned of the Klan's possible appearance. And now, barely three days later, this had happened.
"Using this case as an example might not be such a bad idea."
"Sir?"
The officers blinked at the commissioner's sudden remark.
"How many Klansmen do you think are hiding in Manhattan? Better to publicize this case loudly and plant the fear that if you act up, you die."
"Commissioner... that risks turning the killers into heroes."
"Well, that wouldn't be so bad either, would it?"
It was an extreme prescription, but the commissioner had his reasons.
As the Prohibition grace period moved into its middle stretch, alcohol-related crime had surged. And now the Klan on top of that?
"Before the police even have to step in, the citizens themselves will take care of the Klan. That's the fear we plant."
On the commissioner's decision, the relevant details were handed to the reporters waiting outside.
And the next day:
Manhattan's citizens breathed a collective sigh of relief at the Klan that had appeared and vanished in the same breath.
Pearl Buttons boss Silverman, however, recalled his conversation with Kieran Graves and scanned the newspapers in pure horror.
— What are you going to do about O'Malley?
— There's been talk about him lately. You heard?
— What talk?
— Rumor he's joined some strange organization. Anyway, this has nothing to do with that group, right?
And that organization had turned out to be the Klan.
The Jersey City business, and now this—the Union's methods of disposal went far beyond anything he could have imagined. They had sent O'Malley off like this.
One wrong step and he could have ended up the same way.
"Better to get under them than keep them as enemies."
After long deliberation, Silverman decided to go find Tanner.