What's Your Role?
Had seeing the money actually changed his mind?
Tanner's face turned serious as he refused the cash.
"I heard Johnny Spanish is involved. That bastard's a real dangerous piece of work."
"Is he that scary?"
"I said dangerous, not scary."
"Same difference."
Tanner clicked his tongue and, out of habit, wound the end of the rope at his waist around his palm.
"Johnny alone isn't the problem. You know who he dragged into this job?"
"I don't."
"The Five Points Gang."
Manhattan's most powerful gang, built from immigrants of every nation. That explained why the sluggers who'd snatched the pickets had been Italian and Jewish.
"So the Five Points are scary?"
"I already said it wasn't like that. You trying to needle me on the sly?"
"But even if sluggers clash with sluggers, the gangs themselves won't step in, right?"
Capitalists and workers never hired the gangs outright. They had no reason to pay that kind of freight, and the risk of getting sucked into a gang war was too high. The classic example was the massive shootout four years back over the strike market. At least three gangs had taken part. The companies had slipped free with clever hands, but plenty of gangsters and union officers had been arrested. They called it the Labor Slugger War—Gophers, Eastmans, Five Points, Hudson Dusters, the lot. Everyone said the newly formed NYPD strong-arm squads had weakened them, but that war had done plenty of the damage itself. Afterward, any slugger who took a job did it as a free agent; he no longer spoke for his gang.
"So what's the problem?"
How airtight could logic get? Tanner would have nothing left to say.
Sure enough, he clamped his mouth shut, thought it over a long while, then accepted the request.
"If the boys turn it down, there's nothing I can do."
"Is there really anything in this world you can't do anything about?"
"Ha, you little bastard. You think you know the world?"
"It's a fucked-up world where animals like Johnny run wild."
"...You've already lived a full life, haven't you."
Tanner pocketed the nine dollars and called one of his men over on the spot to pass on the orders.
May 30, 1917.
Morning of the scheduled protest.
Nora stepped out of her room carrying the picket she had made. Her youngest, Roa, stared at it with big, round eyes, full of wonder.
"Mommy, who are you cheering for with that?"
"Myself. Sometimes you need that kind of thing."
"Then Roa wants to cheer too."
"I always hear Roa's cheers. Liam's too."
Nora glanced at her younger son. Liam, who had grown up too fast, wore a face thick with worry. He seemed to understand how things were unfolding, yet he neither asked nor tried to stop her. Instead—
"Where did Hyung go without even eating breakfast?"
"I don't know. He said he had some errand..."
"Tch. He doesn't even think about working. I have no idea what he's been running around doing lately. All I hear are weird rumors..."
"Roa knows."
Liam looked at her mouth with quiet hope. Of course it went the usual way.
"Big Brother went to buy potatoes for Roa. The second he woke up he was digging through the potato crate."
"Enough. You get ready to go out too."
"Aww, but it's true!"
Nora smiled and patted her daughter's shoulder.
"My girl. Today I'm taking you to Aunt Rosetta's house, so you are not to come home before Mommy does. Same for you, Liam. Even when work ends, come home as late as you can."
The moment she joined the protest, any kind of harm could reach the children. Nora left Roa with the neighbor. Liam took his toolbox and went out. Alone, Nora peered into the potato crate. It was still heaped with potatoes. The money and guns that had been inside had long since been moved to a safer place after she and Kieran discussed it. The only things missing were the two vicious-looking knives.
If you see me, act like you don't know me.
That was all her eldest had said before vanishing early that morning. What was he planning this time...? Her head was already overcrowded with things to worry about. She shook off the tangled thoughts, took up the picket, and then—
Knock knock.
"Nora, it's time."
She opened the door. Three or four women stood there with pickets of their own—brave women still coming to the protest despite the threats.
"Hey, Oriental rookie. What's your role supposed to be?"
"Backup."
The main job was to support from the rear if a gang clash broke out or if criminal work needed covering. Today's job was to back up our own side if the sluggers hired for the protest started fighting each other.
"That doesn't mean you turn tail when the older brothers start swinging. Even if you get pushed, don't flinch. Holding the line is your role."
Conversely, if you bastards run, I'll be the one who kills you.
"But look at this skinny kid. What was Tanner thinking, sticking him with us?"
"How should I know? Boss said he can fight a little, but with that frame, can he even lift a club?"
"Anyway, stick tight behind us and trust us. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!"
"At least you answer well."
Tanner had kept his word and given me nine men. Maybe because of my age, most of them were just past twenty—only two or three years older than me. Not all of them, though. One man in his late twenties who looked like he had real experience led the pack from the front: Patrick Mitchell.
They were only a tiny slice of the Marginals, but through them I confirmed a few things about Tanner. First, they still called Tanner Smith "Boss." It made me wonder whether he had truly washed his hands of the life. Second, Tanner was rich. Hard to believe, but if the others were telling the truth, he had money enough to count as a genuine wealthy man. He had been stacking cash since he was fourteen, running guns and every other kind of crime. Proof of it: he once paid a fifteen-thousand-dollar bail out of his own pocket to spring a close man from jail. The man who owed him that favor was Patrick, the one leading us now.
Eldridge Street.
As we drew near the tenement house, Patrick stopped. He turned, jerked his chin at me.
"Hey, Oriental rookie. Cover that face properly."
The second we met he had told me to wrap a scarf around my face, so I had just gone along with it. Mother was involved; having my face seen would have been a problem anyway. But the men beside me kindly explained the real reason.
"In a slugger fight the most important thing is seizing the momentum."
"But if they figure out you're Oriental, what happens? They'll look down on us."
"No—those idiots will just think, 'Those assholes only dragged a Chink from Chinatown?' And that second the game's already over."
Understanding it only made me angrier. Bastards. I had already planned to wrap myself tight and hide my face, so fine.
I tugged the scarf higher until it covered everything it could. Patrick's mouth crooked in satisfaction and he started forward again.
Whenever I saw gangs of thugs swaggering shoulder-to-shoulder across the street, I always wanted to cut straight through the middle and beat them senseless. Today I was one of them. Our mere presence made people peel away; blocked paths opened. To my eyes it looked exactly like people dodging a pile of shit.
Then I spotted two familiar faces. Ever since the warehouse murder a few days ago, Leo and Marcus had been glued together. I had told them to wait at the tenement, yet here they were sitting on the sidewalk with their toolboxes, shooting the breeze. Both of them were dead certain I had been involved in the warehouse killing somehow. Even when I confessed I had done it alone, they still refused to believe it.
The moment Leo and Marcus spotted us they stretched their necks like meerkats, scanning the whole group, then scooped up their toolboxes and fell in behind.
At the same hour, the tenement house.
Nora stepped out carrying her picket.
"Let's go."
With the massive draft for the war only days away, the women headed for a battlefield of their own. Twenty-six of them. The enemy, however, had been more thorough than expected. The instant they came down the first-floor stairs they ran into men blocking the entrance. The man in front crooked a finger.
"Hand over the pickets before you get your faces smashed, then go back upstairs."
They had already expected this and steeled themselves. The women advanced with grim eyes.
"We won't!"
"You crazy bitches. You think that changes anything? Quit the bullshit and get inside before we start sticking you with knives."
"Go ahead and try!"
"People will see the blood on the pickets even better! Go on, stab us!"
The women's cries were raw with fury. The sluggers answered with violence. Each man pulled out a stick of lumber, brass knuckles, or a club.
We reached the tenement just as a man named Gavin held a club out to me.
"Swing it with your eyes closed or beat the wall—whatever the hell you want. Lose it and I'll beat you worse than they will."
The club, called a blackjack, differed from a policeman's. It was shorter—about thirty centimeters—wrapped in leather, with a lead weight at the tip to raise its killing power. Naturally the sluggers never used guns except in extreme situations. Why risk your life drawing a piece when you only needed to do the amount of work you were paid for? Besides, in 1911 New York State had passed the Sullivan Act: no carrying portable firearms in public without a permit. Other states still treated guns as free personal rights, but New York was strict about illegal possession. Tanner himself had gone to prison once for carrying a revolver without a license.
I shoved the blackjack into my pants and arrived at the tenement. The first-floor entrance was already under the other side's control. Just then the men pushed inside to keep the women from coming out. Curses and the women's sharp shouts reached us. Mother's voice was among them.
I was reaching behind my back for the club when Patrick strode forward first and bellowed.
"Johnny Spanish! So you're back!"
Patrick's voice rolled through the lobby like thunder. The opposing sluggers all spun around. Seven of them. A short man with his hair slicked back stepped forward—the same one who had cursed me and my mother while snatching the pickets a few days ago. Johnny Spanish, Spanish by blood and Spanish by name.
For the record, that one's crazier than you.
That was what Tanner had said. Once, during a fight, Johnny's girlfriend had abandoned him and run. In revenge he had dragged her out, tied her to a tree, and shot her in the belly—while she was pregnant. She had lived and given birth, but three of her fingers had been hit by the bullets.
Crazy bastard.
That's why he's dangerous.
That dangerous madman raked his eyes over us and looked surprised.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Who do you think, Johnny the cross-eyed? Did they only punch you in the eyes in prison? You don't see this?"
Patrick waved his club. He clearly had a gift for provocation. Johnny's smile turned cold, and the man beside him cut in.
"Patrick, why the hell are the Marginals sticking their noses into this out of nowhere?"
"Same reason as you."
"Who paid you?"
Patrick glanced back at his men with a look that asked, Who did pay us, anyway? Everyone shook their heads. Patrick raised his voice toward Johnny again.
"The President paid us. Now that you know, shouldn't you run?"
"You stupid son of a bitch."
"Quit talking and come on. Or should I come to you?"
Patrick spun the club and started walking. Honestly, that back of his looked pretty goddamn dumb.
"I'm telling you nice—clear the entrance."
The other man hesitated, caught in indecision. That was when Johnny spoke.
"While I was locked up, the world changed a whole lot."
Shhk.
"And you dare not recognize this Johnny."
He drew a knife and charged Patrick. No hesitation at all—he slashed and stabbed. Patrick swung his club like a wild man and fell back. That was the starting gun.
"Let's go!"
The men in front of me raised their weapons and rushed in. The other sluggers did the same. A full-scale free-for-all erupted. I was backup. Club in hand, I hung at the very rear and watched. Then I felt a gaze from the entrance—Mother's. Her eyes, half-hidden behind the picket she held to her mouth, were wider than I had ever seen them. The men beside me might not recognize me, but Mother knew me at a glance. Of course she did...
A frantic voice cut through the noise. Someone was calling for me.
"Rookie! Gavin—help Gavin!"
Gavin, the one who had given me the club. His skull was already cracked open. Blood from his head poured down his face in streams.
"Hrrk—I'm fine! Come on, you bastards!"
Gavin kept swinging his club and refused to give ground. Brave and stupid in equal measure. Anyway, it was time for me to join the fight. I clenched the blackjack and charged the man who was already aiming another blow at Gavin's broken head.
If you want to be the boss, they say, move your men's hearts.
"Gaaaaavin!"