Number One Recruitment Target
The legendary figure who would lead the Bureau of Investigation for forty-eight years and transform the FBI into America's premier law enforcement agency.
A sudden encounter with John Edgar Hoover sent a shiver racing through me. The hair on my scalp stood on end, the sensation sliding down my spine until it twitched at the base.
"Well? Don't you know how to shake hands?"
I knew—and that was exactly why I couldn't. Because he was Edgar Hoover. Because he was gay. Or was it bisexual?
Still, there was hope. A Hoover in his early twenties would never be like that. For now, it would be fine.
"Kieran Graves."
He seized my hand. Fidget. Fidget.
"…You can let go of my hand now."
Before I decided to club him with the baton.
"The way you dropped those punks so easily, I figured your hands would feel special too."
"Just ordinary human hands."
"Oh, right—can I see that baton you were carrying earlier?"
I handed it over. He rolled it between his fingers as if savoring the texture.
"Lead weights. No wonder they went down like sacks. Still, taking on five men alone—that was impressive."
I wouldn't have been this tense even if President Woodrow Wilson himself had appeared. My palms were sweating. But I had to endure it. If I didn't want my life as a mafioso to end in misery, the more insurance the better.
In that regard, Edgar Hoover was priority number one for recruitment. His name was already written in bold in my notebook.
The meeting had come far too early and left me rattled, yet I could guess why he had sought me out.
The Bureau of Investigation—the BOI—had been founded in 1908. As the predecessor of the FBI, its first mission had been visiting and investigating brothels ahead of the White Slave Traffic Act. From there it had moved on to commerce violations, bankruptcy fraud, and antitrust cases. Recently a new duty had been added: the Espionage Act of 1917, enacted on June 15. The BOI was now charged with hunting German spies and anti-war activists.
In that light, Hoover's visit was clearly tied to the anarchists I had dealt with not long ago.
Sure enough, he pulled a small notebook from his coat, flipped through it, and fixed me with a stare.
"You took out those anarchists by yourself. Two of them, no less."
"You're too kind."
"No need for modesty. The agents nearly jumped out of their seats when they read the report."
The first shot had struck the head dead center; the second bullet had punched straight into the heart.
"Two assassins appear out of nowhere and you eliminate them in an instant—with only two rounds. Unless you're a Ford factory machine, who does that? Reading the report gave me chills. What kind of training did you go through?"
Barely two weeks had passed since the Espionage Act. According to the papers, the Bureau had begun recruiting law-school graduates as agents in lieu of the draft to fill counter-espionage ranks. Hoover was one of them. The gleam in his eyes belonged to a brand-new, fire-breathing investigator just assigned to the Bureau.
"Innate instinct, plus the refusal to rest on it?"
"…You really don't need the humility. Anyway, that isn't what I'm curious about."
He claimed he had read the incident report dozens of times and reenacted the scene. His conclusion:
"You clearly knew they were assassins. That's why you were already ready to fire."
Hoover cared less about how I had killed them than about how I had recognized them as assassins in the first place.
"It's more of a sensory thing—hard to put into words…"
Opportunities like this did not come often. A man of Hoover's caliber had sought me out and shown genuine interest. For the sake of the relationship I intended to build, I needed to make myself indispensable.
"Instead of reenacting my actions, try putting yourself in the assassins' shoes. Then certain things become visible."
The way a man looks at his target, the motion of his hands, the path he takes—they differ from ordinary passersby.
"Of course, that day I missed one of them. If they hadn't shouted, Tom Foley would be dead."
"'Vlast' narodu, Death to Tammany's dogs.' Power to the people, death to Tammany's dogs. That's what they shouted before they made their move."
"I only learned that from the newspapers myself. In any case, we ought to analyze why they felt the need to shout it."
Fanatics and dreamers of the purest kind want the world to hear their thoughts. To sound a warning. To spread revolution like holy gospel.
Hoover scribbled my words into his notebook. Yet his expression had stiffened slightly. Had I shown too much knowledge?
A brilliant young law-school graduate versus a seventeen-year-old street kid from the Lower East Side slums. The gap registered, and Hoover's arrogance slipped into his tone.
"There's something you don't know. Those men targeted a Tammany Hall politician because of Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman."
The two names he dropped belonged to the most famous Russian-born anarchists in America.
"Goldman and Berkman were arrested the very day the Espionage Act passed. This attempt on Tammany was a kind of blackmail to force their release."
I already knew; it had been in every paper. Hoover was simply padding his superiority with unnecessary exposition. And he always opened with the same phrase:
"You wouldn't know this, but today we arrested three more anarchists who were still in Manhattan. Our assessment is that no one is currently targeting Tammany Hall."
So there was no longer any need to guard Tom Foley. Hoover continued, eager to impress upon me the importance of his work.
"With the Russian Revolution over, the anarchists still in America are aligning themselves with the revolutionary forces. Rounding them up is my job."
The subtext was clear: what could a nobody like me possibly understand? It was time to set the record straight—to lodge myself so firmly in his mind that he would have no choice but to keep thinking of me.
"The Russian Revolution is not over yet."
"What are you talking about?"
"The February Revolution that toppled the Tsar involved many different factions. The problem is that the group which seized real power is failing to stop the German-Austrian armies."
"So?"
"They're incompetent. And once you've already overthrown an emperor, doing it a second time is easy. Another revolution is coming."
A people desperate to end the war would rise again, and the faction riding that wave—Vladimir Lenin's Bolsheviks—would seize Russia. The October event would become the world's first communist revolution and the decisive birth of the Soviet Union.
And Hoover, with his extreme anti-communism, would spend his entire tenure as FBI Director making the hunting and arrest of communists his absolute top priority…
At some point his pen had stopped. Hoover stared at me with wide eyes—the same look he had given me the first moment we met: curiosity, fascination, and astonishment.
Time to press harder.
"Shall I tell you one more thing? The Great War in Europe will end soon."
"Ha—because America entered the war?"
"That's one factor, yes. But the decisive one is internal to Germany."
Germany had been fighting for nearly three years. Severe food shortages and outright famine were not far off.
"When that happens, domestic backlash is inevitable. Anti-war movements will spread, workers will strike. And if Germany then loses a major battle? Surrender will be the only option left."
Rookie Agent Edgar Hoover. The one difference between him and the customers who ignored my stories while I shined their shoes was that he at least wrote them down.
"Quite a plausible tale. I don't know when we'll meet again, but I have to go."
Instead of a handshake that might have suggested we would never see each other again, Hoover simply tucked the notebook into his coat and vanished.
But once my words became reality—once he kept climbing the ranks inside the Bureau—he would come looking for me. No: he would have no choice but to.
Suddenly the strength drained out of me. I had been far too tense at the prospect of shaking his hand.
On the way home the thugs who usually loitered in the alley beside the tenement house were nowhere to be seen. When I descended into the basement factory, Leo and Marcus were fooling around, batting at each other with batons.
"Aren't you supposed to be working?"
"Oh, Kieran! Perfect timing—I was just explaining your fight to Marcus."
"Teach me too. That baton-smashing skill of yours."
"The difficulty is pretty high. And no matter what you want to learn, I already told you—start with exercise."
"That's boring."
"Then you'll have a hard time learning anything. By the way, I'm heading out soon to open new accounts. Who wants to come with me?"
Both Leo and Marcus raised their hands.
"You two settle it between yourselves. I'll go see Mother for a minute."
After greeting the aunties I stopped by the office. Mother must have heard the story from Leo; she checked my face and let out a long breath of relief.
"Why are you only getting back now? Nothing happened, right?"
"As you can see, I'm perfectly fine."
I gathered underwear samples to show the new clients.
"Planning to do the sales yourself?"
"If I lost two accounts, I have to open at least that many new ones."
"I was just talking out of anger that day. Don't take it so hard. So where are you going?"
There was a hopeful lilt in her voice. I kept it secret and slipped out of the office. Marcus stood by the factory entrance looking smug; Leo was still hauling fabric.
"Don't slack off—work hard."
"Look who's talking. Don't go wandering down side roads. Finish the job and come straight back."
Marcus and I set off with the sample bag. Thanks to the face time I had earned at the Tammany Hall convention, landing new accounts proved easy.
First stop was an underwear specialty shop on Orchard Street.
"Looking forward to working with you."
"That's my line. Let's do good business."
As long as quality held and deliveries stayed on time, the account would run without trouble. The next place was the same. By the end of the day we had visited five shops and signed supply contracts with every one of them. On the walk back to the company Marcus clicked his tongue in amazement.
"Sales is ridiculously easy. Is that Tom Foley's power?"
"It's the power of authority. And for that you need money and force."
Marcus nodded in agreement. I asked him,
"Lately, do you head straight home after work?"
"No. I hang around the streets until about eight."
"Because of Leo?"
To avoid his alcoholic father, Leo usually came home late. I, on the other hand, had never known when Marcus went home.
"Not really because of Leo. I also pick up bits of gossip from the shoeshine kids."
"Working in the factory doesn't leave much time for gathering information, I guess."
"Well, every setup has its pros and cons."
Perhaps because I had just met Edgar Hoover, the things I needed to do next were falling into clear order in my mind.
"What do you say we practice building a more systematic intelligence network?"
"How?"
"Start here on Hester Street and create an information network—cell structure."
We would need sources beyond the shoeshine boys: street sweepers, lamplighters, everyone.
"That's how we begin. And within the year I plan to open a shop."
"A clothing store?"
"We need a place that sells directly. I'll leave the management to you and Leo."
"Are you thinking of using the shop as an intelligence headquarters?"
Sharp as ever—he caught on instantly.
"Intelligence scales with money and power. The bigger we get, the more varied and voluminous the information becomes. It has to be managed discreetly and systematically."
The conviction that money and power would come. The old Marcus would have dismissed it as nonsense; now his head was full of possibilities.
"So we're testing it out on Hester Street first. Sounds good. Low risk, too."
A sky embroidered with red sunset. Back at the factory I laid the papers on Mother's desk. Five new accounts. Each sheet listed the shop name, proprietor, address, items, and quantities.
"Good heavens! My son!"
Mother shot up from her chair and rushed over with both arms wide.
"What do you want for dinner tonight?"
"Meat."
"Then meat it is! If my son wants it, we eat it!"
That evening the house filled with the smell of cooking meat. Roa stood with fork already in hand, nostrils flaring before the food even reached the plate.
"Roa's in big trouble. She's addicted to meat. What if today is the last day? What if she can't eat it again, Big Brotherrr?"
"Humans are adaptable animals. When you're desperate even bugs taste good."
"Roa is not an animal."
"I learned at school that humans are animals too."
Liam cut in. Night school was already paying off. I took the rare chance to praise him.
"That's why people need to study. It's what separates us from animals. Kid, you're headed for Harvard."
"What—you're saying I have to go to college?"
"Your big brother will push you through. Don't have the confidence?"
Liam only chewed in silence. Roa brandished her fork.
"If Little Brother can't go, Roa will go instead. Harvard!"
"Roa has to finish elementary school first."
"Okay! Not long now!"
Come to think of it, next year she would turn seven—the age for compulsory education. Mother smiled as she set a plate heaped with meat on the table.
Just as we were about to dig in—
Knock, knock.
"It's Gavin. Is Rookie there?"
The family exchanged glances.
"Who's Rookie?"
"Roa isn't a rookie."
"It was my first day of school—maybe I'm the rookie?"
While everyone looked baffled I stood up. Why was Gavin looking for me at this hour? Right in the middle of meat night, of all times. I whispered against the door.
"Prove you're Gavin."
"…The baton."
"What about it?"
"I gave it to you."
Click. I opened the door and stepped into the hallway to talk.
"You're going to Tom Foley after dinner, right?"
"That's the plan. Why?"
Gavin told me there was no longer any need. Just as Edgar Hoover had said, the Russian anarchists still in Manhattan had been arrested. My temporary job was gone.
"Tom Foley's heading to Washington, D.C. in a hurry. He wants you to drop by next week."
"Understood. Then I'll be—"
"There's more."
Tanner Smith had been shot.
"You should have led with that!"
"It's not serious."
A gunshot wound to the thigh. Luckily the bone was untouched.
"So?"
"He says he wants to show you something. There's a bar the boss put money into."
"Where?"
"Coney Island."
The seaside resort and entertainment district of New York. The place where Tanner had taken a bullet—and where Roa's dreams and hopes still breathed.
After sending Gavin off I went back inside. Only empty plates sat on the table.
"…This has to be a dream."
I looked at Mother, then Liam, then Roa in turn. At that moment—
"Surprise~!"
Roa held out a separate plate with a few pieces of meat she had saved. The portion was disappointing, yet the thoughtfulness of setting it aside for me was precious.
"I've got a surprise too."
Roa spun once around me and tilted her head.
"If Roa can't see it, it must be small. Can Roa get her hopes up?"
"Of course."
"Should Roa close her eyes!?"
I shook my head and whispered into her ear. Roa's already large eyes grew even wider.