Should I Just Kill Him?
If you frame everything in terms of the Prohibition era, it becomes crystal clear what Tanner and I need to get our hands on.
There are plenty of pieces to the puzzle, but one of them is securing outlets that will actually drink the bootleg liquor.
Once Prohibition kicks in, Coney Island becomes a massive market for illegal booze. And after the law is repealed, it will shine even brighter.
As long as nobody bombs the place flat, the seaside resort of Coney Island will be an inexhaustible spring—a bottomless money spigot for any gang that controls it.
Bar owners hire bouncers to keep order and stop trouble before it starts.
With violence breaking out all the time and drunks looking for a fight, the job usually goes to men with plenty of scrap experience and the guts to match.
The man who spoke to me at the door was one of those bouncers. He looked about my age and height, but he had the kind of bulk that would make an ordinary person shrink back under the weight of pure intimidation.
“Hot as hell out here. What’s with the scarf? You hiding a scar or something?”
“Never occurred to you it might be because I’m too handsome?”
“……Yeah. A man needs confidence. I like that.”
The bouncer snorted a laugh and jerked his chin toward the interior, waving me through.
I stepped inside and settled onto a stool at the bar.
“Cola. Ice.”
The bartender shot me a sidelong glance, shrugged, and poured the cola into a glass.
Ordering a cola in a saloon might look ridiculous, but a few other people around the room were drinking the same thing. Plenty of women, sure—but every so often you found a man who couldn’t hold his liquor and stuck to soft drinks.
At one table a pack of young, blood-hot men were knocking back beer and raising their voices, showing off for anyone who would listen.
“We’re shipping out soon. Might as well drink our fill tonight, right?”
“Hell yes. Before I take the heads off ten German sons of bitches, I gotta baptize myself in alcohol and toast my blood-soaked war. Cruel, sure—but for freedom!”
“Drink up!”
Their names were already on the draft lists, but the actual lottery was three days away. How many of them would really get hauled off to the army? And even if they did see combat, would they still be laughing and shouting like this?
Once they watched a comrade’s brains explode in front of them, or stared at corpses with the bones showing through, they would learn just how brutal and merciless war really was.
Whatever the reason, here’s to the young souls about to be dragged into a meaningless fight.
I tipped the glass and drank deep.
“Ahhh.”
That distinctive cola aroma, the sharp bite of carbonated soda—it went perfectly with an early-summer stretch of beach. I hadn’t been much of a cola drinker in my previous life either, but the taste hadn’t changed a bit between then and now.
The saloon was packed with laughter, chatter, and the raw, swaggering noise of young men trying to sound fearless.
But one corner of the room didn’t match the rest. A knot of men sat there, dark and oppressive, completely out of step with the mood. Hostile eyes that treated every customer like an insult. Postures that said they were one wrong word away from starting a riot.
White Hand, all right.
Some rock that rolled in from Manhattan had opened a big saloon with Italian muscle behind him. Of course he had stepped on their toes.
Lately the White Hand boys have been camping out at the Harvard Inn every damn day. They’re just trying to kill the business.
Who the hell said you could open shop here?
Still, this was a tourist strip. They couldn’t smash the furniture or start throwing fists in the open. Petty as it was, the White Hand gang was spreading a sour, viral atmosphere through the whole place—just enough to ruin a man’s drink.
Coney Island belongs to the White Hand and the Italian crews. I bought into this joint precisely to avoid friction, but like you said, the place is too small to be worth much.
Every gang has its territory. The Marginals run Hell’s Kitchen on the southwest side of Manhattan. The Five Points crew holds the Lower East Side.
It stings to admit, but Tanner Smith’s outfit is a local gang that never even properly took a single district. So if you step outside your own turf to do business somewhere else? You accept the risk. When a clash comes, the side with more bodies and the local officials already bought and paid for holds every advantage.
That was exactly why Tanner had invested in a small, low-profile saloon with a quiet share instead of an outright takeover.
So what am I supposed to do here?
Tanner wants me to become the connecting link to the White Hand. When trouble starts, he wants me to help them.
Easier said than done.
I was sitting back, waiting for the collision to happen on its own, when a small ruckus flared up at one of the tables. Just a lovers’ spat.
“Is that how little I look to you?”
“It’s not like that.”
“The hell it isn’t. You think I’m easy, is that it?”
“Fuck, give it a rest. You followed me all the way out here and now you’re changing your tune?”
“Fuck you! You horny bastard!”
I could picture the whole thing: eyes meeting by chance, the man pushing too hard too fast. I was still smirking into my cola when the White Hand boys, as if they had been waiting for exactly this, inserted themselves into the argument.
“Hey. You rent the place out or what? You wanna fight, take it to a bed. What the hell are you doing screaming like that in here?”
“Pretty girl like that didn’t do anything wrong. It’s the scrawny little man that’s the problem. Beautiful, how about you come play with us instead?”
The boyfriend took one look at the ugly, hard-faced gangsters and wilted back into his seat. That must have been the last straw for the woman. She snorted, stood up, and disappeared in the direction of the bathrooms. The man, too furious to sit still, grabbed his bag and stormed straight out of the saloon.
“What a punk. Completely chicken, left his girl behind and just walked.”
“Oh, well then. Guess I’ll go console the lonely lady myself.”
Sleazy bastards.
One of the White Hand men started toward the bathrooms. The bouncer from the door stepped in and blocked him.
“That’s enough.”
“A guy wants to chat up a girl in a bar. That illegal now?”
“Don’t start trouble. Drink quiet and leave. I’ve been watching you for days. Not letting it slide tonight.”
“Ohhh. That a threat?”
The woman was just a convenient excuse. The White Hand crew had their opening and looked ready to throw down right then—five of them. Employees piled in behind the bouncer to even the numbers.
The two sides squared off. The noisy saloon went dead quiet. Customers who wanted no part of a free-for-all started gathering their bags, draining what was left in their glasses, getting ready to leave.
I, on the other hand, was hoping they would tear the whole place apart. If I stepped in at the decisive moment and helped the White Hand boys, we could get close the natural way.
Then the woman who had gone to the bathroom reappeared. Half-drunk, she glanced at her empty table, realized her date had left, and gave a short, contemptuous laugh. Without warning she slid onto the long bar—right onto the stool next to mine.
“Whiskey.”
The White Hand men closed in behind her the second she ordered, making sure everyone could see.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“How about you come play with us?”
“We’re better than that coward, right?”
She ignored them completely and suddenly turned to look at me. Her gaze started at the scarf, then climbed until it locked onto my eyes. The room was dim and she was drunk enough that she still hadn’t registered I was Asian. The next words out of her mouth confirmed it.
“Hey, thief. I’ll give you a chance to steal my heart. Come on—try and pick me up.”
“……”
What the hell is this? My skin is crawling.
How does someone deliver a line like that without even blinking?
Incredulous groans rose from every direction. As if she were enjoying the reaction, the woman scooted her hips until she was pressed right against me and whispered into my ear like a warm breeze.
“Be brave, thief. Save me from those ugly bastards over there.”
Is she out of her mind? I should dump this cola straight in her face.
But I could feel it—she was the catalyst that would set the whole thing off. Even if the direction was all wrong…
Every face in the White Hand crew twisted like they had just bitten into pure shit.
“Fuck. What did that crazy bitch just say?”
“Yeah—she’s calling us ugly as hell, right?”
One of them grabbed a fistful of her hair. She screamed. He ignored her and locked eyes with me.
“Go on, then. Try and save her, you freak.”
His free hand reached for my scarf, ready to yank it off.
I came here to make friends. This is not how you do it.
I clamped down hard on the wrist that was going for the scarf.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise—right before a heavy shove hit him.
Thud!
The bouncer appeared out of nowhere and drove a palm into the man’s shoulder, knocking him clear of me.
“I told you not to start trouble!”
“Ohho. So you threw the first punch?”
That was all it took.
A full-scale brawl exploded through the saloon.
The woman who had lit the fuse bolted for the door and vanished into the night.
Things had twisted a little sideways, but I had planned to help the White Hand boys. So I just stood off to one side and watched the chaos unfold. Unfortunately a few of the overhead lights got smashed early, so I couldn’t follow the beating as clearly as I wanted.
The fight ended faster and flatter than expected. The bouncer and the staff worked together and put all five White Hand men on their knees. The bouncer stood over them and barked.
“I warned you. Don’t start trouble.”
“Fuck you. You put your hands on us—things are only gonna get harder from here!”
“Wonder if you’ll even live long enough to see it.”
He raised a length of steel pipe, ready to bring it down on a skull—
“Stop.”
The bouncer froze mid-swing and slowly turned his head toward me.
Why is this guy still here?
The incredulous look vanished, replaced by a tight scowl.
“Read the room. Flap your mouth wrong and you die.”
“I was going to stay out of it. But I can’t just stand here and watch fellow Irishmen get stomped.”
Every White Hand pair of eyes snapped to me at once. Warm, suddenly friendly stares—instant spike in goodwill. The Italian side, on the other hand, looked ready to tear me apart. Especially the bouncer.
“I had a feeling the second I saw that scarf. You really are a crazy bastard.”
He spun the steel pipe once and started toward me.
“You swing that thing and this place won’t be open for business for a while.”
“……Crazy bastard.”
Someone else walked in.
A man in his late thirties took one look at the wrecked saloon and his face contorted.
“Damn it. What the hell happened here, Al?!”
“These assholes have been looking for a fight for days. You know that, Johnny.”
“Still. This is too much. You should’ve held back longer.”
So that man is Johnny. The bouncer is Al.
Johnny rubbed his temples like his head was about to split, staring at the kneeling White Hand crew.
“Get out. I’m taking this up with your boss. Pass it along.”
“Fuck. You think the boss is just gonna sit still? You’re all dead men.”
“Shut your mouth and get the hell out before I change my mind. You think we’re just gonna sit here and take it?”
They traded a few more fuck-yous and the situation finally settled. As the White Hand boys headed for the door they glanced back at me and jerked their chins—Come on. Like they were offering to take me with them.
The bouncer stepped in front of me.
“You’re not going.”
“Says who? I go wherever I want.”
Rage flashed across his face. He dropped his weight and shot in, fist already flying.
Al, was it? He was roughly my age, and there was a reason a guy that young was working the door. Even in the free-for-all earlier he had stood out—street-fighting instincts, clean entries and exits. The power behind the punch he threw at me now was no joke either. Solid street-fighter level.
Which meant it was still only street-fighter level.
I twisted just enough to let the fist slide past, then stepped inside his guard. Left hand clamped onto his shoulder; right hand seized his collar. I put my whole body into it and drove him straight into the floor.
Boom!
When you plant a man by the collar, your forearm naturally drops across his throat. I stared into the bouncer’s eyes from inches away while the weight of my arm crushed his windpipe. Only the whites showed.
It happened in a blink.
A second later someone behind us shouted in pure shock.
“Al Capone!”
That Al was that Al?
No wonder the name Harvard Inn had felt familiar.
The greatest beneficiary of the Prohibition era. The legendary mafia boss. Al Capone.
Should I just kill him?