The Danger of Internal Informants
"Kieran, will you deliver the undergarments to the shops on Mulberry Street?"
From early morning I loaded the underthings onto a handcart and set out for the clients. Lately the streets had grown so savage that I handled the deliveries myself instead of sending Leo or Marcus. All of it was my own doing. I had even postponed the training of the draft-eligible boys for the same reason: if they gathered in one place, who knew what misfortune might find them.
In any case, with the bundles of lingerie bound by string, I followed Canal Street into the Little Italy district. Mulberry Street, the heart of the Italian community, thronged with people and the air hummed with vitality. Of course, if you looked into the corners, every alley was a dangerous den of gambling, narcotics, and prostitution.
As if to prove it, a crowd had gathered at the mouth of one alley, murmuring.
"Looks like another incident last night."
"You have to get home the second the sun sets. Who would wander around? It's terrifying."
"Everyone move aside!"
Police shoved through the throng and loaded corpses into a Ford Model T wagon. I parked the cart and watched. The Neapolitan and Sicilian gangs had been tearing into each other for a full week—indiscriminate attacks, retaliation, assassination attempts. The fury of two groups screaming blood vengeance had swept through Manhattan.
There had been a brief lull in the middle, of course. Someone, it seemed, had disliked that quiet and poured oil on the dying embers—using the same method I had.
Two nights ago, under cover of darkness, someone left ten crates of artichokes at the entrance of Saint Anthony's Church on Sullivan Street. That church served a congregation largely of Italian Catholics and was especially beloved by Neapolitan immigrants. Who would copy me so unimaginatively? I would have bet a hundred dollars it was the work of the White Hand Gang; artichokes must have been a nuisance to them as well.
Their thin imitation of my divide-and-conquer ploy worked again. The truce ended at once, and the guns of the Neapolitan Navy Street Gang swung straight toward the Sicilians. The bodies I was staring at—shot through the head and chest—were the result.
"Hey, don't block the road. Move it."
Passersby kicked at my cart. I left the scene without regret and continued to the shops.
After delivering goods to the two lingerie stores on Mulberry Street, I started back and spotted familiar faces. Meyer Lansky and Benjamin Siegel, the budding shoots of the Jewish gangs, and Irving, who had graduated from bootblack to gangster. In this murderous season they were still prowling the streets.
"Kieran, I heard you've been busy. Helping your mother, huh?"
Irving greeted me, eyeing my empty cart.
"As you can see. You?"
"Busy myself. Landed a job in the Tenderloin."
What kind of work had Irving found in New York's greatest entertainment district? Meyer, standing beside him, spoke up.
"By the way, Kieran—you didn't kill that anarchist, did you?"
"Why?"
"Same name."
"I already told you it wasn't me. Does that even make sense?"
At Irving's words Meyer merely shrugged.
"Anyway, how long you gonna make money hauling a cart? Work with me and your future changes."
Here we go again. Every time we met, Meyer schemed somehow to recruit me into his crew.
"I got into a pretty big saloon in the Tenderloin. If you want..."
"Give it up. They wouldn't take him anyway."
This time ten-year-old Benjamin Siegel cut in. He casually climbed onto my cart and rocked it.
"They won't take a half-Irish mutt like you. This cart suits you better."
"Yeah, it suits you too."
One day he would make a name as Bugsy Siegel, but for now the little kid perched on a cart looked just right.
As the empty conversation wound down and we prepared to part, Irving said, "You know the atmosphere's bad lately, right? The Italian gangs are at war with each other."
"I heard."
"Get mixed up and you're finished. Don't go walking around at night if you can help it."
"How about joining our gang while you're at it?"
Meyer kept proposing recruitment until the end. I left them and walked on. Everyone was keeping their heads down because of the war between the Italian gangs. From knowledge of my past life I knew the Mafia-Camorra War would not last long. The exact timing was unclear, but one pillar of the Camorra would collapse. That was why I had accepted White Hand Boss Dini Meehan's deal and boldly sniped the Navy Street Gang—I already knew they were going down.
And two days later, it actually happened.
On the roof of the tenement house early the next morning, Tanner Smith came looking for me.
"The leadership of the Navy Street Gang has been rounded up one after another."
"I see."
"What, you look like you saw it coming. But listen further and you'll be surprised."
The full story ran like this. Yesterday the NYPD had made emergency arrests of the Navy Street bosses. Their charges, however, had nothing to do with the current war.
"There's a guy named Ralph Daniello who worked as a hitman for the Navy Gang. A few months back he ran to Nevada and got pinched by the police there."
Charged with multiple murders, grand larceny, and perjury, Ralph had been brazenly hopping between casinos in Reno with his girlfriend. When he lost every cent and called the gang for help, the police nabbed him. Because of the number of counts he was extradited to New York, where the NYPD gently coaxed him into a deal and extracted a confession.
"I heard from the cops that he even handed over evidence of twenty-three murders the Navy Street leadership committed against the Sicilian gangs."
Tanner's words matched the books I had read in my previous life. In other words, it was an event important enough to be recorded and for me to remember.
First: the Neapolitan Camorra, which had long held the upper hand over the Sicilians, began its collapse because of an internal informant.
Second: the Camorra's weakening would continue into the Prohibition era and hand complete initiative to the Sicilians. Ultimately it was the decisive event that left the Mafia as the final victor over the Camorra.
Of course Tanner knew none of that. He simply took the incident as a warning of how lethal an internal snitch could be.
"I'd better tighten the boys' mouths for good. Oh, and I already warned them never to breathe a word about you."
"Good work. But is that the only reason you came?"
"Hardly."
Tanner gave a sly smile and patted the bag at his side.
"What's inside?"
"Something huge, I expect. The thing I've been waiting for with my eyes popping out."
Laughing, Tanner pulled out bundles of bills and coin rolls from the bag.
"We split the first batch we disposed of down the middle. Twelve thousand three hundred twenty-three dollars and seventy-five cents. You can tell I calculated it to the penny, right? I'm accurate with numbers."
Ordinary swindlers liked to add the cents when they claimed precision. Even if I harbored doubts, there was nothing to be done. I had not sold the goods myself; this was a matter of trust.
"You've never handled this much money, have you?"
"Of course not."
"Then your heart should be pounding and your hands shaking, right?"
When I trembled like an aspen leaf, Tanner shook his head in irritation.
"By the way, you set aside a few bottles of fine wine from the contraband, didn't you?"
"Five bottles. But a few days ago I offered one to Big Tom Foley."
"Well done."
Château Latour, 1855 vintage. The price alone was impressive, but production had plummeted in the wake of the Great War, driving the value still higher. More than that, the 1855 was one of the first vintages classified as Premier Cru Classé—exceptional historical symbolism and quality. Both Tanner and I agreed that such a treasure had to be offered as tribute to a corrupt man if one wanted a future. At present that man was Big Tom Foley, the powerful Tammany Hall politician who ran a saloon in the Tenderloin.
"I gave it in your name. The corners of his mouth went up to his ears. He was already wondering how to repay the favor."
"He wasn't just talking?"
"Tom Foley returns what he receives. There's a bit of self-display in it too. I'm a different case, but he's the kind who can give more than he gets."
Then Tanner suddenly held out a small envelope.
"What's this?"
"We made a killing thanks to you. I set a little aside."
"Today a halo is shining behind your head. It hurts my eyes."
"Let it shine more often. I'll bring in the big scores; just keep doing this."
Tanner rose with a grin. Halfway down the stairs he seemed to remember something and called back.
"Oh, the old Gunsmith wants to see you. He seems to know it was you who sniped those Italian gangs by the Newtown Creek."
Days after I bought the suppressor and scope, that incident had happened, so his suspicion was only natural. I would improve the suppressor and modify the guns while I was at it; I should visit when I had time.
After parting from Tanner I went home and opened the yellow envelope. Inside was a thick bundle of bills—one thousand dollars.
"Look at Tanner's big heart."
He had given me something he did not have to give, and a substantial sum at that.
"My assets just ballooned overnight."
Roughly fourteen thousand dollars. Money Mother did not know about.
What to do with it? My heart wanted to move house at once, but that risked misunderstanding. She would almost certainly suspect it was investment money from Anne Morgan. After brief thought I reached a conclusion.
"For tonight, at least, we eat meat."
I hid the money and went down to the basement workshop. In Mother's office a man and woman I had never seen before were examining brassieres. Their clothes were too fine for street vendors or small-shop owners. The workshop atmosphere was buzzing in a good way; the aunties whispered among themselves or kept glancing toward the office.
"If you knew who those people were, you'd be shocked."
Marcus sidled up close.
"Who?"
"Gimbels department store."
One of Manhattan's finest. With outstanding marketing and sales strategy it was threatening Macy's, the store that held the world's highest reputation. Until now the company had dealt only with street stalls and tiny shops. Yet department-store staff had come in person to show interest in brassieres—products launched less than two weeks earlier, even if they were my proud masterpiece.
Chest warming, I asked Marcus, "Did the shops we recently supplied hit it big?"
"If they had, orders would be pouring in. Look at the inventory. It's exactly where it was after the first shipment."
True enough. The market had not had enough time or enough outlets to respond yet. We supplied brassieres to only two shops. To avoid looking cheap I had deliberately targeted boutiques that looked a little more respectable than street stalls.
The moment the customers left I entered Mother's office.
"They were from Gimbels, I hear?"
"Yes, that's right."
Mother sank into her chair as if drained, yet her eyes were red-rimmed.
"They showed up out of nowhere. Do you know how flustered I was?"
"Well, Manhattan is crawling with clothing factories and underwear manufacturers."
"But no one else is selling brassieres like these. Even if we didn't get a contract."
Mother gave a bright smile and continued.
"They said they'll discuss it at the company and come back. And while they're deciding, they asked us not to supply any other department store."
"So they liked the goods."
"Of course. Look who made them."
Mother sprang up from the chair. The fatigue of receiving clients seemed to vanish; she laughed wide and free.
"Contract or no contract—we have to share good news!"
When Mother stepped out of the office, everyone stopped working and listened. Some women's eyes glistened; a few even shed tears. They had been cheated of wages by a swindler boss, had barely found their footing again, and yet company sales had not risen as hoped. The staff still carried anxiety. Leaving the contract aside, the mere fact that a department store had taken interest was enough to choke them up.
Then late that afternoon another customer arrived and left everyone dumbfounded.
"Ta-da! This is Free Your Body. It's where Roa's mom and big brother work!"
Like a little tout, Roa, who had been playing at the entrance, dragged in a woman searching for the company in the tenement house. And then:
"I'm from Macy's."
"Hmm?"
Macy's. Ranked among the largest department stores in the world, not merely Manhattan. Macy's stood at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 34th Street; Gimbels was right next door, between Sixth and 33rd. In simple terms their relationship was like the Sicilian and Neapolitan gangs—only without guns, they waged fierce war through marketing. And both stores had expanded the front and set their sights on brassieres.
Yet it was strange. Two of them in a single day. While everyone wore the expression of people dreaming, I thought of the Château Latour and Big Tom Foley of Tammany Hall.
Bribes are this terrifying.