Founding Ceremony, and Intentional Draft Dodging
I had already ordered the scarves for the uniforms.
Next came finding a proper hideout.
Most outfits preferred some shadowy back alley, but I wanted a real base of operations.
"Mother, what do you think about opening an underwear shop? A place that sells our products directly."
"Even street stalls need permits. And even if we had one, the spots are already packed tight—you'd have a hell of a time squeezing in."
"Not a stall. A proper shop. A boutique."
"…Yeah. Once we make some money, let's do it."
"I have a little money."
Mother's eyes went wide. Then she held out her palm.
"How much?"
"One bill."
"A hundred?"
"Is that enough to start?"
"For a lease, sure. About thirty to fifty dollars a month. Twice that on a busy street. So a hundred would keep us going two months."
"A thousand would last two years, then."
Mother sucked in a sharp breath and muttered under her breath, asking what the hell I'd been up to.
"How about it? We can keep this quiet from the workers, right? Or start laying the groundwork now. Tell them the brothers have been pooling money and think we can open a shop."
"Hmm. Not a bad idea. A store that sells our underwear…"
Her voice had gone soft, almost dreamy. For all I knew, she was already standing inside the place in her head.
"Then I'll look into it. You just sign the contract."
"Well… it is your money. But do you really have a thousand dollars?"
Add another zero, I thought. Say that out loud and she'd start yelling right here in the office.
"When have you ever caught me lying?"
"Never. But sometimes, as a mother, I wish my son would lie a little. Hmm?"
"Not today. While we're on the subject, I'll head over to a realtor."
Mother nodded as if she were under a spell.
Hester Street ran east to west. Roughly nine hundred meters long. Most of the residents were Jewish, followed by Italians, then Irish.
If you want to take a district, you need a base—someplace no one else can find.
Tanner's advice was sound, and I already had something in mind, so I went looking for realtors.
There happened to be a suitable office near the tenement where I lived.
MORRIS GOLDBERG REALTY
"Welcome…?"
A middle-aged man with a thinning scalp gave me a dubious look.
"I'm here to look at commercial properties."
"You by yourself, kid?"
"My mother will sign the contract. The decision is mine, of course."
"If that's the case…"
He nodded and pointed at a chair.
"Morris Goldberg. Have a seat."
"Kieran Graves."
"Mixed?"
"Mother's Irish."
"Ah."
His expression lightened. He picked up a pen.
"Residence or shop? What are you after?"
"A three-story building with a shop on the ground floor."
"So a storefront?"
"The whole building. I'll run the shop myself."
The pen stopped. Morris blinked.
"Minimum seven thousand dollars and up."
"If I like it, the price doesn't matter."
His face turned serious. He pulled a booklet from the drawer, flipped through the pages, and jotted the relevant listings onto a separate sheet.
"What do you plan to sell?"
"Underwear."
"A boutique, then… Orchard Street area would be good. Though that side runs expensive."
Orchard itself was famous for clothing shops. High commercial rents meant the building prices weren't cheap either.
"It doesn't have to be Orchard. What I want is—"
A place with an alley, multiple entrances. An empty lot behind the building would be ideal.
"Ah, and it needs a basement."
I was thinking of a shooting range, but a basement that large was far beyond what I could afford.
Morris finished narrowing the options and rose from his chair.
"I'll show you a few places."
The first was a commercial building on Eldridge Street with a small restaurant on the ground floor.
"Eight thousand. The first-floor lease is verbal only, so you can kick them out whenever you want."
There were alleys on both sides, but the rear was jammed against another building with no open space. The floor area was only about forty pyeong, and the half-basement was being used as a clothing warehouse.
"If you ask them to clear the warehouse, they'll be out within a month."
Standard leases ran one year; long-term was three. Most deals were sealed with a handshake, and landlords negotiated casually with tenants—that was the custom.
We toured three or four more properties, but nothing quite clicked.
"One last place?"
"Lead the way."
He took me to Allen Street.
The street was something special. Overhead, the Second Avenue Elevated ran from Manhattan's South Ferry through Chatham Square all the way up to the Bronx.
I had walked this street in my previous life, but back then it was a broad avenue with a wide median strip instead of elevated tracks.
Now the elevated railway cut down the middle of the road, casting the street into permanent shadow, filling it with noise, and giving the shops a vaguely grimy air.
We walked past a public bathhouse.
Tenements had no bathing facilities, so between 1901 and 1914 the city had built public baths all over New York. The one on Allen was one of the early ones; my family and I had been a couple of times.
Not far past the bathhouse, I spotted a three-story building with a "For Sale" sign. I assumed that was the place, but the realtor walked right past it.
"What's that one?"
"Don't even look at it. The one we want is right next door."
Ground floor was a restaurant; beside it, a narrow entrance led upstairs. There was an alley to the right, and the building itself was reasonably wide.
So what was the problem?
I stopped and studied the commercial space. Reluctantly, the realtor continued.
"There's a saloon in the basement… the kind kids shouldn't know about."
"A brothel, then."
"…It's run on the quiet. Best to pretend you never heard."
"Is the landlord running it himself?"
"If he were, it would've sold already."
The owner wanted to sell, but the tenant operating the underground saloon-and-brothel was the problem.
"Looks like he's tied up with a gang. Getting him out will be a headache. You probably won't even collect rent properly."
"So the price is low?"
"Six thousand. A little cheap, but who'd buy that mess? Better take the one next to it. Same layout, same owner."
One bad tenant had created a two-thousand-dollar gap between two otherwise identical buildings.
Even so, Allen Street was cheaper than most places because of the elevated tracks; rents and building prices both ran lower.
Price aside, the pair of adjoining buildings had caught my interest.
While I was scanning the exterior, I noticed the cement between them had been applied in an irregular patch.
"These two—were they originally one building?"
"…That's right. Owner split them a few years back."
This was an age of illegal renovations and slapdash additions. Dividing one building into two was nothing special.
According to the realtor, it wasn't uncommon for landlords to carve up interior space for rental income and even split the outer walls so they could sell the halves separately.
"If you think of them as one building to start with, isn't the price high?"
"Considering the renovation and conversion costs that went into the split, it seems fair enough."
"True. I'd like to see the interior. Possible?"
The left building had a saloon and brothel in the basement. The right was used for storage.
Naturally, he showed me the right-hand building. Ground floor was a clothing shop. Through a small side door we found a narrow staircase leading up and down.
"You know the Lower East Side is notorious for high groundwater and drainage problems?"
"I've heard."
"That's why buildings with two basement levels are hard to find."
From the 1850s onward, waves of immigrants had made the Lower East Side one of the fastest-developing neighborhoods in New York. This building dated from then.
Newer construction sometimes went three basements deep, but for something fifty years old, this was unusual.
"Every time the owner changed, they renovated and repaired. Condition's not bad."
Not bad, my ass.
Uneven walls. Dim lighting. The first basement was tolerable, but the deeper we went, the damper and more oppressive it became.
The floor was rough stone in places, old concrete in others—warped and uneven from decades of flooding and moisture.
The only light came from a single battered incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling. The glow was weak and flickering, making the shadows dance. Corners beyond its reach were pitch black; without a flashlight or candle, exploration would have been impossible.
Overall it reminded me of Gunsmith's shooting range. The only regret was that the space was too tight to use as one.
I moved along the left-hand wall and knocked.
Thud-thud.
Originally one building split in two—knock the wall out and the space would double…
Thud-thud.
Hmm?
A faint answering knock came from the other side.
I considered knocking again, then simply turned and walked away. Immediately a stronger series of knocks followed.
What the hell?
The realtor had heard it too; his face tightened.
"If those people start something, it'll get messy. Let's head up."
"…Let's check the upper floors."
"You like this place? You're looking it over pretty carefully."
Before leaving the second basement, I glanced at the wall. The knocking had stopped.
We climbed the stairs and toured the second and third floors.
Roughly forty pyeong each. The space had been divided into small offices; a few people working there glanced at the realtor as we passed.
After I finished the interior, I stepped outside and asked the important question.
"What kind of person is the owner?"
The realtor chewed his lip, then spoke carefully, watching my face.
"…Rosie Hertz. Elderly lady, past sixty."
Rosie Hertz.
Hungarian-born immigrant. From the 1880s until 1913 she had operated dozens of brothels across the Lower East Side—the "Queen of the Whores."
A few years ago the police had finally arrested her; the legend ended, and now she was a fading madam of the Lower East Side, half-forgotten.
I remembered a kindly old woman in an apron handing out candy to little kids. Young Kieran had taken candy from her hand.
And that Rosie Hertz owned this building?
"That's a surprise. How is she unconnected to the brothel in her own basement?"
"At her age, you have to figure she's out of that business. Someone else is probably running it."
"Anyway, now I understand why it won't sell."
"…The right-hand building is fine, though, isn't it?"
"We'll see."
It matched the conditions I wanted, but Rosie Hertz made me decide to think the purchase over a little longer.
When I got home, Mother came scurrying over faster than Roa.
"Did you find a shop?"
"Nothing that really caught my eye. I'll try another realtor tomorrow."
"Good. Take your time. Be careful."
Roa looked back and forth between Mother and me.
"Shop? Big Brother, did you buy Mama a present?"
"No."
"Then did you buy Roa one?"
"As if."
I gave an awkward smile and ruffled her hair.
"Anything happen at Aunt Mary's place?"
"As if."
"…You mean nothing happened, right?"
"As if."
A few days later.
In Chelsea I gathered the trainees and studied each face in turn.
When the last session ended, I had made a declaration.
I'm going to build a new street unit—a gang. We start small, but we'll climb past local, past city, all the way to a national outfit.
!
Anyone who won't stand with me, skip the training.
Don't show up out of idle curiosity.
If strict discipline and the law of blood make you flinch, stay away.
After that speech, the ones who came back were the same twelve as the beginning.
Gavin and Corey I had expected.
Why had the rest chosen me?
Impressed by my sniping at Newtown Creek? Drawn to the dream and the vision?
None of that.
Stop mindlessly copying the old-timers. Join Nox in a new era, with new methods.
According to Gavin, that was what Tanner had told them.
Tanner's intent was clear.
He meant to remake the Marginals through me. He had decided that was the path that served him best.
The existing members couldn't break free of traditional gang methods, so he had chosen to rewrite the board with me instead.
Maybe I was giving him too much credit. Maybe he hadn't thought that far at all…
Whatever the case, the men standing here still lived under Tanner's shadow.
Stripping that away was my job.
So I performed a sacred rite.
"Here. One each."
I handed out the thirteen black scarves Mother had made. Once they wore them, their eyes fixed on me, solemn and ready.
I tied mine on as well.
"Next is the blood oath."
One by one they drew a knife lightly across a forearm, smeared the blood on a thumb, and pressed it to the mouth of the scarf.
"All problems stay inside. All secrets stay behind the lips. Wall of Silence!"
"Wall of Silence!"
If the Mafia had Omertà, we had the Wall of Silence. It looked childish, but every outfit did something like this.
For snitches and traitors—ruthless retribution.
Vengeance, without mercy.
"Then let's go seal the bond."
The ceremony finished. We gathered our tools and headed for the Lower East Side, to the tenement where I lived.
"But we don't have a hideout?"
"We meeting on the street?"
"…I told you I'm looking for one."
Late afternoon.
A group of men turned into an alley off Hester Street. Seven of them—the Italian gang that had just finished shaking down Mother's company for protection money.
We pulled our hats low and yanked the black scarves up over our faces. The moment we stepped into the alley behind them, the clubs came out.
They spun around in alarm. I was already charging. I planted a foot, launched myself, and smashed a club into the nearest skull.
He crumpled with a wet thud. Instantly iron pipes and clubs rained down from behind me.
"Die, you sons of bitches!"
"Hit me once! Go on, hit me!"
Gavin, Corey, and a few others stood out. The common thread: all of them had just finished their draft physicals as conscription candidates.
That explained it.
They weren't holding anything back.
Do it on purpose and they'd land in the stockade for draft evasion.
"Crazy bastards… which… gang are you?"
The man whose skull I'd cracked was crawling on the ground, looking up at me.
I set my boot firmly on his head.
"Union."
Day one of the gang's founding.
An alley off Hester Street ran red with blood.