There's Nothing You Can't Do
After the underground brothel was shut down and its facilities demolished, a large quantity of phenol turned up — the same chemical used to disinfect toilets, baths, and sewers.
Eager to close the case, the police concluded that the phenol Jacob had used in the crime had come from the brothel itself.
Neither I nor the Union gang were so much as mentioned in the investigation.
Unless Jacob's body floated up from the riverbed, there was little chance the case would ever be reopened.
I paid out three hundred dollars in bonuses to every Union member, the same as I'd given Leo and Marcus.
Their reactions were exactly as Tanner had described — mouths splitting into grins, then settling into something faintly uneasy.
"Getting a cut every job is nice, sure. But we wouldn't curse you out if you didn't."
"We've got a lot of expenses coming up, don't we?"
There was fire in their eyes. A kind of Don Quixote foolishness, chasing something worth more than money.
With these men, is there anything we couldn't do?
I was still warm with that thought when Gavin approached, his face grim.
"Physicals came back. They want us at Camp Upton in three weeks."
I'd almost forgotten. Five of the members were draft-eligible.
I looked over the other four in turn. All of them wore the same bleak expression — except Cory.
"Cory's exempt?"
"…Body's top-tier. It's the hardship exemption."
How desperately poor did you have to be?
Cory's situation was a lot like mine. His mother was too sick to work, his siblings all under ten. He was the family's sole breadwinner.
There was a reason he'd gotten so friendly with safes from such a young age.
Either way, nearly a third of the gang's fighting strength was about to walk out the door. It felt like we were starting on a downhill slope…
One year. That was all. When the war ended, they'd come back.
All I could do was hope they came back alive.
And for that—
"Everyone, let's pray."
"I thought we were—"
"From now on, this is real survival training. That goes for the rest of us too."
Manhattan was a battlefield in its own right. Whether you were leaving or staying, the fundamentals had to be solid. And it wasn't just conditioning — soon enough, I'd need to teach them firearms and marksmanship as well.
"Guess we won't get to see headquarters finished."
"Yeah. I was planning to eat and sleep here."
"Maybe we never come back at all…"
"What happens if I step on a nail? Do they still take me?"
"Quit the nonsense and clean."
Under the pretense of physical training, the Union members were put to work demolishing and scrubbing out the basement facilities.
The tenants on the first through third floors had agreed to vacate within a month. Before that, I needed to find specialists for the interior work — people from outside the district, so the secret rooms and layout could stay discreet.
I don't know that side of things either.
Tanner said he'd look into illegal contractors in Hell's Kitchen. As for me, I was on a delivery run at my mother's orders.
The corner of Hester and Allen Street.
"You again. Headed to Macy's?"
"Yes, sir. How's business these days?"
"Same as always."
I took the freight wagon up to the department store, following Broadway, and unloaded at the rear loading dock as usual.
When I started toward the receiving clerk with a store handcart, he pointed upstairs.
"She wants you to bring it up yourself again."
Third time now. At some point, the lingerie department manager had started insisting I deliver the goods in person.
She wanted to discuss the product — and with brassiere sales climbing steadily, her interest had only grown.
One look at her face told me everything. She greeted me with a bright smile.
"Welcome, Kieran."
"I'll leave the goods here."
"Actually, could I ask you to help with the display today? Do you have time?"
I had plenty to do. I still needed to stop by Hell's Kitchen for the suppressor, and I had a gambling house to visit in the Tenderloin.
But managing a client mattered too.
"I've got plenty of time."
"I did what you suggested last time — hung one on the mannequin and laid the rest underneath. The response has been great. You've got a real eye."
"You're too kind."
"I mean it. Oh — a customer. Just pull a few pieces for me."
She had sales staff, but the manager handled customers herself. There was a reason: she used the conversation to gauge satisfaction and gather ideas for improvement.
I'd hired well.
I unloaded the products from the handcart and started sorting them by type on the floor. That was when I heard a voice I was sure I'd heard before.
"The lace itches against the skin. If you're going to use a design element, it'd be better just on the band or lightly along the edges. Still — it was definitely more comfortable."
Women's voices, for me, were limited to my mother, the staff, and Roa. So why did this one sound familiar?
Large eyes. Small face. Fair skin. Brown hair. A velvet dress that looked a little expensive.
The woman was examining our company's brassieres, offering pointed critiques, while the manager nodded and jotted everything down in a notebook.
That face. I'd never seen it before — that much was certain. But the voice, and the shape of her eyes, were familiar.
Still crouched on the floor, I casually covered her nose and mouth with my palm — just to check.
Our eyes met.
She looked at me like I was some kind of lunatic. Then she tilted her head, startled, and mirrored the gesture — covering my nose and mouth with her own hand. Her eyes went wide.
"What perfect timing. The employee who designed the brassiere is right here."
The manager stepped in.
"We're constantly refining the product, so I can pass along what you just said immediately."
"This employee is…?"
The manager pointed at me. The woman covered her mouth with her hand — but her eyes were smiling.
She cleared her throat and walked over.
"You designed the brassiere?"
"Yes…"
"Honestly."
She leaned in and whispered, just loud enough for me to hear.
"There's nothing you can't do."
"…"
No doubt about it.
The Gunsmith's granddaughter. Hazel.
Unlike the Gunsmith, who'd been burned, Hazel's face was unscarred. So why had she kept it covered in the workshop?
More importantly — how had she recognized me? Had the scarf not been enough?
Hazel picked up one of the brassieres I'd been about to display and carried it to the manager.
"I'll take this one."
"Oh my, you really do have an eye. By the way, next week we'll be stocking a full size range."
"Size range?"
"Kieran? How do the sizes work?"
I really didn't want to say this out loud.
"Bust circumference… starting from the smallest: A, B, C, and D cup."
"Oh my — then I'd be a D, wouldn't I?"
The manager chimed in right on cue.
"Ugh, I'm so jealous. Face, figure — the whole package. Men won't leave you alone when you walk by. I worry someone's going to snatch you right off the street."
"Then I'll just shoot them."
"Pardon?"
"I'm joking."
The same Hazel who'd spent her days hammering away in a gloomy workshop was now laughing easily with the manager, the two of them getting along famously.
"Well then — take care."
After paying, Hazel walked off without so much as a glance in my direction.
I asked the manager, "Is she a regular?"
"She comes in now and then. Dresses up pretty as a lady, but she only buys the practical stuff. Says corsets are too much trouble. Seems to be the trend — younger women are much happier with brassieres."
After praising the product, she launched into a list of improvements. Thanks to the manager, my head filled back up with brassieres instead of Hazel.
I finished the display roughly and was wheeling the handcart toward the freight elevator when—
"We meet again?"
Hazel popped out as if by pure coincidence.
"So we do."
"I was just about to take the elevator myself."
"The freight elevator?"
"Yep."
The iron lattice gates — like prison bars — slid open one after another, and Hazel deliberately followed me into the freight car. The employees already inside glanced at her. Why take this one when there was a customer elevator? Question marks practically floated over their heads.
The moment we returned the handcart and stepped out of Macy's, I pulled the scarf up over my face. When I stopped walking, Hazel fell in beside me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"The suppressor's done."
"I was just on my way to pick it up."
"Then let's share a carriage."
"You're rich, huh?"
"I work like a dog. Might as well spend it."
"…"
Hazel flagged down a cab. We climbed into a coupé — the expensive kind, with the driver's seat separated from the passenger compartment.
The second we sat down, she asked, "You knew it was me right away?"
"The voice and the eyes were familiar."
"You were staring at me so weird I thought you were a freak. Then I saw your eyes and I knew. Back in the dark workshop, I wondered if you might be Asian. Turns out you were."
She said she'd agonized over whether to acknowledge me at all.
"You and me both — double lives, right? I figured it was better to pretend we didn't know each other."
"So why'd you say something?"
"I just wanted to. I was glad to see you. Yeah."
Hazel nodded firmly, as if to underline the point.
We arrived at the building in Hell's Kitchen where the Gunsmith worked. Hazel climbed down and pointed toward the alley.
"You go in first. Can't show you everything, can I?"
"Suit yourself."
The alley was empty today. No thugs in sight.
I knocked on the iron door of the half-basement. The Gunsmith peered out through a crack.
The bolt slid free.
As always, he climbed the stairs and scanned the alley.
"Looks like those chicken-heads finally got the message. New ones'll show up soon enough, though."
He shut the door again and led me into the workshop.
"Here for the suppressor?"
"I'm a little late."
"I was wondering when you'd show. Bad timing, though."
"Why's that?"
"My assistant's out—"
A dull mechanical sound came from somewhere deeper inside. The Gunsmith stopped mid-sentence and looked toward the door of Hazel's workroom.
"She's back, it seems."
So there was a separate entrance connecting the basement workshop to the outside. Suddenly I remembered what the alley thugs had said to Hazel before.
We'll see how long you can stay buried underground. You get caught, you're done.
She's gotta be sick. Never comes outside — it's obvious!
That was why the thugs could camp in the alley and never run into her.
I was dying to know how this building was laid out.
Last time I'd been in Hazel's workroom, there hadn't been a second door — only a steel cabinet taking up one whole wall. Could that be a secret passage?
She'd warned me not to touch anything inside that cabinet.
Click.
The door opened and Hazel peeked out, her face wrapped tight.
"Hi."
"Hey."
The old Gunsmith looked between the two of us, scratching his scarf-hidden chin.
"You ran into each other outside. The timing of your arrivals is a little too neat."
"Pure coincidence."
"Hmm. We'll talk about that later. Bring the suppressor."
As if she'd prepared it in advance, Hazel opened the door fully and came over with the suppressor in hand.
"I stayed up several nights making this. If I'd known you'd be this late, I would've taken my time."
It matched the blueprint I'd drawn exactly. I'd have to fire it to know the real performance, but the finish was clean and the surface gleamed — she'd sanded it carefully.
I handed over twenty dollars. Hazel tipped her chin toward the floor below.
"Want to do some shooting while you're here?"
The Gunsmith flinched. To me, the invitation sounded suspiciously like want to come up for ramen?
"No — I've got somewhere to be soon."
"What, you're not even going to check the performance?"
"It'll be better than the last one. You tested it, didn't you?"
"I did it for you. The noise is definitely lower than before."
The Gunsmith studied me with fresh interest.
"If you've got another commission, bring me the drawings."
"Nothing today."
"Disappointing."
"Same here."
The Gunsmith and Hazel had clearly been hoping for another of my novel, groundbreaking blueprints. I had, in fact, brought drawings for an improved Colt M1911 — I'd planned to commission it. But I'd just changed my mind.
"Would you happen to know a reliable specialist in illegal construction work? Someone you could introduce?"
"That's out of nowhere."
"I bought a building recently. Needs a lot of work. Ideally, I'd want whoever designed this place."
The Gunsmith looked at Hazel. She glared at me, bristling as if trying to cover for the fact that she'd given the secret away.
"This feels like blackmail."
"I'm serious. I can't trust a construction firm from the same district. If secret doors or passages get exposed, that's a problem — right?"
"Same for us. What if that person tells you the layout of this place? Why should we take that risk?"
I pulled the blueprint from my coat.
An upgraded version of the Colt M1911.
The Gunsmith and Hazel both fell silent, their eyes locked on the paper.
"That's… considerably more complex."
"I can't see it properly. Unfold the paper."
Annoyingly, I folded it back up and explained instead.
"First, I improved the M1911's firing system. I switched the firing-pin spring that strikes the primer to a dual setup."
That improved accuracy on discharge and extended the life of the parts. It also lightened the trigger pull.
"For the magazine, I redesigned the lips and spring, and widened the feed opening for faster reloads. Beyond that — sensitivity adjustment on the safety, a dovetail front sight on top of the slide, and… that'll do for now."
Hazel clenched her fist as if demanding more. The Gunsmith clicked his tongue.
"Did you used to work for a firearms company?"
"No."
"Then how do you know these details and the terminology… No. Asking won't get me anywhere, will it."
He stroked his chin again, deep in thought.
"I'm not interested in this building's layout. And honestly, handing over an entire firearms blueprint is the bigger loss for me."
Right, Hazel?
She didn't answer — just kept staring at the drawing in my hand.
The Gunsmith let out a long breath and spoke.
"All right. Tell me the building's location and I'll go take a look myself."
"Why you, old man?"
"Because I designed and built this place myself."
I looked at him with genuine admiration.
"…There's nothing you can't do."
"You're one to talk."
Find me a few reliable boys to put on it. I'm not mixing cement at my age.
Once construction was underway, I'd hand over the blueprint. The Gunsmith said he'd set a date and come to Allen Street himself.
One problem solved.
Right after leaving the Gunsmith, I headed for a gambling house in the Tenderloin.
Rather than going through Big Tom Foley for a job, I'd decided to take Salvatore up on his offer. Partly for the experience of working a casino floor — and partly to keep my connection with the Jewish kid, Meyer Lansky.
When the day came that we tore into each other for real, keeping your enemies close was the best way to prepare for the danger.
Late evening.
I rode the Broadway streetcar into the Tenderloin — New York's biggest entertainment district — and arrived at The Big Bankroll.
"You made it?"
Salvatore, standing guard at the entrance, welcomed me in.