Don't Chat Casually with the Dealer

Gavin, Drift, Teddy, and David.

Those four would be reporting for induction at Camp Upton on Long Island.

"Construction only started this summer, so the camp won't be finished yet. That means the conditions are going to be rough."

At the still-unfinished Camp Upton, draftees of more than twenty-five nationalities—immigrants from New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut—were gathering in one place.

"Training lasts sixteen weeks. If you want to get through it and stay alive to the end, make solid comrades out of the men you train with. Odds are high you'll end up in the same platoon or squad and fight together. As for what you'll learn during training—"

The basement shooting range, two floors down.

Every eye fixed on the rifle in my hands.

"Not just in the training camps—on the battlefield too, the U.S. Army is going to rely on this Springfield 1903 bolt-action as its main rifle."

I walked them through the weapon's specs and how it worked, ammunition supply, the loading procedure, then put them on the range. They'd learn all of it at the camp anyway; what I gave them were the tips no instructor would ever bother teaching.

"In a fight, taking the time to aim carefully at a target means you're sticking your head out where the enemy can see it. When a mass engagement kicks off, just shove the muzzle out, get the angle roughly right, and fire. That alone bumps your survival rate by about ten percent."

Beyond rifles, the camp would cover grenades and machine guns as well. Word was French and British officers had already been dispatched to the States, and what they taught was training for the real thing—tanks, trench warfare, gas attacks.

After the shooting, I fitted bayonets and showed them a few simple points of bayonet fighting. They'd learn something different at the camp, of course; mine was focused on what actually kept a man alive once a melee started.

"The rest you'll pick up at camp. What comes next is the real point."

I'd drilled it into them more than once: once the sixteen weeks were over and they hit the European front, the war itself would last less than a year.

"Germany will never make it past 1918. Remember that, and endure even if hell itself opens up in front of you. Don't stay on the edges—look after your comrades. That's how you raise your odds of surviving, and how you set things up for afterward."

"Afterward?"

"Meaning bring capable men back with you."

Gavin and the others' eyes lit up.

"I guarantee it—by the time you return, the Union will be far bigger than it is now. You won't have to sit around wondering what to do once you're home."

Veterans came back to a changed world and felt the ground shift under them. Trouble at home, a job that had vanished, a gang that had fallen apart.

"Don't feel anxiety. Feel anticipation. And Drift—"

From the physical exam onward, Drift had listed driving as his specialty. Not just that he could drive—he actually held a license. New York State had introduced driver's licenses in 1910; the test was simple and basic, yet unlicensed drivers still outnumbered the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rest. Like me, he was certain Drift would end up as a driver.

"When you get back, logistics and transport are going to need a lot of people. While you're over there, bring comrades home with you."

Come back and dominate Prohibition-era bootlegging distribution with me. Just no riffraff.

"If anyone you can't trust slips in, I'll cut them out myself first. And you'll answer for that too."

This was the last time I would see them. With every scrap of humor stripped from the conversation, I made my intentions plain. Gavin and the others answered with equal gravity.

"We'll come back alive from the front. No question."

"I don't need anything else. As long as we can work together again, that's enough."

"You take care of yourself too, Boss. Don't try to do everything alone."

"Union forever."

Before they left, the men also said their goodbyes to the Gunsmith.

"See you when we get back, old man."

"I'll tell you some good stories from the war. Better than those Spanish-American War yarns of yours."

"I'll be waiting."

Once they were gone, I stayed behind.

"I need a little help."

"Not handing me a job, then?"

I set the contents of the envelope on the table. Hazel opened the door and stepped out.

"What's that?"

"It's not a present, for starters."

"I wasn't expecting one. I also wasn't expecting a bunch of medicine bottles."

I produced the chemicals I'd bought at the pharmacy and unrolled a sheet of drawings across the table. The Gunsmith and Hazel both tilted their heads.

"Is that a grenade?"

"Not even close. It's a smoke grenade—makes smoke."

Studying the drawings, the Gunsmith pointed at the potassium nitrate I'd purchased.

"Looks like the smoke grenades they use in war. Far as I know, those are chlorate-based."

"Chlorates are better for a fast smoke effect, but they're explosive and toxic, so they're a pain to handle."

Potassium nitrate, by contrast, carried a lower risk of explosion, was simpler to manufacture, and left less harmful residue after burning. In fact, after the First World War, safety and environmental concerns had pushed potassium-nitrate smoke grenades ahead of the chlorate versions. In the future there would be all kinds of additives, compounds, and even colored smoke—but for now we were still at the early stage.

"We'll know once we try making them, right?"

Somehow Hazel already had a smoke-grenade can in her hand that looked a lot like the one in my drawing.

"That one looks like a real smoke grenade."

"When we hit the munitions factory, I only lifted the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠empty casings. Free extras they throw in on weapons deals."

With the tools and materials already in the workshop, plus ready-made cases, the work would go faster. I mixed the smoke compound; Hazel handled the casings and retaining pins; the Gunsmith built the primers.

Over three hours we produced five smoke grenades. I took three and left two with the Gunsmith as payment for the work.

"You ought to share the formula if you want this to be fair."

"That's a secret. Honestly, two smoke grenades is already generous."

"What am I supposed to do with these?"

"In an emergency—if someone ever hits this place—you'll find them useful."

"I'd rather just use a gun."

The Gunsmith snorted.

Hazel, meanwhile, had the pin of a smoke grenade looped over her finger and was lost in temptation.

"Pull that and the fire department shows up. Smoke takes forever to clear out of a basement."

"But I really want to try it…"

"Don't. You know it hurts even when the bullet misses."

"Yeah. I can hold back."

She nodded, shook off the last of her regret over the grenade, and asked,

"Anything else you need?"

"One more suppressor that fits the M1911."

"One of the ones you made?"

"You've got another?"

"Yeah. I usually make them in pairs. Helps the process stick in my memory longer."

"You're giving away all the secrets, Hazel. Keep that kind of thing as know-how."

At the Gunsmith's remark, Hazel only shrugged.

"And anything else?"

"Four M1911 magazines. Original capacity, not extended. And fifty rounds."

"Wow. You'll be in the papers soon. Smoke and corpses. When I see an article like that, I'll know it was you."

"…"

The day after I saw the Gunsmith.

I worked in the Tenderloin until dawn and didn't make it down to my mother's company until three in the afternoon.

"I thought things had gone quiet, but the Italian gangs came again."

They'd shaken her down for another ten dollars in protection money. The suspect Jacob was nowhere to be found, and the investigation into the thugs who had raided the underground brothel that day had fizzled out without results. Once the probe into the men presumed to be Italian gangsters was closed, the quiet ones had gone back to work.

"It'll settle down soon."

"Why? You're not going out of town again, are you?"

"…Of course not."

No need for a business trip, Mother. The bastards were right under our noses.

Before heading to the Tenderloin gambling house that evening, I went alone to the place where Marcello's friend Lenny worked. This was already my third visit.

Lenny was dealing poker that night, and I took a seat and joined the game. After two straight losses and a dollar down the drain, a brief gap opened while he shuffled the deck. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠men on either side of me headed for the bathroom, and Lenny spoke quietly without looking up from the cards.

"You close with Marcello?"

"No."

"…I see."

So you'd been hoping a little yourself. Fair enough—after I'd mentioned Marcello and spent days circling around him, it would have been stranger if he hadn't noticed.

I tossed the line carefully.

"I'm good at picking up dice that don't roll. Marcello knows that too. Problem is, I don't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠know where to hand the dice back."

"…"

Lenny started shuffling again. In craps, a die that leaves the table is a "no roll." In other words, the die that had gone off the table was Lenny himself, and I was offering to help. The place to return the die meant somewhere we could talk seriously.

If he couldn't follow that, working together was going to be hard. That was the thought in my head when he spoke.

"Excuse me a moment—need the restroom."

"You should've gone before you started shuffling."

"Stomach hit me all of a sudden."

Lenny said something to a staffer and disappeared through the employees' door. The floor man watching the tables glanced my way.

"Don't chat casually with the dealer if you can help it. Say the wrong thing and you can end up in a ditch."

"That's a little harsh for a customer."

"Depends on the customer."

He snorted, added a sneer for good measure, and looked elsewhere.

A short while later the seats filled again and Lenny returned. Five players total. The poker game began, and two cards landed in front of me.

Houses varied, but the most common game was five-card stud—two cards to start, one of them open.

Seven of spades, seven of diamonds. An opening pair. Suddenly the cards were being kind.

With the diamond seven face-up, the first round of betting went around. We started light, twenty cents. Everyone watched one another and called. Midway through, a raise fattened the pot; someone folded; three of us took the fifth and final card.

My hole card was still the seven of spades. Open: diamond seven, club three, club jack. Then the dealer slid me the last card.

Roughly ten dollars on the table counting the bills. Funny how a sum like that could make a man's palms sweat.

"Cards up, in order."

One man showed a pair of kings. Another had aces and tens, two pair. And me—

"Damn—triple sevens!?"

"Ha."

Groans went around; a couple of fists hit the table. The looks aimed at me were sharp and hot. The dealer raked ten percent of the pot as the house cut and pushed the rest to me.

As I gathered it, one bill was folded crisp and clean. Everything else on the table had been crumpled; nothing had been folded that neatly. Before pocketing it I tried to rub it open— the edges were stuck fast. Deliberate.

As if a nobody like me had pulled triple sevens on pure luck. The dealer had written a quiet message.

I folded the next two hands in a row, then brushed myself off and stood. Leaving a trail of furious stares that said I'd cleaned them out and was running, I stepped out of the gambling house.

On the way home I peeled the folded bill open.

The message, written in tiny script:

Lenny lived two buildings past the tenement house I called home. Neighbors, more or less. Put another way, he was stuck inside Italian gang territory and had even less room to slip free.

I'd just left one gambling house, and in a little while I'd have to head to another one in the Tenderloin. Life was starting to feel like wall-to-wall gambling dens.

Before the Tenderloin, I turned my steps toward home.

As I arrived, Corey was lingering in front of the tenement house. And then—

"What happened to your face? Who hit you?"

"…There's trouble with the Marginals."

A faction inside the Marginals had risen up against Tanner Smith. So that was why Tanner had been so quiet lately.