The Second Boss of the Marginals
Street fighting can be broadly sorted into two kinds.
Weapons, or bare hands.
Setting weapons aside and looking only at bare hands, boxing accounts for most of the fights. Who can throw a simple punch or hook faster and harder. How sturdy is the chin. In short, it was combat that leaned more on practical, improvised instinct than on polished technique.
Italian immigrants might favor a stiletto or some other dagger, but the Irish traditionally preferred fists. The same held true for the street-honed fighter known as “the Jackal,” Cale. He poured his ambition to become boss of the Marginals into his fists and meant to seize his dream with them. However—
Crack.
That ambition was shattered to pieces by a single kick from Nox.
Thud.
He toppled like a wooden log, and dust settled over Cale’s body. Shock flooded the yard. People stood with their mouths hanging open, staring blankly at Cale thrashing on the ground. Patrick, who had been refereeing, recovered first. He walked over, pressed a finger under Cale’s nose, then jerked his chin toward one side. The five men who caught the signal rushed in, hauled Cale up, supported him, and carried him away on their shoulders.
Patrick’s gaze swept the yard and settled, slowly, on the last remaining candidate.
“Come out, Brian.”
“······.”
Brian wiped his brow; the pressure had already crushed him. But he did not run. There was no need. If he landed even a single clean blow—wouldn’t that put him ahead of Cale and Oliver? Why else had he scrambled into today’s succession fight? It was nothing more than a desperate bid to make his presence known. Brian quietly lowered his sights from Boss to Underboss. Boss? He didn’t need the title. Showing he was still here would be enough.
The moment he decided, the weight on his shoulders vanished. His chest felt light; his body felt light. He bounced once in place and found himself lighter and more springy than he had been in years.
I’ll show you exactly why they call me the master of hit-and-run.
Brian faced Nox. The old footwork from the days when the boxing gyms still called him a prospect came back without thought. He bounced lightly, stirring little puffs of dust, hunting for an opening. Every gap looked real, but every one of them was bait.
You think I’ll fall for that?
He kept circling until his breath grew rough. Only then did Nox move.
Here he comes!
Nox closed the distance in a single burst and swung a wide punch. Brian leaned back just as he had planned, letting the fist whistle past, then snapped upright like a roly-poly and drove power up from his legs for a right uppercut. But—
Whoosh.
Still locked in the missed swing, Nox’s shoulder and back crashed straight into him. Brian’s stance collapsed; his whole body reeled. The instant he clawed back his balance, an elbow smashed into his temple.
Thud.
Patrick put a finger under the nose with practiced ease, gave the “take him” signal, and the same five men rushed in again. Brian left the same way the others had.
The yard was quiet. No one had expected Brian to win, so no one gasped or shouted. Instead, looks of genuine admiration and wonder fixed on Nox. He had dropped three men without taking a single hit. Was that even possible? No one called it luck. Nox fought as if his entire body were a weapon, and the methods never repeated.
While the crowd was still replaying the fights in their heads, Tanner spoke.
“Nox. From this moment, you are boss of the Marginals.”
West of the Hudson, Hell’s Kitchen, Pier 51. The Marginals’ peaceful transfer of power was complete. It was the day their own history began.
Between crates stacked on the waterfront, the former boss and the new boss held a private talk—me and Tanner Smith.
“You saw their faces. Honestly, none of them knew the gap was that wide. I was shocked myself.”
No one on the ground had raised a single objection. I had faced, one after another, three men who wanted the top seat; complaining after that would have been pure madness. Still, silence did not mean loyalty. Unexpected results always leave aftershocks. How their hearts would shift on the walk home—even they did not know yet. I meant to settle that point cleanly.
“One week. Anyone who will not accept me as boss leaves the Marginals. If you stay and try to stir the pot, you will pay. Once you walk away, keep the memories to yourself. Not one word about anything you have heard or seen leaves your mouth. Think the warning is arrogant? Leave. Want to pick at my age, my race, my background? Leave.”
Most of what I said right after taking the seat was “leave.” I did not care if the Marginals’ strength was cut in half. What I wanted was a hard organization bound by strict discipline, one that moved in lockstep to my word.
“In return, the sweet fruit will be shared until everyone is full. That last line was good.”
“I chewed on it for a few days.”
“It’s clean, but some of them probably still thought you were an arrogant little shit.”
“Those kinds of men would have thought the same thing even if I whispered.”
“Fair enough.”
Tanner accepted it and pressed on.
“After the week, you only have to worry about whoever stays. You keeping the name?”
“No reason to change it.”
A gang’s name did not matter. In this line of work the more tangled the outside picture looked, the better. You never wanted someone to grab one vine and pull the whole sweet-potato chain free. Splitting into Marginals, Union, and as many satellite crews as needed was fine; only the core had to stay solid.
When the talk of structure ended, Tanner brought up the smoke-bomb massacre.
“I saw the paper and thought the German army had landed. Why set off smoke bombs downtown and turn the place into a slaughterhouse?”
“You figured it was me?”
“Who else pulls that kind of stunt. So why?”
“I needed a dealer.”
Tanner’s mouth fell open.
“···That’s not the whole reason. It can’t be. You’re not that far gone.”
I did not need him to understand, but I had nothing to hide either. I laid out the rough picture.
“So it really started over one dealer.”
“What part of what I just said did you miss? Those bastards took the dealer’s family hostage and were shaking down my mother’s company for protection money.”
“Ugh. Yeah, they earned it. All right. You know that little stunt flipped the mood with the Italian crews?”
Brooklyn informant. Word had come from “Three-Fingered” Jack Dalton, the man who sold knives in Red Hook. Ever since the Red Hook arms-warehouse massacre, the Naples gangs had been riding a blood vendetta against the Sicilians. The gambling-den smoke-bomb job changed the air. They finally realized they had been used.
“Lately the Naples outfits in Brooklyn sat down together at a coffee shop. Navy Street Gang. Coney Island Gang. The old top men are all locked up; the new officers made an unexpected call. They’re pushing for a ceasefire with Sicily. Why do you think that is?”
End the mutual bleeding and come after me. A promise to themselves that they would not be played again. I still put the odds of a real ceasefire low.
“Sicily barely took any damage. Naples is the side whose foundation is cracking.”
“So no ceasefire?”
“Sicily has no reason to give them breathing room. Even if they sign something, it will not last. How many times have they already stabbed each other in the back? In a relationship with zero trust, a ceasefire or alliance is just the fizz in a bottle of cola. They’ll be at each other’s throats again soon. Still, being careful never hurts.”
I had plenty of work ahead. So did Tanner.
“I’ve handed everything to you now, so I’m going to focus on the Coney Island place. Construction’s in the final stretch.”
“Let me know when it opens.”
After the private talk I faced the three men who had fought for the chair. They had asked for the meeting, not me. Oliver, Cale, Brian. The ones who had acted like bosses without the title and carved the Marginals into personal fiefs. If a traitor appeared, it would be one of them. Their faces already looked sour.
“I gave you a week. Did you call me here just so I could look at those expressions?”
“······One question.”
“Make it short.”
Oliver bit down and asked,
“I want the concrete plan. What are you going to do with the Marginals.”
“If you want the vision, here it is. Ultimately I intend to leave the gang life behind.”
“What?”
“A gang leaving the gang life?!”
Oliver’s voice jumped. Cale wore a hollow look. Brian scratched his head and watched everyone else, completely lost. I took in the three reactions, then went on.
“What I want is not a street crew run by gut and fist. I want an organization.”
“Organization?”
What is the difference? A gang runs on loyalty and talk; an organization runs on strict system. That is my yardstick.
“Rules, ranks, everything codified. Business first.”
“And then?”
“We eat them one by one.”
“How far?”
“Oliver—farther than you can picture. Detailed talk comes after trust is built. Next time you stand in front of me, don’t frown. It makes me want to crush you.”
“······.”
I stared the three of them down and dropped my voice.
“If any of you raise a flag against me, I’ll welcome it with both hands. I’ll use you as the example that hardens the rest of the organization.”
Oliver, Cale, and Brian were loudspeakers. I would watch how they stirred the private crews they had built inside the Marginals.
We were not future mafiosi with a web of companies and an org chart. In a street gang, succession was simply the act of being recognized and declaring, “I’m the boss now.” No pageantry, no complicated ritual. So the day after I took the Marginals, my ordinary life did not change.
Early that morning I went after the man who had been copying the brassiere. I started at the hook supplier. Experience had already proven that several pairs of hands beat one. I took eight Union men headed by Corey and walked into the metal shop.
“Besides Free Your Body, who else did you sell hooks to?”
The owner sweated and finally admitted a clothing factory on Eldridge Street had taken a shipment.
“I told you it was patent-pending and not to sell anywhere else.”
“Ah—won’t happen again. Ever.”
I took the promise and stepped outside.
“Want us to go smash the place?”
“Not from the jump.”
I stopped at Reich & Wellman, the patent attorneys who handled my filings. When a pack of men walked in, Marvin Wellman nearly threw his coffee cup onto the desk.
“W-what now?”
“What happens if the patent is infringed while the application is still pending?”
“Y-you still get legal protection, of course. Why—someone copy it?”
I explained. Wellman drafted a formal proof of content on the spot.
“That enough?”
“If they refuse, tell them you’ll sue immediately.”
Sue? Waste of time and money.
“I’ll handle the rest. The other patents I asked for earlier—those going smoothly?”
“Of course. I check every step myself. Look.”
Y-shaped potato peeler, military double bag, canvas casual backpack, wheeled carrier—more than five hundred dollars already sunk into fees alone. That made me a VIP client.
Straight from the attorney’s office I went to the factory in question: Barney Underwear on Orchard Street. A solid operation that occupied an entire building.
“Wait here.”
I left the men on the street and climbed alone. The second-floor door was locked; when I pressed my ear to it I heard sewing machines. The owner was locking the workers in. I took the stairs again. The third floor stood open. Half the wide floor was workshop, half office. What caught my eye first was the stack of goods right by the exit—every last one a copy of the brassiere. I picked one up and walked into the office.
Click.
The man behind the desk scowled the moment he saw me. Four men rose from the sofa and blocked my path.
“Who the hell are you?”
One hand held the brassiere; the other shook the proof of content.
“Barney Underwear has infringed the brassiere patent filed by Free Your Body. This is the evidence.”
“You dumb bastard, what are you even saying?”
“Patent? What patent?”
He snatched the paper with a look of pure contempt and tore it to pieces right there.
“Get the fuck out. What patent are you yapping about?”
The owner dug a finger in his ear and jerked his chin. The four men shoved me hard and threw me out of the office.
“You’re really going to play it this way? I’ll sue. Remember that.”
“Ooh, scary. Sue or don’t—do whatever the hell you want. Now get lost.”
I turned my back without giving them the satisfaction of anger and calmly took in the third floor. The workers never even glanced my way; they were used to this sort of scene. I memorized the layout instead. Third floor, good light. Windows on every wall for ventilation. The second floor would be the same. When I reached the ground floor, Corey came up.
“Face says the talk went fine.”
“It wasn’t bad.”
“What are you looking at?”
“The building.”
I studied it the way a real-estate man would. Two clothing shops on the ground floor, a wide central staircase. I had already been thinking about moving the factory; the location and the building both fit perfectly.
Why is a gang a gang? I do not deny the answer. For the first piece of business, I would put the Marginals to work.