That's Why I'm Buying
Orchard Street was already a crush of bodies, and now a protest had broken out on top of it. Some seventy workers from Barney Underwear had gathered in front of the company to demand their wages.
"All right—when I speak, you take only the last part. President Kalman, pay the workers!"
"Pay the workers!"
"Louder. Before anything else, the workers' wages come first!"
"Come first!"
Under Jeffrey's lead the demonstration finally got going. He put the frail girl workers out front so the public eye would land on them, straightened the ranks of the picket line, and paid careful attention to every placement.
This is why you need people with experience.
Scarf pulled up over my face, I had joined the ranks as one of the sluggers and watched how the men carried themselves.
First test after taking over the Marginals: theft. Pass.
They had kept silent on the job as ordered and moved as a single body.
Today was the second test.
How efficiently could they handle a violent disturbance? The result would form the base of the training curriculum to come.
But call it a test if you want—this was the real thing.
Don't get caught by the cops.
No kidding. Only an idiot gets caught!
Then we fold the gang for good!
It wasn't reckless bravado. It was the courage of men with a lion's heart.
With that faith in them, I watched the field.
And then—
"Whoa, whoa, make some room."
Oliver and Cale's crew, hired by the loan shark, appeared, shoved through the protesters, and pushed into the company building.
Pressure from every side at once.
How would President Herman Kalman answer?
I didn't have to wait long to find out.
A pack of men came toward the protesters with open hostility. They were a gang, no question, answering Kalman's call.
"All of you—get the hell out of here!"
"Who the hell are you to step in?"
The usual prelude to a fight—words first. Then the shoving started, and then the weapons came out.
The terrified protesters screamed. Jeffrey struck first to seize the initiative, bringing an iron pipe down on an enemy skull.
Crack.
"Wipe them out!"
I pulled the club from my belt as well.
I rode the surging tide of the crowd forward. When my hands finally had room again in that packed mass, the club swung free with them.
Thwack.
A dull impact and the sting running up my arm. One down. Swing roughly at the next target and still feel the hit land.
The difference between a one-on-one fight and a free-for-all is how little thinking goes on.
Violence close to collective madness. You take a blow and don't even feel the pain; blood spatters your face and you don't register whether it's yours. Extreme situations like that unfold in seconds.
Madness like this runs until one side is wiped out. Only when our men were stomping the ones already on the ground did an end begin to show itself.
What finished it for good, though, was the power of the law.
"Cops!"
"Scatter!"
I jammed the club back into my belt and slipped in among the onlookers.
Shouldering through the crowd as I ran, I came face to face with a member named Ernest. Blood ran from his scalp all the way to his jaw.
Skull cracked, then.
I unwound my scarf and held it out. Ernest's eyelids fluttered; tears welled in the corners of his eyes.
I told him with a look to go first.
When he asked about the boss and I said I'd stay, he nodded as if to say of course, Boss, and vanished.
So I stood there barefaced as a bystander and watched the scene play out.
Tweet!
Police parted the crowd and arrived.
But the men who had been brawling were already gone. Judging by how thoroughly they had vanished—even the ones who had taken the beating—they must have had plenty to hide.
And that was when Jeffrey's nerve really impressed me.
He didn't run. He stood there, calm and brazen, and talked to the cops.
"We were protecting the picket line, and all of a sudden these punks show up. We were trying to settle it nice and easy. But the bastards just went straight for—"
While Jeffrey explained, a few officers went into the building.
A little later Oliver and Cale came out with their men, every bit as bold.
"We came to collect a debt. Something wrong with that?"
"We were just talking."
They had pressed Kalman for money with words. They hadn't laid a hand on him. In truth his stomach might have been turning, but his body was fine.
The police let Oliver and Cale's crew walk.
That was how it usually went.
Unless they caught you red-handed on the spot, the cops stayed passive.
You couldn't really blame them.
In a scene this crowded and chaotic, picking out who was a perpetrator and who was an accomplice was nearly impossible.
Witnesses? Afraid of retaliation, they weren't about to step forward and kindly describe faces and clothes.
So a violent clash had erupted in broad daylight, and no one was arrested.
The police contented themselves with clearing the disturbance. They shut their ears to the wronged workers and forced the crowd to disperse.
That was how the first day ended.
Or so everyone thought. Somewhere else, Kalman's real stronghold was being cleaned out.
Late evening. Roof of the tenement house.
Cory, who had been watching Kalman's home like a hawk, held out a bag.
"Hit the safe. Some interesting stuff inside."
For starters, the bag was stuffed with thick bundles of cash.
A cool sixteen thousand dollars.
The source of the money was clear from the debt contracts in the bag.
Herman Kalman had borrowed ten thousand dollars from a loan outfit, putting the building up as collateral just to get the factory running properly.
Interest alone: four and a half percent a month.
An annual rate of fifty-four percent—four hundred fifty dollars due every month.
Could he carry that?
No matter how hard you ground the workers, once you subtracted factory revenue and overhead it was a crushing sum.
More than that—why had Herman Kalman turned to a loan shark at all when Wall Street banks were sitting right there? With the building as collateral he could have used a bank and paid lower interest.
The answer was in the bag as well.
Herman Kalman had taken over the building and factory without a single dollar of his own.
Even after strong-arming the landlord into signing over the deed, he had still needed at least ten thousand.
"How many loans did he take out against this building?"
Two banks alone.
So he had gone to a loan company for yet another advance—and that meant Herman Kalman had triple-mortgaged the place.
It was possible because the banks didn't share loan information with one another. Deliberate multiple mortgages by building owners cropped up from time to time.
Cory clicked his tongue.
"Buried in debt everywhere, and the family's living in a fancy house."
Unfortunately the house wasn't in Herman Kalman's name. Someone else's.
We'd settle for the building.
So the picture was this.
Sixteen thousand dollars stolen from Kalman's house.
Of that, ten thousand belonged to the loan company; six thousand was Kalman's personal money.
And the building was triple-mortgaged to two banks and a loan outfit—thirty thousand dollars all told.
"Boss, how do you want to handle this? Looks like a real headache."
"What's complicated? Keep it simple."
Right on cue, Leo came up onto the roof.
"Figured you'd be up here. Cory again, I see."
"You've been busy too."
After exchanging greetings with Cory, Leo looked at me with a meaningful face.
"Kalman knows his place was hit."
"Where is he now?"
"Cackling like a lunatic, then walked into a bar."
Fair enough. In a spot like his, what else was there but drink.
Drink all you want. It'll be the last glass you have in this world.
"I'm stopping by the house. Wait for me on the first floor. Cory—bring the cart Oliver prepped. Both of you come together."
"Finishing it tonight?"
"No reason to drag it out."
Click.
I came down from the roof and opened the door to our place.
Mother was at the table balancing the ledgers. Roa came scampering over and stared at my bag with huge eyes.
"Big brother, that bag looks heavy."
"Sorry—no surprise today."
Roa clasped her short arms behind her back and shook her head.
"The surprise isn't what matters. The hope that there might be one—the expectation—that's what matters to Roa. When there isn't one, just give a little smile. Look."
Roa produced an awkward smile that still somehow suggested something was there.
"Big brother has to do it like Roa too."
"Like this?"
"No—the kind of vague smile that says maybe there is and maybe there isn't. You know? Really. Sit down."
"…Sorry. I have to go on a business trip right now."
Mother's head snapped up to look at me.
"A business trip?"
"I'll be back by morning."
"All right. Be careful."
Mother bent back over the ledgers. Roa kept shoving her face at me, insisting I study her expression properly.
"Big brother, when you come in tomorrow morning, watch your face. What does Roa need?"
"Hope and expectation. Liam—have you seen a rope?"
"A rope?"
Liam, who had been reading, hopped down off the bed. Roa was faster.
She rummaged through a box of odds and ends and pulled out a rope no thicker than a pinky.
Then she hid it behind her short hands and looked up at me.
"What's Roa got in her hands?"
I'd just seen it all.
Ah. That kind of thing.
"No idea. A surprise, maybe?"
"See? Tell big brother two things and he gets one."
I took the rope and corrected her.
"If someone tells you two things and you only get one, that brother is a chicken-brain. When someone tells you one thing, you should understand two."
"Yeah, that. Have a good trip. Roa might stay up and wait."
"Wow. Looking forward to it?"
"See? Not hard, right? Cheek."
I put the rope into the crossbody bag slung over my shoulder and set Cory's bag somewhere out of reach. Only after pressing my cheek to Roa's did I leave the house.
Down on the first floor, Leo was waiting.
"Roa cling to you?"
"No. Our Roa doesn't do that."
She just talks a lot.
A little later a cart pulled up in front of the tenement. Oliver and Cory sat side by side on the driver's seat.
Leo and I climbed into the back and headed for the bar where Kalman was supposed to be.
"So why pick me, Boss?"
Oliver asked with a self-satisfied look.
He wanted to hear that he'd been chosen over Cale or Brian.
"Need some muscle today."
"Aha. Muscle's my department. Hyaah!"
Oliver cracked the whip with enthusiasm.
What did the horses ever do to him.
East 7th Street. McSorley's Old Ale House.
Marcus, who had been watching Herman Kalman, took one look at me and dumped a load of useless knowledge.
"Know why Kalman went there? Eighteen fifty-four—when Irish immigrants first opened the place, every customer was a poor laborer."
So they served cheap beer and free cheese and crackers. Still did, he said.
"Meaning Kalman's flat broke. Oh—and Abraham Lincoln stopped in once. The house slogan is, 'Be good or be gone.'"
"So no causing trouble inside."
"Right. We wait until Kalman comes out."
"Then the two of you head to Orchard. We'll hold here."
Once I laid out the plan in detail, Leo and Marcus swallowed hard and left for Orchard.
Herman Kalman didn't leave the bar until nearly midnight.
"You sons of bitches—you think I'll go down like this? I'm Herman Kalman! I don't die alone!"
No. You're going to die alone.
Kalman was roaring at the night. His end wasn't far off.
If you take what isn't yours, you had better be ready to lose it.
I always am.
"Oliver, Cory—follow me at a distance. When I signal, close up tight."
At midnight there were almost no pedestrians. I tailed Kalman at a gap.
Drunk and weaving, he was easy prey. When he reached a stretch the streetlamps didn't touch, I closed the distance.
Maybe some instinct for danger kicked in.
Kalman suddenly stopped and started to whirl around. I gave him no room—stuck to his back, clapped a hand over his mouth, and locked my forearm across his throat at the same time.
I counted the seconds with pressure on the carotid. When his body went slack, I propped him against one shoulder.
At my gesture the cart pulled alongside.
We loaded Kalman into the back. I knocked on the side of the cart.
"Move."
Destination: Orchard Street. Barely two kilometers.
As the cart rolled, Oliver twisted around to look at Kalman sprawled on the floor.
"Is he dead?"
"Not yet."
My hands were already busy as I answered.
I took the rope from the bag, looped it, tied a knot, and held it against Kalman's head to size it.
Then I met the wide-eyed stares of Cory and Oliver.
"…"
"What are you two doing? Don't you see that police wagon?"
"Huh!"
Oliver and Cory snapped their eyes front. I lay down beside Kalman and pretended to sleep.
A cart or an automobile on the streets at night was nothing special.
Ever since the lamps lit the avenues, night had belonged not only to criminals but to honest working people.
A great deal of freight moved after dark to avoid the daytime crush.
Bad luck could still put you under a random police check—but I had never met a cop that diligent.
Of course, you never know what people will do.
Knocking Kalman out had been insurance against exactly that kind of chance.
As the cart passed the wagon where the officers were clustered, Oliver and Cory smiled at them easily and even waved.
We cleared the police without incident, turned left off Delancey, and entered Ludlow Street—the block behind Orchard, not Orchard itself.
The street was nearly empty, but one or two pedestrians still caught the eye.
We passed them.
"Stop here."
Oliver hauled on the reins and brought the cart to a halt.
Now we had to move Kalman. That, too, was Oliver's job.
"Cory—take the cart and wait at the Hester and Orchard crossroads."
"Okay."
Between Ludlow and Orchard the buildings stood packed in a tangle.
In Manhattan's early days, when immigrants poured in, structures had gone up without plan, and the alleys connected like a maze.
The whole Lower East Side was like that.
Commit a crime out of sight, run, and you were hard to catch.
Oliver and I moved through those tangled alleys.
Oliver's breathing grew rougher under Kalman's weight.
"How long is this bastard gonna stay out?"
"Forever?"
Oliver flinched, looked at me, shut his mouth, and picked up the pace. He had finally realized he was carrying a corpse.
A little later we reached the rear of the Barney Underwear factory.
A shadow peeled away from the dark and came toward us.
Leo.
"Nobody inside the factory. Marcus left the third-floor back door open."
"Then let's go finish it."
Two days after the incident, the papers ran headlines about Herman Kalman's death.
Some pieces covered President Herman Kalman found hanging from his office ceiling, and the real state of the garment company.
What caught my eye was a paper that went into careful detail about what kind of man Herman Kalman had been.
How a gang member who had worked as a labor slugger had come to take over a factory and a building.
It raised one suspicion after another and landed, in the end, on a satisfying note: he had paid for his own sins.
But most of them buried the image of a ruthless boss—the same way they had with the death of the owner of Mother's company—and pinned the suicide on the theft of factory goods.
The police closed the case as a suicide as well.
About a week after it all happened, Mother and I visited a bank on Wall Street.
The one with priority over the disposition of Herman Kalman's building—the first bank that had lent him ten thousand dollars.
Before the building went to auction, I made my interest in buying it clear.
At twenty percent below market.
"Who would pay full price for a building whose owner hanged himself?"
That's why I'm the one buying it.