A New Beginning

The NYPD 7th Precinct held jurisdiction over the Lower East Side.

One wall was plastered with months of clippings from major crime stories.

And now a rookie had just pinned up the newest clipping.

“Rookie. Which of those hits you hardest?”

Senior Officer Michael stood behind him, staring at the wall. The rookie’s eyes traveled across the clippings and stopped.

“The smoke-bomb massacre, I think.”

“Yeah, that one’ll make your stomach turn. But for me it’s this—the factory cleaned out overnight. That one still floors me.”

The rookie’s gaze followed his senior’s to the theft article.

“Seventy-plus sewing machines. Over four tons of fabric and finished goods. Gone in an hour or two. How many men you figure? How many wagons?”

Criminal outfits had been running wild in American cities since the late nineteenth century. It started with the Irish gangs and had lately spread to Jewish and Italian crews. For the most part they stayed inside their own communities—street thugs running small-time extortion and loan-sharking.

The clothing-factory job, though, broke the old pattern. It was organized on a scale no one had seen before. A type of crime without real precedent.

While Michael and the rookie were still turning the theft over between them, the officer assigned to the case came back into the room.

“Anything new?”

“Building’s already sold. Met the lady who bought it. She was running the clothing factory under the Forsyth Tenement House.”

“Mrs. Graves?”

“Oh—so you know her.”

Michael had knocked on Mrs. Graves’s door twice. The memory of the cute little girl he’d seen there brought a faint smile to his mouth.

There had been reasons for those two visits. Once for the sewing-machine warehouse massacre. Once with a detective from the Gramercy district on the Rosie Hertz case—the neighborhood where she’d died. That detective had asked how a poor woman like Mrs. Graves could afford a whole building.

And now—

“Mrs. Graves bought another one?”

“She dumped the Allen Street place in a hurry. Orchard’s better commercial ground anyway.”

“But wasn’t there trouble over the patent infringement?”

The other officer hung up his cap and nightstick, dropped into a chair, and went on.

“She kept sending Herman Kalman formal notices. He ignored them. Then he kills himself and the building goes cheap, so she snaps it up.”

“...The timing’s a little too perfect, isn’t it?”

“I know what you’re thinking. But she was already looking at properties before the notices went out. I checked with the real-estate man.”

One question still nagged at Officer Michael.

“She already owned the Allen Street building. Why go hunting for a place to rent?”

“Elevated tracks right out front, and the basement used to be a brothel. Once the workers found out, none of them wanted to stay. They’re all married women, after all.”

Michael nodded as if that settled it. Then a new thought struck him.

“Who took over the Allen Street twins?”

“Christ, I gotta dig into that too? Some moneybags, probably. Look—let’s just find the stolen sewing machines first.”

“Unless they sprouted wings or sank into the ground, there’s got ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to be a trail.”

Michael smacked his lips and turned back to the dozens of clippings on the wall. Every one of them had happened inside the Lower East Side. More than a few were tied to Kieran Graves, yet the papers treated each as a clean, disconnected incident.

Today was moving day for the clothing factory under the Forsyth Tenement House.

The entire Union gang turned out to help the workers haul everything to the entrance.

“Sewing machines first—get them up!”

“Fabric and fittings last. Stack those off to the side!”

Wagons stood in a line along the street, taking on cargo. I climbed into the lead wagon and headed for Orchard Street.

Barney Underwear had been a clothing factory too, so the building needed almost no work. We had stripped it so clean it was ready to run the moment we walked in.

I climbed the stairs and found Mother standing at a second-floor window, smiling brightly. Strong sunlight poured through the open sash and lit her face.

“Are the goods arriving now?”

“Yes. Let’s place the sewing machines first.”

As the machines came up, Mother held a floor plan and directed each one into position. Cargo was flooding the second floor when a small group came looking for her.

“Mrs. Graves?”

Jeffrey—who had helped with the Barney Underwear workers’ strike—stood in front. Behind him three women waited with tight, nervous faces. They were the ones who had lost the most in the whole affair.

I had already spoken to Mother about it. There were workers suddenly out of jobs; why not hire them? We would need more hands once the factory expanded anyway. And these women already knew how to turn out counterfeit brassieres.

“Shall we go up to the third-floor office?”

Mother led the three women away. Jeffrey drifted closer.

“Boss—you look out the window?”

“What’s out there?”

I stepped over and looked down. Dozens of women were clustered in front of the building—the same ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠workers who had been at Barney Underwear only days before.

“I’ve done every dirty job a slugger can do. Never seen anything like this.”

“Like what?”

“Actually helping the workers.”

He had picked up the iron pipe for money; their lives had never been his concern. This time, though, he had been finding jobs for the strike line itself. On the way over he said he had been thanked dozens of times.

Standing at the window, looking down, Jeffrey’s face held a quiet pride and satisfaction.

“Mother’s going to take them all on. By the way—are we moving the goods through a fence?”

A fence was the middleman who handled stolen swag. In this case, sewing machines.

Suddenly more employees and sewing machines that fit the new floor plan perfectly? Anyone with eyes would get suspicious. Herman Kalman was dead, but the police were still hunting the stolen goods. We had painted and repaired the machines to throw them off, yet that alone felt thin. If one of the new hires recognized a machine she used to run, that would be another headache.

“To stay clean we go through legitimate channels. Get the purchase papers airtight and bring them in a few at a time.”

“Got it, Boss.”

While I was still talking with Jeffrey, Mother and the three women came back down to the second floor. Whatever had been said, the women looked elated. One of them gazed at Jeffrey with wet eyes; another hurried down the stairs to carry the news.

A moment later a cheer rose from outside the window.

Free Your Body offered better wages than Barney Underwear. No more screaming, no more threats. And above all, no locked doors for the entire shift. All of it compressed into that single roar of joy.

Then cold water hit the celebration. A dozen or so men shoved through the workers and tried to force their way into the building.

“Those bastards—same ones who jumped us at the strike. Want me to call the boys?”

“The company and the gang are separate. Jeffrey—disappear.”

He understood at once and started hauling crates like any other worker. I gave the rest of the Union the same order.

Soon the pack reached the second floor and started barking threats into the room.

“Who’s the owner? Get out here!”

I could still see the marks from that day—bruises that hadn’t faded from their faces.

“I’m the owner. What is this about?”

The one who looked like the leader spotted Mother, and the corner of his mouth curled up. Once he confirmed she was a woman, his swagger doubled.

“Let’s talk a minute.”

“Talk here.”

“Don’t get difficult. Come with us.”

When I moved to follow, three or four of them closed in.

“Stay put if you don’t want a beating, kid.”

They had already been told I was the son. That only got them muttering about half-breeds and looking Mother over with open sneers. Jeffrey and the Union men stood rigid with rage but did not step in.

Herman Kalman was dead—so why had these idiots shown up at all?

Only after Mother finished whatever “negotiation” they ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wanted and they left did I learn who they were.

According to her:

“They claim they run Orchard Street. They want fifty dollars a week for protection.”

“You agreed for now?”

“Yes. You told me not to pick unnecessary fights.”

Well done, Mother.

If they ruled this street, the ownership was about to change. They had taken fifty dollars; they would pay back far more.

By afternoon the heavy hauling was finished. I left the rest to Mother and the workers, took Jeffrey and the Union men, and walked over to Allen Street.

One block. Not even five minutes.

The Allen Street twin buildings.

Clang. Clang.

Rattle, rattle, rattle.

Construction was in full swing in the basement and on the first floor. Behind screening, Gunsmith and Hazel were running secret renovations; Oliver and about twenty others were helping.

“Hey—Boss is here!”

Oliver spotted me first and called out. Ever since Herman Kalman’s “suicide,” the way he looked at me had changed.

I still remember the faces of Oliver, Corey, Leo, and Marcus that day. Past shock into pure fear. The look that said I was something other than them.

I’m human enough to know what I did. So I demanded Omerta from my accomplices—our own Wall of Silence.

“No one speaks of today. When the time comes, I will be the one who talks.”

A secret held by only five of us: me, Oliver, Corey, Leo, and Marcus.

“Man, I’m starving. Worked so hard my stomach’s screaming.”

Brian shot me an obvious sideways glance, demanding something to put in his belly. Four in the afternoon—snack time for construction crews even in Korea—but this bastard was American.

Oliver snapped, “You crazy son of a bitch, shut your mouth,” and Brian shot back, “Can’t a guy even say he’s hungry?”

Then—

Gurgle. Gurgle.

Someone’s stomach answered. The sound led to Hazel. Face wrapped in cloth, big hammer in hand, she backed Brian in her own strange way.

“Whoever brought it up buys.”

I handed Brian two dollars. Oliver yelled after him,

“Pocket the change and you’re dead.”

“I’m spending every last cent!”

Brian and two others were heading up the stairs when a voice cut in.

“Well, Patrick! And you—”

“Quit gawking. Move.”

Patrick had come looking for me, and he had brought a woman with him.

One by one the crew dropped their tools.

Clunk. Clunk.

“Whoa—Ida?”

“Ida!?”

A woman in her mid-twenties, dark brown hair piled high. A female gangster.

“Good to see you, Boss. I’m Ida.”

A former member of the Lady Gophers, the women’s crew that dissolved when the Gophers fell apart. They had pulled her into the Marginals because she was pretty—and looking at her, I agreed. The bearing, the voice—she had presence. Perfect for managing the first-floor lingerie shop. She could have sold to high society at Macy’s and no one would blink.

No interview needed. Hired on the spot.

Ida’s eyes left me and found someone else. Hazel. She gave her a strange, knowing look, then turned back to me. They clearly knew each other.

Fine by me either way.

“Let’s go upstairs and look at the shop while we’re at it.”

I moved with Patrick and Ida toward the first-floor storefront.