They Both Asked the Same Question
Ida surveyed the first-floor shop without showing any particular interest.
As if by nature, her expression remained as calm as her flat voice. In a way, she almost looked lifeless.
"So managing the store is my role?"
"If I just needed someone to sell things, I could've hired any girl off the street. I need a reliable woman who can keep security tight and secrets buried around here. If you're not confident, say so."
"I understand. When does the place open?"
"Next Thursday."
Ida pursed her lips, thought for a moment, then accepted the job.
"Honestly, I figured I'd be working the underground bar. But this seems fine too. I'll give it my best, Boss."
The interview, already decided in advance, wrapped up quickly. Before she left, though, Ida asked about Hazel.
"That girl—does she work with you, Boss?"
"She's just here temporarily for the construction. Why?"
"No reason. Just curious."
"Do you two know each other?"
"If she's who I think she is, yeah, I know her."
There was clearly something between them, but Ida offered no further details.
"I'll come back the day before we open, Boss."
Before stepping out of the shop, she pulled on a wide-brimmed hat and half-covered her face with a scarf.
Once she was gone, Patrick casually spoke up.
"You like her?"
"Looks and manner of speaking pass. But she seems a bit... lifeless."
Patrick agreed with my assessment.
"Plenty of guys tried to hit on her at first. But once you get close, it's like all the air goes out of the room. Kind of a dampener."
"As long as she does the work well, I don't care."
"Oh, and there's something I didn't mention."
A little late, Patrick finally spilled Ida's past.
"She used to be a dance hall girl—and a prostitute."
"Why the hell are you telling me that now?"
"That's how most of the gang girls are. Is it a problem?"
Well, what did a past matter?
As long as she sold goods and handled the work entrusted to her, that was enough.
Most of the women working dance halls danced with customers, made conversation, and kept the atmosphere lively. A few specialized as partners for VIP clients, bleeding them dry of cash. Ida had been one of those high-end prostitutes.
Beyond that, her history was genuinely fascinating.
"Back then, Ida was hugely popular even with the Gophers. Everyone liked her."
Other gangs had coveted her too. It escalated until a member of the rival Jewish Eastman Gang—a bar owner named Jack Tricker—kidnapped her.
"That bastard took her and they all took turns with her. The Gophers were furious, of course, seeing their favorite girl put through that. They sent a warning: hand her over."
Ida's response then had been unexpected.
Even after the kidnapping, she declared she wouldn't go back to the Gophers.
"So the Gophers finally lost patience and sent four gunmen to the bar."
There had been six kidnappers in the place, but they all froze once the gunmen showed up.
Patrick raised his voice as if he himself had been one of those shooters.
"The gunmen boldly ordered four beers. At the round table across the way, the six kidnappers just sat there frozen, not even thinking of kicking them out. Then Ida made this incredible face and said to the gunmen—"
Looks like you've got guts. Now that you're here, do something.
"At her words, the gunmen calmly downed their beers. Then they stood up slowly. 'All right, let's get started,' they said, and each pulled a pair of pistols and started blasting the bar."
Five at the table took bullets. One of them—Ida's new lover—dove under her trailing skirt and begged for his life.
"Ida looked down at that bastard with pure contempt, grabbed him by the hair, and shoved him out into the middle of the floor. The gunmen smirked and put four rounds into him—bang!"
Ida had followed the Gopher gunmen without a second thought. It had all happened roughly seven years ago.
Putting it all together, Ida's personality was complicated. Patrick's verdict was that she was impossible to define with a single word—completely unreadable. And one more thing.
"Curious about the relationship between Ida and the Gunsmith's granddaughter?"
"She recognized her right away downstairs."
"Makes sense. They were probably both in the Lady Gophers back then."
Hazel had been a gangster?
"She's about my age. How far back are we talking?"
"The old man only started bringing her around as his granddaughter two years ago, so she must've been with the gang until then."
Patrick didn't even know Hazel's name. He'd only heard she was from the Lady Gophers secondhand from Tanner.
Boom!
Mid-conversation, a tremendous crash echoed from the back of the shop. Construction connecting the first floor to the underground secret passage had begun in earnest.
For the duration of the work, I'd set up temporary lodgings on the third floor for the Gunsmith and Hazel. Hell's Kitchen was a distance away, and I didn't want them exposed coming and going.
Oliver and the others had decided they didn't want to go home either and claimed the second floor.
"No drinking in here. If you get drunk, cause a scene, and draw attention, consider yourselves dead."
"Aw, don't worry, Boss. Booze belongs in a bar."
"And don't go poking around the third floor. You sleep here and that's it."
"Yessir!"
After laying down the law hard, I headed up to the third floor.
Until recently two small companies had used the space, so the Gunsmith and Hazel each had an empty office to themselves.
I knocked on the Gunsmith's door first.
"Everything all right? Any discomfort?"
"Of course there is. But it's bearable, so don't fuss over me."
He didn't seem particularly bothered about leaving his Hell's Kitchen workshop empty for so long either.
"I've been cooped up too long. Gotta get a little fresh air now and then. Just make sure the money's ready. This kind of construction ain't the place to pinch pennies."
"Keep the quote reasonable. I'm still poor."
"Still?"
The Gunsmith stuck a cigarette in his mouth and snorted.
"Honestly, I never expected you to absorb the Marginals. You and Patrick both. Took over the whole gang without getting a single drop of blood on your hands."
"Thanks to Tanner looking out for me."
"Hard to hand over a gang you built with your youth to someone else. But for you, Tanner went all in."
"You're full of compliments today."
The Gunsmith sucked in smoke and broke into a coughing fit, yet stubbornly kept puffing away.
I opened the window. He waved me off.
"Don't mind me. Go check on Hazel. She's a girl—she'll need something."
"Understood. Get some rest."
I knocked on the door directly across the hall.
It cracked open and a pair of eyes peered out at me.
"Need anything?"
"Yeah."
Hazel opened the door wide and waved me in.
Since she was alone, she wasn't covering her face with cloth.
I glanced at the bed by the window and the trunk full of clothes beside it.
"What else do you need?"
"Drinking water, emergency rations, clothes hangers."
"I'll have them ready tomorrow. Rest well."
As I started to close the door, Hazel asked again.
"That woman from earlier—does she work with you?"
"You two both asked the exact same question."
"Really? Did Ida say anything about me?"
"Just that she knows you. That was it."
Hazel hesitated, then gave me a strange look.
"Is Ida pretty?"
"She's a beauty."
"Compared to me?"
"What do you want to hear?"
She stared at me steadily, then put on a deliberately serious face.
"This isn't jealousy or anything, so don't get the wrong idea. If you get involved with Ida beyond work, you're the one who'll end up exhausted."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"She goes either way. She's the type who takes her rage out through other people. In short, she's a woman who's already dead inside."
"If you're going to judge someone, you should start by telling me what went on between the two of you."
Hazel toyed with her lower lip with a finger, then shook her head.
"Not yet. Not enough for me to tell you everything about myself. Yeah. Not yet."
What was that supposed to mean?
I closed the door and left the building.
Before I knew it the season had turned to autumn and the night air had grown cold. I headed not toward home but in the opposite direction, toward the newly moved factory.
A somewhat secluded building beyond the reach of the streetlights.
Mother's company on Orchard Street came into view.
The second and third floors were dark—everyone had gone home. The first-floor clothing shop was still open; with so many other ventures underway, I couldn't spare the energy to touch a store that was still operating normally.
I was about to glance around and turn back when—
Crack!
The sound of something shattering and a scream came from inside the clothing shop.
I yanked my scarf up high and slipped into the alley beside the store. My ears caught the mix of sobbing and shouting from inside. The gist was clear enough.
Business is bad, I don't have the money. That's not my problem. Thud!
Right after the sound of something being thrown—
Clatter.
Three men emerged from the first-floor clothing shop. One of them was stuffing money into a bag. They were the same bastards who'd visited Mother's company during the day.
The moment I saw them, my whole body prickled and adrenaline surged.
Out late collecting protection money, were they? I couldn't just let them walk.
Three men. No need to overthink it.
I pulled the club from my waistband and gripped it.
As they sauntered past the alley, I grabbed one and dragged him in.
I smashed him over the head and dropped him to the ground, kicked the startled one, and seized the arm and collar of the one reaching for a knife, hauling him into the air.
Thud.
I finished the one rolling on the ground with a boot to the face, then targeted only vital spots on the ones still standing, cracking them with the club.
Thud! Crack! Thud! Thud!
In an instant three bugs were writhing at the mouth of the alley. I quickly looted the collection bag, their knives, and their cash.
After packing it all away thickly, I moved calmly out the far end of the alley. Halfway through the maze of lanes I ran into another group of punks.
"Who the hell are you, you little—"
I had more than enough techniques for CQC—close-quarters combat—in enclosed or narrow spaces.
Mix Filipino Arnis, Russian Systema, Israeli Krav Maga, and Korean special forces martial arts in the right places and you almost never lose a CQC fight.
Of course, if guns came out, everything changed.
One of them pulled a pistol. Before the muzzle could swing toward me I shot out a hand, twisted the barrel aside, and snapped his wrist joint.
He screamed, dropped the gun, and I drove a knee into him to break his balance.
I wrenched the fallen man's arm behind his back, planted a knee between his shoulders, and picked up the pistol from the ground.
Shooting here would make it a murder case. No need to draw police attention to this street. It was useless for what came next.
I emptied the pockets and weapons of the men on the ground and left the scene without a second thought.
Once I was safely outside I let out a small breath.
The truth was, the second I saw that gun my hair had stood on end and a chill had raced down my spine.
No matter how much CQC you practiced with conventional weapons, how were you supposed to stop a bullet?
Walking into an alley and running into punks and gangsters at this hour wasn't chance—it was inevitable.
Current time: 9 p.m.
Crime peaked between sunset and midnight. The most dangerous window was between 8 and 11 at night.
Streetlights were sparse so the streets stayed dark, and it overlapped with workers heading home, meaning people carrying cash were out and about. It was also when saloons and bars were busiest and police patrols thinnest, so the alleys inevitably swarmed with gangs and thugs looking to commit crimes.
The Lower East Side was that dangerous.
In any case, my spoils were a Smith & Wesson revolver, a Bowie knife, and ninety-five dollars in cash.
I walked along the main road and headed back toward Mother's company.
The men whose protection money I'd taken had vanished somewhere. The first-floor clothing shop still had its lights on.
The proprietress sat out front, staring blankly at passersby, her face carved with the despair of someone who wanted to die.
Building workers' protests, suicides, a change of ownership for the building and factory—after the recent string of incidents, shop sales must have plummeted. And then protection money on top of that. Her feelings were easy to imagine.
There wasn't just one gang either. They came from all directions, throwing their weight around, making every kind of threat, and bleeding people dry.
How was anyone supposed to climb out of this swamp?
Even when I stepped into the shop she just sat there in a daze.
"I'd like to buy some clothes for a six-year-old girl and a fifteen-year-old boy."
"Ah... yes. Clothes."
The proprietress slowly looked up at me. Then she sprang to her feet with a smile.
"I thought it was someone else—you're the new factory owner's son. But you could've come during the day. Why are you out alone this late? It's dangerous."
"I was just passing by."
"I see. Oh, for a six-year-old—how tall is she?"
"Not especially tall."
I gave her the sizes.
"If possible, pick out three outfits each."
"Th-three each?"
She carefully selected a total of six outfits. Mother probably wouldn't like anything I bought on a whim, so I only got clothes for Roa and Liam.
"How much for everything?"
"Just six dollars."
"You don't have to give me a discount."
I'd done some market research on clothing while running the underwear business. Other shops would have charged at least eight to twelve dollars for this.
"It's my way of asking you to look out for us from now on. Just give me six."
"That won't do."
It was all stolen money anyway.
I held out twelve dollars. She recoiled and tried not to take it, so I forced it onto the pile of clothes.
"Oh, and Mother said she won't be collecting this month's rent."
"R-really!?"
"Yes. We have to help each other when times are hard."
The proprietress clasped both hands to her chest, muttered something softly in Yiddish, and let tears fall.
"See you tomorrow."
*
By the time I returned to the tenement house it was 10 p.m.
Roa cracked the door open and eyed the paper bag in my hand. When I smiled and started to speak she came dashing over.
"Big Brother, save your words! Roa wants to have good dreams tonight!"
"Wouldn't it be better if you knew?"
"R-really?"
"Close your eyes."
Roa blinked her big eyes, glanced between me and the bag, then finally shut them as if she'd made up her mind.
"Roa is so nervous, but I trust youuu!"
She closed her eyes as if savoring the moment of happiness. In that gap I hid the gun and knife I'd wrapped in clothes. That was the real reason I'd bought clothes so late at night.
Weapons stashed, I presented the clothes with a flourish. Roa's mouth stretched ear to ear.
"Wow! It really was a surprise! Clothes! And more than one!?"
"Liam, you come try yours on too."
Thump.
The little punk still hadn't gone to sleep.
Liam jumped down from the bed and hurried over. Mother too.
"Where did he hide mine? Is it this one?"
"...That's Roa's. I don't know your style well enough, Mother, so I couldn't buy any."
"What style? Clothes are just clothes you wear. You didn't fail to buy them—you just didn't."
Mother pouted, so I secretly slipped her ten dollars.
"Son, you worked hard today. You must be tired—go to sleep."
She no longer asked where the money came from. Her pouted mouth stretched ear to ear just like Roa's.
*
A few days later, roughly eighty Marginals members gathered on the second floor of the Allen Twin Building while construction was in full swing.
Whether it became a dance hall or a gambling den, I had to clear the obstacles before we opened.
"Starting today we form teams and clean Allen Street and Orchard Street. In the process, no one advertises our presence."
Before committing a crime everyone bragged about being Five Points or Marginals. But at the actual crime scene they never left anything that could be traced. That was the gang rule.
Simple acts of violence, even if the police caught them, would be reduced to individual excesses or fights between small units. In reality so many gangs operated on these four streets that pinning anything down was difficult.
From now on I was going to start a simple, brutal fight to swallow two streets of the Lower East Side.
"If you're scared, you die."