What Are You Hiding?
It was the Gunsmith who brought word of the fence.
He had dropped by the Hell's Kitchen workshop for the first time in a while, only to find Isaac Rosenthal collapsed outside the door, bleeding from a gunshot wound and hovering on the edge of death.
That a man who made his living illegally buying, selling, and modifying firearms would know a fence was hardly surprising.
"I've known Rosenthal a long time. He's recovering at my place now."
"How bad is he?"
"Took a round in the shoulder, but he's still shoveling food down like nothing's wrong."
So it wasn't fatal, then. Hazel had ended up stuck at his side playing nurse.
"Anyway, the second he came to, he asked for you. Says a longtime partner of his turned on him. Dominic Mileno — an Italian fence."
"So he got shot by a colleague and the first person he wants is me?"
From what I knew, fencing was a trade that took real guts. A fence was probably even more exposed to danger than the Gunsmith, who dealt in illegal guns. Anyone who had lasted more than ten years in that world had to be one of two types: either a shrewd operator with a talent for reading people and working angles, or a hard-edged fighter with nerve to spare.
"Which is he?"
"If I had to say, Rosenthal's a mix of both. Or maybe the second type runs a little stronger."
That only made it stranger. A man like that takes a bullet and his first instinct is to call for help instead of hunting the bastard down himself? Maybe that was just me.
The Gunsmith coughed and asked, "So what are you going to do?"
"I'll see him. Tomorrow."
He was supposed to be neutral, but he was still tied to the Marginals. Having a reliable fence inside the gang was a major advantage. It sat wrong with me, but I needed to meet him first.
"By the way — the rest of the construction is for a space only you know about. How do you want to handle it?"
It had to stay a space only I knew. The work would involve just me, the Gunsmith, and Hazel.
"Then keep the rest of the crew out of there in the meantime."
"I was already planning on it. They're not much use right now anyway."
There was a reason gangs could commit endless crimes without the police ever nailing them. They didn't walk around with the gang name stamped on their foreheads or dress in matching colors like a school uniform. Even when they collected protection money out in the open, they still operated like a cell network. If someone got caught at a crime scene, the chain almost never reached the top — and even when it did, most of them walked on insufficient evidence.
These past few days, Allen and Orchard had turned into something out of a Cold War spy thriller. Whoever found the other's headquarters first would win. The four gangs, including the Marginals, had all been redeployed as informants blanketing the streets. But the Marginals members who had only ever worked Hell's Kitchen were useless as sources. They were more likely to pick unnecessary fights or get spotted coming and going from the Allen twin buildings. Better to leave the intelligence work to Leo and Marcus and their old shoe-shine network, and keep only the bare minimum of men guarding Mother's factory and the twin buildings.
I asked Patrick, who was heading back to Hell's Kitchen, about Dominic Mileno — the man who had put a bullet in Rosenthal.
"What kind of man is he?"
"Used to handle goods for the Eastman Gang. You know what happened to them."
With his supply chain gone, he had shopped around for a new one and landed with the Italian gangs.
"Word was he was doing pretty well for himself in that world lately. For a fence, the supply line is everything."
"So the size of the gang is basically a measure of the fence's reach."
"Far as I know, yeah."
That evening, the Gunsmith and I worked on the secret space. Late the next afternoon we set the tools aside and headed for Hell's Kitchen together.
The Gunsmith's wardrobe changed completely depending on whether he was in the workshop or out on the street. A clean suit, a hat, white gloves on both hands, and a slender cane in one of them. If he hadn't left his face uncovered by a scarf, he would have looked every inch the wealthy old gentleman. I had seen the outfit a few times already, so it didn't make much of an impression.
What did interest me was the place he was living. Instead of taking the alley that led down to the basement workshop, he walked straight through the front entrance of a four-story building.
"One more person who knows about this place."
On the third floor, three doors lined the hallway. The nearest one was his. The furniture was sparse — a kitchen, a small living room, two bedrooms. Ordinary enough, or so I thought, until one wall of the living room swung open.
Rrrrk.
A hidden passage into the neighboring unit. It was an extension of the basement workshop. A long, broad workbench ran down the middle; drawers were piled with tools and parts. The difference was that everything here was neatly arranged, and being on the second floor, it got plenty of sunlight.
"This is mostly Hazel's space. I prefer the basement."
He pressed another section of wall and a second passage appeared. How many sins had the man committed to need secret corridors stacked on top of secret corridors?
Hazel, who had been drinking water at the table, startled and blinked at us. Then she tilted her head and looked at the Gunsmith.
"That's a serious decision, showing him this place."
"We're building him a secret room. No point keeping secrets from each other at this stage."
"I agree. Welcome."
Hazel squinted and smiled at me. I answered absently, already mapping the layout in my head. Connecting the entire second floor with hidden passages like this — the Gunsmith had to own the whole four-story building. I had suspected as much the moment I heard there was a secret passage in the basement. No one else would have gotten away with renovations this illegal.
Hazel led me to the room where the fence was staying. The door opened on a man half-sitting up in bed, scribbling in a notebook. Isaac Rosenthal looked over and offered a thin smile.
"Hello, Boss. Sorry the introductions are so late."
Early thirties. Same generation as Tanner Smith and Patrick. I pulled a chair up to the foot of the bed and sat.
"Let's hear the story first."
Fences disposed of goods through their own networks, and as Patrick had said, they sat in a neutral position dealing with multiple gangs, merchants, and businessmen.
"Neutral on paper, maybe. But a businessman always has a preferred client. We have main accounts too."
The main account was usually whoever supplied the goods — which meant the gangs. And a fence's standing rose or fell with the size of that main gang. In Rosenthal's case, he had handled stolen goods for the Marginals since the early days, so Tanner Smith had been his primary client.
"You're taking a long time getting to the point."
"You need the background or you won't follow. You're new to this world, Boss."
A young Asian boss. Either that, or he was emphasizing that I was a client of his main account rather than a member of the Marginals. Behind Rosenthal's mild smile sat a look that was sizing me up — and finding me wanting.
The bastard needed my help and still couldn't keep his attitude straight. Fine. I would listen for now.
"So even the neutrals have a main account. But every now and then you get some ambitious little shit who overreaches."
Dominic Mileno, the fence who had been close to Rosenthal for years, was one of those.
"He used to deal with the Eastman Gang, and then they went under completely. I felt sorry for him, so I threw him some work. And the bastard turned around and stabbed me in the back."
"Just like that? He betrayed you out of nowhere?"
"Yeah. I'd moved a lot of product lately. He got greedy for the money!"
They had been drinking together when the argument got heated, and then the guns came out. Recalling it, Rosenthal's whole body shuddered.
"That son of a bitch. After everything I did for him — he dares to turn on me?"
"So you want me to take care of this Mileno for you. Is that it?"
"Yeah. Boss, as long as that bastard's breathing, finishing the sewing machines is going to be hard."
Of the seventy sewing machines we had taken from the late Herman Kalman, only a handful had been swapped out for other models and delivered to the company. A significant number were still left.
That aside, Rosenthal's story was thin. There were holes everywhere. According to Patrick, this was a man who had been doing well trading with the Italian gangs. And he suddenly attacked a colleague over money?
"Did you return fire on Mileno?"
"No. People in the bar broke it up and I just ran."
"Ah. So you ran all the way to an empty building and now you're asking me to eliminate a traitor for you."
A man who had survived more than a decade of hell in this business — who had been looking down his nose at the new boss of the Marginals not two minutes ago?
Too many things didn't add up. I leaned in close and stared him down.
"Tell me. How many people are after you?"
"...W-what are you talking about?"
"Choose your answer carefully. He betrayed you because he suddenly wanted your money? You think I'm an idiot."
It could have been about the money. But I couldn't shake the feeling that Rosenthal was hiding something. It wasn't just the disrespect. I trusted my instincts. Push hard enough and something would come out.
"Truth time. It won't take long. You've got three seconds."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean all of a sudden—"
"Three."
"!"
I grabbed him by the hair and hauled him off the bed. A kick took out his knees; I locked a hand around his throat.
"Two."
Rosenthal had gone white. His eyes rolled toward the door, silently begging the Gunsmith and Hazel for help.
"If you interfere—"
Click.
Apparently his trust in the Gunsmith ran thicker than his trust in a fence. The muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun drifted toward me.
"That's enough."
Did I look like I was joking? Enough of what?
I hauled Rosenthal up by the throat and put his body between me and the gun without thinking about it. In the Gunsmith's hands was a modified Remington Model 1889 — an antique sawed-off double-barrel. Devastating at close range, but 12-gauge buckshot was still buckshot. The first blast would shred Rosenthal more than it would punch clean through him, and putting a precise second shot into me after that would not be easy.
"You'd better shoot straight. If you miss, I won't leave a single person in this building alive."
And then I would swallow the building whole. At the end of the sentence I looked at Hazel. Our eyes met; something flickered in hers. Rosenthal's shaking traveled straight up my forearm.
Then the Gunsmith sighed. He shrugged and let the muzzle drop.
"Rosenthal... If you came here for help, tell him the truth."
I loosened my grip a fraction. Rosenthal blurted, "J-just let me talk to Tanner Smith instead—"
"Bullshit."
Thud.
Another kick to the knee. I seized his hair and clamped my palm over his face, staring into the eye visible between my fingers.
"I'm the boss of the Marginals. You talk to me. Today decides what happens to you."
Whether he would rule a network with me — or go into the ground early.
"M-my network?"
"You've got the greed and ambition for it. Don't tell me you don't."
The way his interest jumped from the grave to the network told me everything I needed. The look in Rosenthal's eyes changed. He opened his mouth.
"Three men are after me."
"Why?"
"The plate..."
I glanced at the Gunsmith and Hazel before I even knew what he meant. Both of them were staring with their mouths open.
"Boss, you might not know this, but—"
Here we go again. I started to close my hand around his throat and Rosenthal rushed the rest out.
"A counterfeit plate! One of the pieces we took off the Newtown Creek job — it was in there!"
Counterfeiting. The Sicilian gangs' main line of business. Without realizing it, I had seized a plate — and Rosenthal had been hiding it.