His Last Bow
A scream echoed from somewhere inside the store.
While the gangsters tensed at the sound, Ida spoke up.
“Come back tomorrow. As you can see, today is the day before we open, so only the staff are working.”
“It hasn’t opened yet?”
You didn’t even know that, you bastards.
They exchanged glances among themselves and finally withdrew empty-handed.
After leaving the store they lingered at the basement entrance, but finding it sealed off they soon gave up and moved on.
“Who were those guys, and what’s that noise from downstairs?”
Ida asked in her flat, level voice.
I scratched my cheek and answered.
“Don’t worry about them. I’ll check on the noise myself.”
“By the way, did Tanner come by?”
“He’s in the basement right now.”
“Ah.”
Ida nodded as if she finally understood the source of the racket.
“People really never change, do they?”
Is that a compliment or a complaint?
Like a gambler’s poker face, Ida’s thoughts were impossible to read.
Still, I needed to ask the Gunsmith whether the noise carried so clearly because of the secret passage.
Past the lingerie floor on the first story sat the office—sofa, desk, filing cabinets, and a door in the back wall that led upward. Through it I climbed to the second floor where the Gunsmith waited.
The twin buildings had originally been one. Exterior stairs rose at either end; a dividing wall had been thrown up in the middle so that the structure looked like two separate houses. Using that central wall I had carved out a private office on the second floor, accessible from either side of the twins and connected both above and below.
Inside the office lay a hidden chamber for weapons and a safe. Construction had only just finished. The Gunsmith and Hazel were resting outside the secret space.
“Go in and check it.”
A lever jutted from the wall. I pulled it down; with a soft metallic rumble a door slightly taller than I am slid open, revealing a three-pyeong chamber perfect for concealing anything one wished to keep out of sight.
I had taken part in most of the work myself, so there were no surprises—only the finishing touches to inspect. Overall it pleased me greatly.
“You’ve worked hard.”
“Just in case, if the mechanism ever jams you could be trapped. Air will get through, but don’t starve to death in there.”
Stock emergency rations and oil lanterns. Conceal the lever behind a cabinet or bookcase, leaving only a small gap disguised by ordinary objects.
After a string of minor instructions the Gunsmith shrugged.
“Well, you’ll figure it out without me saying so.”
Hazel, meanwhile, stared silently at the ceiling. The work must have been exhausting; beads of sweat stood out on her uncovered face.
When I drew a thick envelope from my coat the Gunsmith’s brow furrowed.
“I told you I don’t take money.”
“A deal is a deal. I don’t want to be in debt over something like this.”
“I’m the one who owes you. And the older you get, the less debt you want. Even if you die, you want to go light.”
He refused the cash to the end. Pointing a gun at me must still have sat uneasily with him; he was clearly trying to mend the rift.
“One more thing—noise from the basement carries all the way to the first-floor shop.”
“That’s because the secret passage is connected. Check whether the door is open; if the sound still leaks through, we’ll line the gaps with rubber.”
“I’ll go down and look later.”
The Gunsmith and Hazel went up to the third floor to pack. Nearly a month of work meant a great deal to gather. Hazel retreated to her room; I watched the Gunsmith pack his own.
“Tanner’s here, isn’t he?”
He asked while stuffing tools into a bag.
“He’s downstairs talking with Rosenthal.”
“··· Now I know what the noise was.”
He let out a long sigh, then snorted.
“If I’d ever had a kid of my own I’d have died of stress long ago. Good thing I stayed single all my life—how peaceful is that?”
Paradoxically, that was why he seemed to regard Rosenthal as a son.
And there was another such “son.”
“I don’t know how you feel about me. But Hazel is a pure, good kid.”
“Is that so?”
“The way she won’t speak to me lately proves it, doesn’t it?”
I was the one who had aimed a gun; Hazel had nothing to do with it. Don’t hate her for it—that was what I took him to mean.
The Gunsmith’s back looked especially lonely today, like an old man fretting over his children.
After they left I went down to the basement. The club Tanner had borrowed lay broken; Rosenthal, a bloody mess, twitched on the floor. Surely he wasn’t dead.
“I’m sleeping here tonight. Gonna have a drink with Rosenthal.”
Is this giving poison then medicine? Or the carrot and the stick? Either way, Tanner meant to keep Rosenthal and use him again.
That required my consent.
“If Rosenthal makes the same mistake twice, the responsibility is entirely mine. How’s that?”
“Understood.”
Tanner had stood surety for him. If Rosenthal ever stabbed us in the back again, Tanner would kill him before I ever got the chance.
Only after the sun had set did I leave the twin buildings. The night ahead promised to be long.
Instead of going home I paid a visit to Lenny Goldstein, the dealer who spent his days loafing in a tenement room next door.
“When the hell do we start?”
Lenny, looking healthier than before, demanded without preamble.
The gambling den planned for the second basement level still stood empty. Filling it with proper tables would require experts.
“As it happens I brought the purchasing agent along, but tomorrow’s no good. Come find me the day after.”
“Got it, Boss.”
Lenny pulled several scraps of paper from his pocket and held them out.
“This is what you came for, right?”
The phrases were written in Hebrew; I could not read them. Lenny, a Russian-Jewish immigrant, was fluent. I had taken advantage of that and made a request.
“These are the exact lines I asked for?”
“Of course. Straight from the Midrash commentary, Kohelet Rabbah. Anyway, I won’t ask why you need them.”
“Good. You’ll find out naturally soon enough.”
I parted from Lenny and headed home.
The moment I opened the door Roa came scampering over.
“So this is what big brother looks like. Roa’s been forgetting your face ’cause it’s soooo hard to see you lately.”
Looking at the picture on the table, it was clearly not me. She had definitely forgotten; she had drawn an animal instead of a person.
“Son, I went by the shop earlier. Where were you?”
“In the basement.”
Mother had just come home and was changing clothes in her room as she spoke.
“The door was locked. The staff said they heard a scream—nothing wrong, I hope?”
“Just construction noise.”
I brushed it off and moved toward the bed to change. Liam was sprawled across my mattress reading a book.
“Hey, who said you could use my bed?”
“You can use mine.”
“No way. What are you reading, anyway?”
“Sherlock Holmes. Borrowed it from a friend with difficulty—have to return it tomorrow. I’ll stay up all night if I have to.”
The scarlet-covered volume was Sherlock Holmes’s His Last Bow, a recently published collection of eight short stories. Readers who thrilled to Holmes’s pursuit of clues were legion, and Liam was one of them.
“Still, when your big brother comes home you don’t even say hello? You little—”
“I did when you came in.”
“Yeah, Roa heard it too. Super quiet: ‘You’re back?’ ‘Yeah.’ Like that.”
Roa imitated Liam’s half-hearted greeting.
“When did I ever—!”
“Little brother, if you don’t want people misunderstanding you, you should greet people like Roa does. When the door opens, smile and wave with Roa. That’s all. Not hard.”
“You do it yourself. I have to read, so don’t talk to me.”
“Talk, talk, talk.”
“You’re getting it.”
While I changed into fresh clothes, a bored Roa suddenly dropped a meaningful remark out of nowhere.
“Roa decided what Christmas present she wants. So starting today I’m praying to Santa every day.”
“It’s still two months away.”
“Yeah, but Roa’s present is super expensive. Santa needs time to get ready too. Big brother, do you wanna know what Roa’s present is?”
“······ No. Christmas wishes are only supposed to be thought in your heart.”
“If I say it I won’t get it?”
“Obviously. Wait—have you told anyone?”
“No! Never ever!”
Roa shook her head hard and bit her lip.
“But big brother looks curious. Even while working you’ll keep wondering what Roa prayed for and won’t be able to concentrate, right?”
“Not at all. And what if you end up not getting your present because of that? I’ll endure it.”
Playing with Roa made time fly. Before long it was deep night.
My siblings had fallen asleep; Mother sat at the table going over the ledgers while I changed into black clothes.
“Son, are you going on a business trip?”
“I’ll be back by morning.”
“Mm. Thanks to you, Mom is already more than satisfied and happy.”
The factory had moved to larger premises, the staff had grown, and sales kept climbing. These days she was happy enough to hum without thinking. The subtext was clear: so stop doing dangerous things. But—
This is only the beginning, Mother.
I can’t very well let protection money be extracted from my own territory.
I packed what I needed into a bag. As I was about to leave, Roa’s sleepy mumbling drifted over.
“Christ···mas··· present···.”
Click.
I slipped out of the house at once. Thankfully I hadn’t heard it. And I intended never to hear it.
Night.
The hour when the city sank beneath pale moonlight.
A lonely autumn wind wrapped around me as I passed the hazy glow of streetlamps that alone illuminated the darkness falling equally on everyone.
On Allen Street drunken pedestrians came and went in droves. They haggled with prostitutes who boldly solicited customers right on the sidewalk, then, feigning reluctance, allowed themselves to be led by the women’s hands into the dingy brothels under the elevated tracks.
“Hey there, Mister Scarf. How about a dollar?”
“No rush—take your time and enjoy yourself.”
Beautiful women linked arms and clung to passersby, yet I had heard plenty of stories of men who fell for the looks and sweet voices only to discover, once inside the brothel, that they had been sold a lemon.
Not that such tales interested me in the least. Still, the way my nerves stretched taut before a job was not entirely unpleasant.
I sharpened my senses and slipped into an alley off Allen Street. Cory and three other Union members were waiting for me.
“Lombardi’s on the second floor of the building at the end of the alley.”
Paul Lombardi, boss of the Italian crew that split Allen Street with another outfit. Rumor claimed he was a unit of the Five Points Gang; at present he ran two brothels and shook down Jewish shops for protection money.
“What’s the layout of the second floor?”
“Just a cabinet, a round table, and four chairs. Tiny.”
Even a street-level unit gang lived this poorly. In Lombardi’s case the real gathering places were a basement used as a warehouse, or the alley itself. The shabby headquarters meant they had either moved here recently or changed locations so often that nothing permanent ever formed.
The men took up positions throughout the alley while Austin and I climbed the stairs. At the door I gave a nod; Austin urgently pounded on the iron panel. He had once dreamed of becoming a Hollywood actor.
Bang! Bang!
“Boss! Fiozzi’s been murdered! Shot dead!”
Fiozzi was my second target—the other gang boss who shared Allen Street. Austin called the name with desperate urgency, putting on a full performance.
He had every reason to give up on Hollywood.
Is there really any idiot who would fall for that?
My palms grew damp. Then, to my astonishment, the man inside opened the door. More bewildered than alarmed, he glared at Austin with a knife in hand.
“What the hell is this idiot—!”
Clack.
Austin yanked the door wide; at the same instant I snaked an arm around the neck of the man who had opened it. Using him as a shield I stepped inside, pistol ready.
Two men sat blinking, cards still in their hands.
How am I supposed to know which one is Lombardi?
Psshut!
Psshut!
I put bullets cleanly through both foreheads, kicked away the man I had used as a shield, then—
Psshut!
—finished him with a round to the back of the skull.
Austin quickly searched the bodies; Cory had already come up and was cracking the safe inside the cabinet.
“So which one’s Lombardi?”
Austin, still rifling a corpse, slapped its cheek and declared this one was Lombardi. While I tucked the thin, elongated paper message Lenny had given me between the dead man’s teeth, Cory opened the safe: ledgers, cash, pistols, and ammunition.
“Take the ledgers and half the cash, then close it.”
After Lombardi I eliminated Louis Fiozzi, who shared Allen Street, and then Jack Ruger of Orchard Street, one after another.
I finished every job before dawn and returned to the twin buildings. In the second-floor office I stashed three thousand dollars in cash and the weapons inside my private vault.
Fighting the urge to close my eyes, I made it home just as Mother was rising to prepare breakfast. Spotting my hands she hurriedly filled the sink with water.
“Son, wash up quickly.”
“Yes.”
I rinsed the blood from my hands. Mother sat at the table peeling potatoes and spoke.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“I’m fine.”
“The shop opens at nine, so sleep soundly until then. I’ll make sure no one wakes you.”
I changed clothes roughly and was about to lie down when my eyes met Liam’s; he was already awake on the upper bunk.
“You’re up already?”
“Wanted to finish Sherlock Holmes. But what exactly have you been—”
“There’s an east wind coming, Liam. It will be cold and bitter, and a good many of us may wither before its blast.”
“But it’s God’s own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared.”
“······?”
“That’s Sherlock’s final line in that book.”
“Uh, when did you read this?”
Instead of answering I simply grinned and stretched out on the bed.
In Holmes’s last speech the east wind—the coming storm—was a metaphor for Britain on the eve of the Great War.
I loved that line.
I also loved the way artificial clues drove a deduction, and the tricks and devices planted for a twist. Wasn’t that the whole pleasure of a detective novel?
Three murders took place overnight.
Two on Allen, one on Orchard.
What the cases shared: .45 ACP casings found at each scene.
The safes left unopened.
And a long, narrow strip of paper placed in each victim’s mouth.
A Jewish officer at one of the scenes recognized the Hebrew phrases written on the slips.
אין אדם יוצא מן העולם וחצי תאוותו בידו, יש לו מנה רוצה מאתיים, יש לו מאתיים רוצה ארבע מאות.
“A man does not leave this world having fulfilled even half of his desires. If he has a hundred pieces of gold, he wants two hundred···.”
It was a passage from the Jewish book of Ecclesiastes—Kohelet—speaking of humanity’s endless greed and desire.
“Fuck, why leave this? Playing Sherlock Holmes or something?”
“Crazy bastard thinks he’s James Moriarty—Holmes’s greatest enemy.”
The childish-looking clue divided opinion among the patrolmen and even the detectives.
“This is a fake. Someone posing as a Jew.”
“No—maybe that’s exactly what they wanted. Knowing a real Jew would never advertise being Jewish.”
“Or maybe they wanted us to think that a Jew would never reveal himself?”
“······ Shit, this is a mess.”
There were precedents of killers deliberately leaving traces or symbols. One officer brought up a famous case.
The Jack the Ripper murders of 1888 in London—at least five women slaughtered in horrific fashion.
“Seems like there’s a bit of a parallel, doesn’t there?”
“How so?”
“At one of the Ripper scenes the killer left a message chalked on a wall.”
The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing
“Is that real? I heard someone made it up.”
“No—my uncle was on the London force back then. The message was genuine.”
The reason the press never reported it was that the inspector on scene had wiped it away, fearing anti-Jewish riots.
That left the NYPD officers with a fresh headache.
The Lower East Side was packed with Jewish and Italian immigrants. Of the ten-odd victims most were Italian; only two were Jewish. If they hastily pinned the crimes on a Jew they risked stoking new conflict and division in the neighborhood.
But it was already too late. Because there were three separate scenes, reporters had already photographed the notes.
“Damn it, looks like I’ll have to go to headquarters and report upstairs. I’ll be back.”
Officer Michael of the 7th Precinct, which covered the Lower East Side, hurried away from the Allen Street scene.
Halfway down the street someone stepped up and thrust a flyer into his hand.
“Hello, Michael. The shop just opened—if you ever need women’s lingerie, stop by anytime.”
“Well if it isn’t the hero of the Tenderloin.”
Kieran tipped his hat with a bright smile.
Michael’s gaze drifted past him to the lingerie boutique Intima standing behind.