I Just Came to Dance
Late evening, at the twin buildings on Allen Street.
Goods unloaded from wagons were being carried steadily underground. As soon as one load was finished, another cart or truck would pull up in front of the building and start unloading all over again.
Rosenthal checked every shipment; once inspected, the merchandise was moved down to the basement. Blackburn, who was handling the dance hall’s interior, directed the furniture placement himself. With Marginals members poured into the work in force, there was no shortage of hands.
“Stop goofing off. Anyone without a job, get to the kitchen and start sorting crates.”
“Reynold—grab five guys and head for the kitchen!”
They had knocked out the middle wall on the basement level, so the floor was fairly spacious. Rows of lights hung from the ceiling, shedding the gloomy air of the old salon Jacob used to run.
“Make way! Piano coming through!”
“Damn, this thing’s filthy heavy.”
“Where to? Where do we put it?!”
At the front of the dance hall, a small stage rose about fifty centimeters above the floor—space for a band to play. Once the piano settled on the right side of the stage, the place finally started to look like a proper dance hall.
Chairs were concentrated along the edges next, and the kitchen began to fill with liquor, soft drinks, and glassware.
At the same hour, upstairs in the second-floor office of the twin buildings, Patrick and I sat at the table working through the various situations at hand.
First, the dance hall.
“If we finish sorting most of the goods today, tomorrow we can spend the whole day sweeping, scrubbing, and doing the finishing work.”
“Then we can open three days from now.”
At Patrick’s words, Nox studied the calendar.
Opening day: Thursday, November 23rd. Perfect timing to ride the year-end mood. That was exactly why we had pushed so hard.
“Opening time six in the evening, close at two in the morning. First hour, half-price admission and drinks.”
“What if everyone piles in then and we get cleaned out?”
“I doubt it.”
The people who came looking for a dance hall on the Lower East Side were poor laborers. The real crowd only started after seven, once the day’s work was done. Pulling in the early idle ones and building atmosphere first was pure gain.
“By the way—what about the band?”
“They said full-time was impossible, so I booked an Italian band for the first half and a Jewish band for the second. Somewhere between beginner and intermediate. They want ten dollars for four hours each.”
Twenty dollars a day just for the bands. For groups of four or five, it wasn’t steep.
After the dance hall, the next item on the agenda was protection money.
A month had passed since we handed the shops that refused the half-price protection deal over to the Jewish gangs. Stores that had sworn they would never pay an Irish outfit had started hunting for us desperately in less than two weeks.
In the face of money and violence, what did shared blood matter? The gang that bled you less was the best gang.
“So what do we do, Boss?”
“Tell the Jewish boys to back off.”
“You give something and snatch it back, they’re going to come at us ready to die.”
“Then we’re looking soft. We smash them flat. That said, Patrick—I think it might go the other way.”
“The other way?”
“They start paying us protection.”
My goal from the beginning had been to absorb the Jewish outfits. Turn them into units under our management, then peel people away one by one. How long were we supposed to stay an Irish gang alone? We needed other blood mixed in.
“From now on, have Oliver, Cale, and Brian handle units like that. Keep it from climbing all the way to me.”
“Anyone we can’t trust, we cut the tail off whenever we have to. I get you, Boss.”
“I’ll say it again—the more diverse the membership, the more opportunities and resources we can pull in.”
Manhattan was a mash of immigrants from every country. And they built their own networks, straining to exercise influence on the federal government. School ties, hometown ties, blood ties—all of it formed in that process, another kind of spiderweb network. To use it, we had to get off pure Irish.
“Oh—when are you going to move the goods we lifted from Mileno’s warehouse? Cash is going to get tight.”
We had been spending money like water lately. Starting an underwear shop, a dance hall, and a gambling house all at once will do that. We still had some cushion, but leaving everything piled in a warehouse forever was a risk of its own.
“Once the current push is finished, we’ll put Rosenthal on disposal.”
We worked through the remaining odds and ends until past ten. Patrick went home. I took a lantern and went down to the basement alone.
Click.
I flipped every switch. The dark dance hall blazed as bright as midday.
Center: the dance floor. Up front: the small stage. Tables, chairs, and benches for resting were all set along the edges. Overall, about two-thirds of the space belonged to the floor where people would dance—as a dance hall should.
I pictured customers filling it, moving to the music, then killed the lights again.
Experience a special evening at the Pumpkin Dance Hall!
The Lower East Side had newspapers with sharply defined audiences: a Yiddish paper for the Jewish community, one aimed at the Italian community, one for the Irish immigrants of Hell’s Kitchen and the Lower East Side, and one that covered everyone.
I ran the same ad in those papers, swapping only “Italian” and “Irish” into the format. Opening date, events, cover charge, even the band names—all locked in.
And then the long-awaited opening day.
On the first floor, in the underwear shop, Ida asked me a question.
“Why pumpkin, of all things?”
“Doesn’t pumpkin make you think of warmth, friendliness, festivals, abundance? A symbol of craving peace in the middle of wartime chaos.”
Truthfully, I’d only thought of a pumpkin-themed tourist night. There was no deep reason. But I had spun a pretty convincing meaning out of it. Worth a little credit, wasn’t it?
“We’ve still got thirty minutes till open, and there’s already a line.”
“Yeah?”
This was looking like a hit. Expectation pulled me closer to the window.
A knot of dark-clad men had gathered—the Jewish boys we had handed the shop list to.
These lunatics. Had they come to collect protection? To stake a claim on opening day?
My fists were tightening when Oliver and the crew appeared like a comet and swept the lot of them away like a wave. Sensible enough. Still, the fact that a gang had assembled out front at all sat wrong with me.
I stepped outside and approached the man stationed at the dance hall entrance. He was wearing a pumpkin head specially made by my mother’s company and handing out flyers.
“Tell the boys to keep the flies cleaned off in advance.”
I murmured it as I drew close. The pumpkin head whipped around.
“The fuck—who’s giving me orders—”
“Your Boss.”
“Shit—couldn’t see. Eyes are blocked.”
How was this idiot even distributing flyers? I set the pumpkin head properly; he covered his mouth with a hand and snickered.
“I can see now, Boss. But this thing’s getting great reactions. The women love it. Think I might land one tonight.”
“They’ll love it more if you shut that mouth. A pumpkin’s cute when it doesn’t talk.”
“Tch.”
Posters, flyers, word of mouth—that was the usual playbook. Handing out leaflets in a character mascot head might have been a first. I was ahead of the curve.
As the hour closed in, the line at the dance hall entrance grew. Women who had visited the underwear shop started joining it too. And Ida was standing at the very front.
“!?”
Why? What about the shop?
There was one more female clerk; leaving for a moment wouldn’t have been fatal. Still—this was wrong.
I stepped in close and whispered.
“Manager Ida. What exactly are you doing?”
Ida whispered back, face blank as ever.
“I started the line. Look—they’re stretched out behind me.”
So that was it. A former dance-hall girl, and her instincts were something else.
Having built a long queue, Ida drifted calmly back into the shop. The women behind her looked briefly flustered, then fell into laughing conversation among themselves.
When I went inside, Ida was already recommending lingerie to a customer. I stood by the window and watched the growing line with satisfaction. Then six o’clock arrived as promised.
The entrance opened, and customers began filtering downstairs one by one. Cover was the same as other halls—ten cents for women, twenty for men. Thanks to the half-price promotion until seven, more people were coming in than I had expected.
I glanced toward the pumpkin head. He had advanced all the way across the street scattering flyers—and a pack of toughs had ringed him in, jostling and mocking. Oliver and the crew tore between wagons and cars like madmen and cleaned up around the pumpkin head. From that point on, the mascot had an escort.
All of it was experience. Unlike a regular shop, a dance hall drew serious interference. I found myself looking forward to which outfit would stick itself to us next and try something clever.
“Manager Ida—mind the store for me.”
I went down through the back office of the shop. Opening that door led straight into the dance hall office. Cale and Brian were on the sofa talking.
“Perfect timing, Boss. We’ve got a problem with body searches at the door.”
Cale frowned as he explained. Weapons had to be controlled tightly, but searching the women was a mess. There was one female clerk, but the rougher female customers were rolling right over her.
“If we step in ourselves, the image goes to hell.”
A suitable face was just forming in my mind when a crewman burst the office door open.
“It’s handled!”
“How?”
“Ida showed up.”
“Ohhh—I was just about to ask you to send Ida. You really are the Boss!”
I hadn’t ordered it, but I had been thinking of Ida too. Either way.
“Ida’s temporary. We need more female staff by tomorrow at the latest. And put men outside as well. Flies keep showing up.”
“Ah—that Jewish guy.”
Cale grinned as he spoke.
“That bastard wants to become one of our units.”
“Suddenly?”
“He asked me quiet-like—whether the murders on Orchard and Allen had anything to do with us.”
“And?”
“I told him if he ran his mouth I’d tear it open. He was plenty scared, but the look in his eyes said he still believes it.”
Deep fear and dread—and still the hunger, the greed, for protection money. Pass.
“Terms?”
“He keeps the shops he’s collecting from, and kicks up twenty percent a week.”
Standard. That was how units remitted protection upward.
“What do we do, Boss?”
“Tell him we accept. Cale—you handle his people from now on.”
“Okay!”
While we talked, music started. I opened the office door onto a throng of crewmen moving through the kitchen. A short nod each, then I surveyed the hall.
On the floor, maybe forty people dancing to the band. The rest sat on benches or at tables with drinks.
I cut through the crowd toward the entrance. Ida was standing in a shadowed spot with three women. I drifted closer and pricked up my ears.
“You were rotting in Hell’s Kitchen. What the hell are you crawling around here for?”
“……We just heard there was a new dance hall opening, so we came.”
“Forgive us, Ida. We really only meant to dance and leave.”
Ida snorted.
“You came to clean out the customers’ wallets. Take the hint while I’m being nice—get lost.”
“……Yes.”
The three women left thoroughly cowed. Ida watched them go, then her eyes met mine.
“Boss—looks like I’m going to have to work a second job.”
I thought so too.