What's His Name?

Uncle Larry was working at the harbor less than two kilometers from where I was.

“Imelda’s husband got hurt too. He was at the company when he went pale and ran straight out.”

Some of the husbands of Mother’s employees worked as dockworkers. Among them, Imelda’s husband was employed at the same shipping company as Uncle Larry.

The problem was that the first-aid station had been completely sealed off because of the union strike. He was badly hurt, yet they said there was no way to get him to a hospital.

This wasn’t a war. How could they surround the wounded like that?

I grabbed a carriage with Mother at once and headed for Larry. Just to be safe, Jacob climbed up beside the coachman and came along.

I told Corey to scrape together the members and head for the waterfront. It was still broad daylight, hours before the dance hall opened. Plenty of them would be idling around with nothing to do.

Inside the carriage on the way to the docks, Mother asked with a face full of worry.

“But son, I didn’t interrupt you while you were busy, did I? You were the only one I could think of. They say he’s at the first-aid station, but all they have are simple bandages and disinfectant.”

“Family’s hurt—work doesn’t matter. You did right to come find me.”

While I was reassuring my anxious mother, we reached our destination.

South East Harbor, Pier 35.

The moment we stepped down from the carriage, the roar of the crowd hit us. The shouts of the agitators leading the union strike and the voices of those who sided with them shook the entire harbor.

Not far from where we had gotten out, a few women and their companions stood stamping their feet, unable to push through the hundred or so workers. Among them was Mrs. Imelda, who worked at Mother’s company.

“What’s going on? You still can’t get in?”

“The union’s blocking the way! They’re absolute demons. They don’t care if people die or not!”

Imelda cried out in anguish, her face a mess of tears.

Why would fellow workers do this to each other? The situation made no sense at all.

To get an answer, I turned to Jacob, a man whose bones had been hardened as a union strike slugger.

“Why are they blocking them?”

“Probably got a collective lynching for not joining the strike. In cases like that they get suspected of being company spies. No—they deliberately frame it that way.”

So if you didn’t stand with them, they attacked you like a witch hunt. When a strike’s justification was thin, or when a handful of agitators were driving it, that kind of thing grew especially vicious. It was a sacrificial lamb meant to create an atmosphere of terror.

“What if we force our way through?”

“They’ll take us for sluggers hired by the company and attack. Things could get a lot bigger.”

“What if we side with the workers?”

“Then there’d be a moment of confusion… Wait. What’s that bastard doing here?”

Jacob scowled as he fixed his eyes on one spot. A man had just climbed onto a large crate and was about to begin a speech.

“That’s Weiss. Used to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠work as a slugger under Johnny Spanish and Kid Dropper. Think of him as the same bunch as Harmon Kalman, who died not long ago.”

The Body Underwear company president who had faked his suicide was Harmon Kalman.

“But why’s he standing with the workers?”

“He’ll whip up a strike protest like this, then try to cut a deal with the company behind the scenes. When you suck the juice from both sides, the money’s enormous.”

If the company refused, he would throw more weight behind the union and incite an even more radical strike.

Leaving aside whether it was criminal, wasn’t ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that a business model clever enough to make a man slap his knee? Now I understood exactly why the gangs had been so obsessed with strikes.

“Boss, you said it’s your uncle, right? I can take that bastard down with my mouth. Timing’s everything with this.”

Having spat out those cryptic words, Jacob stared grimly at Weiss. Then he suddenly bellowed the man’s name at the top of his lungs.

“Weiss! Weiss!”

Jacob’s booming cry interrupted the speech before it even began. The workers all turned their heads toward us.

“Even if you’re on strike, you’ve got to keep faith with fellow workers! Clear a path to the first-aid station right now, Weiss!”

What mattered in agitation was seizing people’s attention. Weiss, who had just had that attention stolen, furrowed his brow.

“What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve been hired by the company?”

“Looks like you want to frame it that way. That trick won’t work on me, Weiss. If you don’t want to blow this up, keep it in check.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You think I came alone? And when fellow workers are hurt, if you’re blocking the way—what the hell are you striking for? What are you demanding from the company while you trample your colleagues’ rights?!”

I couldn’t tell which part had landed, but Weiss reacted. He scanned the crowd, conferred with the men around him, then reluctantly opened a path.

With Jacob’s intervention, the collective frenzy thinned. The workers’ ears opened; they had room to think again.

Of course, there was a more decisive reason.

“That Weiss bastard. He was probably worried Tanner might stick his nose into this strike. They’d clashed a few times before. Anyway, let’s pull them out quick before the boys go crazy again, Boss.”

Mother, Imelda, and the others had already run through the gap the workers had opened.

I followed with Jacob, but the workers’ gazes were far from friendly. Depending on how the wind shifted, they could block the path again and attack at any moment.

There was a small first-aid station on the Pier 35 waterfront—the fruit of the workers’ fierce fight for their rights. Today, however, it was being used as a cage for the men they themselves had beaten, a tool to wring terror from everyone else.

When we opened the door, the room held blood-soaked men and four or five colleagues standing guard over them.

“Lots!”

“Larry, can you hear me?”

Imelda ran to her husband; Mother ran to her older brother Larry, checking their bodies. He could not even open his eyes properly, only small groans escaping his mouth.

“Let’s get out of here first.”

I hoisted Larry onto my own back and felt his ragged breath against my shoulder.

“Jacob, clear the way.”

“Got it.”

When Jacob moved to leave, the colleagues hesitated at the threshold, fear of attack holding them back.

“If we stay isolated here, it’ll only get more dangerous.”

At my words they clenched their teeth. The terror that isolation would mean even greater violence finally drove them into motion. They began hoisting the wounded onto their backs.

Jacob led the way, kicking the door open. Mother and I and the rest of the party followed close behind.

The expressions of the striking workers watching us pass were varied. Those who had not joined the beating showed unease; those who had taken an active part watched their prey slip away with cold, predatory eyes.

Meanwhile Weiss, his agitation interrupted, looked at us with a thin, sneering smile.

Like a court judge, whatever nonsense that mouth spewed next could send the workers at our throats. That was exactly what made collective frenzy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so terrifying.

Get out as fast as possible—before that damn bastard opened his mouth.

But of course Weiss spoke.

“The injured colleagues are one thing, but I never said the other traitors could go too.”

He was targeting the men following behind me—Larry’s colleagues. At those words, others who seemed to have been waiting for the cue raised their voices one after another.

“Those bastards will go out and gather reporters and spread every kind of malicious talk!”

“The company’ll put them out front and use them to pressure us!”

Suddenly the way out was blocked. The agitated strike protesters had barred our path.

Looking at how their eyes were slowly turning, I could no longer even guarantee Mother’s or Mrs. Imelda’s safety. But just then—

“Shut up and clear the damn way!”

A thunderous voice rolled through the crowd.

I knew that voice well. It was Oliver.

“You lot are company—”

“Shut your mouth, you retarded bastard! What company? Where’s your company even at?!”

“……”

While the protesters hesitated, Jacob jumped in at once.

“Weiss! If you don’t want to make enemies of us, clear the path right now. We’ve got no intention of intervening in the strike!”

“Who’s gonna believe that?”

“If you can’t believe it, then try us!”

A razor-edged standoff.

Weiss finally took a step back.

Like the Red Sea parting, a path opened, and the members came into view. Oliver standing tall with an iron pipe raised high, and dozens of men behind him holding every kind of weapon, clearly overpowered the striking workers’ momentum.

It was proof that the agitation had not fully taken hold yet.

Ordinary workers avoided a group fight and opened the way. We slipped free of the encirclement of the striking crowd without further bloodshed.

Oliver came up beside me and whispered in my ear.

“Was I okay, Boss?”

“You were magnificent.”

I entrusted Uncle to Oliver’s broad back.

Mother discussed with Imelda where to take the patients and decided on Bellevue Hospital.

“I’ll follow to the hospital soon.”

Three carriages loaded with patients and their guardians set off. In the meantime Jacob was still locked in a sharp exchange with the agitator Weiss. If I and the members left now, Jacob would be exposed, so we held our ground until the talk was finished.

A little later Jacob came back and reported.

“I told him it had nothing to do with Tanner, so he’s wrapping it up here. He hasn’t been in the strike business long, so he’s still being careful.”

So we were supposed to pretend none of it had happened?

Did that seem possible? Because of one idiot agitator, family had been hurt.

“Let’s go for now.”

We left the waterfront. Watching the members’ backs as they returned to the dance hall, I climbed into the carriage bound for the hospital.

Bellevue Hospital, founded in 1824—the oldest hospital in New York.

When I arrived, Uncle Larry, who had already received emergency treatment, was sleeping in a ward. Mrs. Imelda’s husband and the other injured men were in different rooms.

“Aunt hasn’t come yet?”

“No. Even if she does, work finishes late, so it’ll be late evening. Same for the kids.”

To let the family know he had been hospitalized, you had to use a telegram or a messenger. Mother had contacted them through a runner stationed at Bellevue.

“Kieran, those people earlier—were they all colleagues?”

“Yes. We work together.”

“Make sure you tell them thank you when you go. If it hadn’t been for them, it really could have been dangerous.”

“I will.”

At some point Mother had stopped asking about what I did. So she did not even know I was a gang boss. All she knew were the things that showed on the surface—the underwear store on the first floor of the Twin Buildings, for instance.

I had no particular intention of hiding it. She simply never asked, so I never had the chance to say it.

“I’ll stay until Linda comes, so you go on ahead. You left work for this, didn’t you?”

Aunt Linda was a housemaid for a wealthy family. She worked from six in the morning until eight at night and earned ten dollars a week. It was one of the more stable incomes available, which made it the job Irish women preferred most.

“Oh—and use this for the hospital fees. It should cover the others as well.”

Money taken from the dead fence, Milleno. I handed over a full fifty dollars without hesitation.

Mother looked at me with moist eyes, then carefully tucked the envelope into her bag.

“Thank you, son.”

“I’ll head out first, then.”

I left the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ward and came down to the first floor. Around a stretcher—a wheeled litter—police and nurses had gathered. Among them was a familiar figure in a suit: J. Edgar Hoover.

“What brings you here?”

“That’s what I should be asking. You here because you’re sick?”

I gave him a brief account of the situation. Hoover frowned and clicked his tongue.

“A strike at a time as critical as this. Not only does it disrupt America’s war-materiel transport—it interferes with the war itself.”

The moment I heard Hoover’s words, something flashed through my mind.

What kind of time was “now”?

Not long ago the Russian October Revolution had succeeded, and power was being reorganized around the Bolsheviks into Soviets—workers’, peasants’, and people’s committees. The birth of a communist state stood right at the door.

Because of that, it was precisely the season when anarchists and communists influenced by the Russian Revolution would begin seriously planning terrorism aimed at overthrowing the state.

I steered the conversation that way as casually as I could.

“Strikes aren’t always done for the workers’ sake. Is it normal to collectively lynch fellow workers just for not joining the strike?”

“Abnormal, of course. Then—by any chance…?”

“I’ve heard there are men stirring up strikes in Hell’s Kitchen, Chelsea, and South East Harbor, Hoover.”

Anarchists, communists, or German spies—the possibilities lay open in every direction.

At my words Hoover’s gaze suddenly fixed on the stretcher. The patient lying on it had arms and legs twisted at unnatural angles.

“As it happens, that fellow is currently under suspicion of being a spy.”

In that moment a memory from my past life surfaced.

There had been a time when, tormented by PTSD, I sat blankly on the sofa watching television.

Fritz Duquesne of a thousand faces.

He had lived so dramatically that he appeared not only in documentaries but in films and television series as well. His character was so distinctive that the sight of him lying paralyzed on the stretcher overlapped perfectly with the television screen I had watched in my previous life.

“Originally he was picked up on an insurance-fraud claim, but he was carrying some very suspicious items.”

He had been in possession of a letter from the German vice-consul in Nicaragua, Central America, as well as a file of newspaper clippings related to ship bombings.

“What’s that man’s name?”

“Fritz Duquesne.”

Just as I thought. I studied Duquesne carefully—the con man and German spy.

Seeing him moan with his whole body apparently paralyzed, my mouth itched like mad. The urge to tell Hoover everything surged up inside me.

That guy’s fine.

He’s going to disguise himself as a woman and escape from the Bellevue Hospital prison ward.