How Much Do You Need?

There was a reason the words stuck in my throat.

Duquesne would keep up that act for a full two years. Right up until the moment he was about to be extradited to Britain—until the very brink of dressing in women's clothes and escaping—he would play the paralyzed patient. The man was that relentless.

In other words, Duquesne's escape was still a long way off. If anything, finding a way to link him to the labor sluggers might not be a bad idea at all…

"I should be going," Hoover said.

Bellevue Hospital had a separate prison ward. Once the admission formalities were finished, Hoover meant to head straight for Duquesne.

"Oh, and Kieran—without evidence that subversive elements have infiltrated the strike, we can't just go charging in with an investigation. If you notice anything unusual, will you let me know?"

"Of course."

If there isn't any, I'll manufacture some and hand it over, Hoover.

The First World War and the Russian Revolution. A string of events that would push the federal government to tighten its watch on anti-American elements—German spies, anarchists, communists. Already, three months earlier, they had raided forty-eight meeting halls of the IWW, the Industrial Workers of the World, the largest labor organization in the country, and put a hundred men on trial.

The reason a young man like Hoover was racing up the ranks at the Bureau of Investigation under the Department of Justice was simple: he did exactly the work the federal government wanted done. He scratched the itch they couldn't reach themselves.

Before long Hoover would try to frame the strike leaders as a force bent on overthrowing the state—or, if that proved difficult, connect them to the gangs and dismantle the unions that way. That was why the labor-slugger problem needed a bigger picture. One I would paint with Tanner Smith.

The second-floor office of the Twin Buildings.

With strike protests flaring up all along the Manhattan waterfront, the safety of the Marginals warehouse on the Hell's Kitchen docks had become a problem. Leave it alone and the demonstrators might come poking through it any day. Moving the goods out all at once would only draw eyes. And taking out a few of the sluggers running the strike wouldn't end it either. Once they had started, they would keep going until they forced the owners to the table and got what they wanted.

In the end, relocating the warehouse was unavoidable. It felt a little early, but I talked it over with Rosenthal, the fence.

"What do you think we should do with Mileno's goods still sitting in the warehouse?"

"Dumping them all at once is too risky, Boss. Until the investigation into Mileno is closed for good, we've got to move them as quietly as possible."

"Then you and Patrick find a warehouse and shift everything. I'll assign some of the boys to you. If you double-cross me, you know what happens."

"O-of course not! I'd never do that."

Rosenthal answered with a grimly earnest face, then changed the subject to the gambling-den supplies.

"Everything will be ready by the end of this week. Too dangerous to attract attention, so I'll bring the tables in one or two a day."

"Expected opening day?"

"Next Thursday and we'll be fully set."

"Then we open that night at nine."

Unlike a dance hall, a gambling den was illegal. There would be no open advertising, so I wasn't counting on lines of customers waiting to get in. Just as I was about to stand, Rosenthal spoke as if something had just occurred to him.

"Oh—I got hold of three telephones lifted from the phone company. Two desk sets and one wall unit."

"We'll put them here, at the warehouse, and at Mother's company. I'll assign Leo to you. Tell him everything he needs to know about installing them and put him to work."

"Okay."

Telephones were expensive enough that they were often stolen. Demand was high; anything that hit the black market sold the moment it appeared. Still—

"You said they were lifted from the phone company?"

"Yeah. Middle manager at the Bell Telephone Company. He slips us phones now and then."

Even a middle manager. The female operators at the exchanges worked for pennies. Low wages, plenty of places to spend them. Then suddenly a family emergency, a big bill that needed paying?

"Easy to fall for the temptation. Something happens in the family, husband gets hurt and can't work—what choice do they have?"

"So we could buy the switchboard girls too?"

Rosenthal blinked, then tilted his head. The puzzled look said he couldn't see why we would bother.

"You know the Espionage Act of 1917 passed this year, right?"

"I saw it in the papers."

"There's a clause that lets the federal government monitor telephone and telegraph traffic. For intelligence gathering."

Right now the information came from too broad a net to be useful. Narrow the targets, though, and the picture changed. Better to cultivate the operators step by step now than scramble to buy them when we suddenly needed them.

"Rosenthal, work on getting closer to that middle manager you mentioned. You already know how powerful information can be."

When rare or high-value goods hit the black market, fierce competition often followed. Having the price, the seller, the stasher, and the buyers all in your pocket raised the odds of walking away with the prize.

"I understand what you mean, Boss."

Rosenthal nodded as if he finally grasped what telephone wiretaps could mean.

"No need to rush, though. We still don't know who we need what information from. Same goes for your own work. Start drawing up a plan to get the black-market network into our hands."

"Got it, Boss!"

The look in Rosenthal's eyes shifted. He was hungry for that network too.

The moment he left I went downstairs to the lingerie shop. Ida was dressing the store's single mannequin in a brassiere. Even the mannequin was ridiculously expensive—torso only, no head or arms, cloth-wrapped and bolted to a wooden stand, fifteen dollars apiece. And heavy as hell. The commercialization of plastic couldn't come soon enough.

Come to think of it, the limits of my future knowledge were a problem, but so was simply finding out how far any given product had been developed in this era. If I could just filter the information I wanted and pull it in… The most plausible route was to found a newspaper or magazine and use it as a collection net. We had spare office space on the second floor; it was doable. The real issue was manpower. Handing it to the German, Marcus, wasn't realistic yet.

I set the thought aside for later.

"Manager Ida. I'm heading out to Coney Island today, so close up the shop yourself when you're ready."

"If you see Tanner, give him my regards."

I left the store and made for the South East docks. Steamboat ferry to the Coney Island pier. The atmosphere was nothing like my summer visit. Only a few couples had come to see the winter sea; the crowds were gone. I turned up the collar of my coat against the cold salt wind and pulled my scarf higher.

That was how I found the saloon on Surf Avenue.

I started inside and the bouncer at the door blocked my way. He looked a year or two older than me.

"How about lowering the scarf, huh? Never seen a guy covering his face who turned out to be on the level."

"I'm here to see Tanner."

"…You got an appointment?"

I nodded. The bouncer called another man over and whispered something. While that man went upstairs the bouncer asked,

"You know Boss Tanner well?"

"Depends on what 'well' means."

"Your answer's even more slippery than the question."

He studied my eyes, trying to read something there. Then Tanner himself came down the stairs to meet me.

"I told you I was coming. Why'd you drag yourself all the way out here?"

"It's not that far."

"How's the place?"

Spacious enough. Plenty of tables, interior aimed at a younger crowd and reasonably stylish by the standards of the day. By my own, it still looked dated.

"No customers, though."

"Off-season. Anyway, come on up."

The bouncer quietly returned to his post. Tanner led me to the second-floor office. The moment we sat on the sofa he said,

"I told you to bring the family. Why'd you come alone?"

"I scout first, then bring them. Our Roa only gets to see the good things."

"This place is a little rough, yeah. I'll book you a decent hotel—don't worry about it, just bring them. So what's the real reason you're here?"

I laid out the waterfront union strikes that had been flaring up. The moment I mentioned Kid Dropper, Tanner wrinkled his nose.

"Guy gets out of prison and can't wait, huh. With Dopey Benny Fein retired, he figures the whole playground's his."

"Jacob said he was dangerous."

"Well, that whole racket's like that. You have to be as vicious and cruel as possible if you want the workers to listen. You know why they call him Dropper?"

Because he put men down with a blackjack smaller than a club, Tanner said.

"So why start with the docks? Clothing unions pay better right now."

"Because someone's watching his back."

"Who—Paul Kelly?"

Kid Dropper didn't run with the Eastman Gang, even though they were both Jewish. He belonged to the Five Points Gang. And Paul Kelly, boss of the Five Points, was vice president of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠International Longshoremen's Association. The link was plain enough.

"It's a solid theory. With Paul Kelly covering him, yeah, that tracks. Anyway—you want Kid Dropper gone, is that it?"

"If that was all, I wouldn't have come this far."

Tanner's eyes narrowed.

"Don't tell me you're thinking of going after Paul Kelly too. You're not in his weight class. Way too dangerous."

Political, organizational, economic, raw physical force—on every level Paul Kelly outclassed me. That was simple fact.

"Which is exactly why we start preparing now."

"Preparing for what?"

"When Prohibition passes, where does the real power over the docks come from? We need to take the ILA vice presidency for ourselves."

"…Is that even possible? How the hell do you become vice president of the ILA? Big Tom Foley at Tammany Hall alone won't cut it. You'd need the mayor of New York."

"Where is Paul Kelly right now?"

"Chelsea."

Manhattan Chelsea. And the Marginals' territory stretched across Hell's Kitchen and Chelsea. Only a few months ago Tanner Smith himself had been deep in union strike work right there in Chelsea.

"I guarantee you—within two years the ILA is going to take a hard hit."

"Why?"

Right now every port in the country was riding the war boom, cashing in as the logistics base feeding Europe. But once the Great War ended?

"Shipping companies will see cargo volumes collapse and start massive layoffs. Thousands of longshoremen out of work. You think the unions will sit still? There'll be national strikes."

The key was the federal response. By then the Russian Civil War sparked by the October Revolution would be at its peak, and anarchists, socialists, and other anti-American elements would be trying to overturn the government from inside the country. The Bureau of Investigation, which had been hunting German spies, would throw every resource into crushing those subversive forces.

"So who becomes the target? The strike leaders threatening the American economy. From the capitalists' point of view they're anti-capitalist, anti-American elements."

Even the order of the crackdowns was predictable. They would go after the organizations with the most worker members, one by one.

"They'll start with the IWW and work their way to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ILA. When that happens we pull Paul Kelly down and put you in the seat."

"Me?"

"Who else?"

"…Leaving aside whether any of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this actually happens the way you say—me rising as the alternative to Paul Kelly doesn't sound ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠easy either."

"Which is why we start now."

I laid out a step-by-step approach.

"Go see Paul Kelly and make a deal. Tell him you'll take over the union market in Kid Dropper's place."

"…I doubt he'll even bite. We don't exactly get along."

"Doesn't matter if he turns you down on the spot. Paul Kelly is going to have to throw Kid Dropper away sooner or later anyway."

I spelled out the rest of the plan.

"First we build a community that sponsors speakers who already have a good reputation inside the longshoremen's union."

The criteria mattered. To stay in the federal government's good graces we would write a hard rule excluding anyone with anti-American ideology. Using pure violence to squeeze money from workers and dominate strikes was old-world thinking.

"While you run the community, you plant our people inside the union. Meanwhile I—"

Expand the businesses, accumulate capital, widen the network of connections. And, working with Hoover, seat Tanner as vice president of the ILA.

Of course I left Hoover out of the conversation.

Tanner's reaction to my grand design was exactly what I expected.

"Be honest. You just hate watching me loaf around in a saloon, so you're inventing work to dump on me. Right?"

"What a misunderstanding. Your ambition looked like it was cooling off. I'm just stoking the fire again."

Tanner rubbed his jaw, thought it over, and finally accepted.

"I'll have to meet Paul Kelly within the week."

"Then I'll start my end of the work."

I ended the conversation and left the saloon at once. I took in the Coney Island shoreline one more time, then boarded the steamboat again.

The next day, second-floor office of the Twin Buildings.

I called Marcus in and handed him a sheet of paper.

"Type this up in German for me."

Marcus skimmed the contents. His eyes went wide. Then a full-body shiver ran through him.

"The sender is the German vice-consul in Niagara! You want me to play German spy?!"

"Not you. Someone else. It's written right there at the bottom."

"Ah—Kaplan… Don't tell me it's Kid Dropper, Nathan Kaplan?"

I could see him already sketching how the letter would be used. The corner of Marcus's mouth curled upward.

"Is one letter really going to be enough? Feels a little thin."

"Of course it won't be enough on its own."

Yesterday I had asked Tanner Smith for one particular item.

"I need bombs."

"Christ, that's terrifying. How much do you need?"

"Enough to take out a freighter?"

"For God's sake… I still haven't returned the ones the White Hand boss gave me last time."

He had stashed the bombs we borrowed during the Newtown Creek warehouse sniping job in a corner of our own warehouse.

I left Marcus to the typing and headed for the warehouse. Time to build an improvised bomb.