Gangs Are a Problem Wherever You Go

Before the NYPD's special violent-crime unit started stirring things up, Manhattan was flooded with gangs large and small.

The ones that demanded attention were these:

The Gopher Gang.

An Irish-led outfit that had formed in Hell's Kitchen. Under its umbrella operated the Baby Gophers, the Lady Gophers, the Gorillas, the Rose Gang, and more—roughly five hundred strong.

Next came the Jewish-dominated Eastman Gang.

Its predecessor had been the Whyos, who once ruled Manhattan's Lower East Side; they were, in effect, the first Jews to wield real power in America.

Last of the big three was the formidable Five Points Gang, packed with the men who would later become the backbone of the Mafia.

Its founder, the Italian boss Paul Kelly, had been a pioneer in rebuilding traditional street crews along modern lines.

Beyond them, the Hudson Dusters, the Pearl Buttons, the Marginals, and others still swaggered through the streets.

In truth these gangs were mixed in nationality, but people sorted them by the blood of their core members—Irish, Jewish, Italian.

What they all shared was a tight link to the Democratic political machine of Tammany Hall, and a long record of muscling into elections, union strikes, and every other dirty job that needed doing.

Things aren't what they used to be.

The gangs had once allied or feuded over the Manhattan mayoralty; now the NYPD special unit had nearly torn them apart.

The process was so tangled even I, who had read about it in another life, couldn't fully map it.

Meyer Lansky, though, had a gift for compressing the mess into something a man could understand.

"They were sending hitters after each other left and right. Side men dropping like flies. It was pure chaos. Public opinion turned so ugly even the Tammany politicians finally washed their hands of the whole thing."

That was the state of the Manhattan gangs as Meyer laid it out for me, and it matched the history books I had once read—The History of Organized Crime in America.

Meyer saw the collapse itself as an opening.

"The Eastmans and the Gophers are pretty much finished, but the Five Points are still standing. A guy named Frankie Yale swallowed them whole after Paul Kelly. Truth is, we're a unit under the Five Points ourselves."

A unit—one of those satellite crews hanging off a larger outfit.

The Italians who shook Meyer down for protection money were Five Points men, he said.

You could already feel the power sliding from Jewish hands into Italian ones.

"Want to hear something interesting? Besides the gangs I just named, there's another whole axis sitting across the East River—"

"Enough. I've got a kit now. Time to go to work."

"Always with the damn kit. Look, if you never want to shine another shoe for the rest of your life, remember what I told you. See you around."

Irving's fussy nature meant the kit was in perfect shape; everything inside was solid.

The moment I parted from Irving's crew, I finally got down to the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠real work of shining shoes.

It was only a wooden box, yet my chest swelled the second I laid hands on it. Reality, of course, was colder.

"Hey—get the hell out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of my spot!"

The boys who had already staked their corners were vicious about turf.

To dodge them I worked Eldridge Street near home, just as Kieran always had.

I had no choice but to retreat to my own little patch before I could even start hunting customers. Strap over my shoulder, kit in hand, I walked the sidewalks calling out:

"Shoe shine~! Shoe shine~!"

Crowds streamed past; not one face turned. I drifted toward the better restaurants and hotels and kept circling.

Twenty minutes of that and I finally landed my first mark.

A pleasant-looking gent smoking a cigar stuck out his foot.

"All right—let's see what you've got."

"Yes, sir!"

First customer or not, I felt sure of myself.

Kieran's old memories and army boot-polishing drills lived in my fingertips.

Snap, snap!

I spread a soft cloth—

"Hey, you're skipping the brush and going straight to the rag?"

Ah. I set the cloth down at once, grabbed the brush, and knocked the dirt free.

Swish, swish.

Cloth again, liquid polish spread thin across the leather. I worked it hard, then grinned in triumph and struck a match to the polish itself.

A little flame and the job was done, right?

Whoosh!

What the hell was this stuff made of?

It wasn't coal, yet the flame leapt high.

Sizzle—

I slammed the lid shut in pure panic and snuffed it out.

The customer looked equally startled.

"I just about got myself burned at the stake."

"...Figured you might be bored, so I threw in a little fire show."

Couldn't let the rookie show.

I forced a crooked smile and checked the polish. Luckily the liquid surface still gleamed like a mirror.

(I learned later that shoe polish in those days was mostly turpentine, alcohol, and paraffin wax—highly flammable. A proper flame-shine meant lighting something else first and barely kissing the polish to melt it.)

I dabbed the glossy polish onto the cloth and began to buff in long, smooth strokes.

I was still working hard when the customer let out a long sigh.

"This is gonna take all day. How about we save the other shoe for tomorrow?"

Speed was the problem, then.

I rubbed faster. The cloth brushed his ankle and left a smear of polish on his sock.

Of course it had to be a white sock.

Smack!

No mercy—the customer cracked me across the skull with his open palm.

"Aww, hell, I picked the wrong boy today. You did fine last time—what's wrong with you? What about my sock, huh?!"

I'd jumped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into live combat against a regular far too soon.

In the army I could spend an hour on one boot and still get a smile from the senior.

Shit. Maybe I should just quit.

Shoe-shining was never in the cards for a guy like me.

I swallowed the surge of temper and finished the job as best I could.

When it was done the customer flipped me a coin and shook his head.

"You planning to eat on that kind of work? And never try that fire nonsense again."

"Next time I'll do a water shine—"

"Just don't do anything!"

Anyway, I had made five cents.

They say nothing in this world is easy; even shining shoes demanded practice, know-how, and real skill.

I kept hunting customers until the sun went down.

Four pairs later I had twenty cents.

Making a single dollar was this hard.

The second I opened the door, Roa came scampering toward me.

"Big brother, you worked today!? How was it?"

She meant how much did I make.

My mouth wouldn't open.

"Son, good work. Wash up and come in."

Mother was already home, peeling potatoes for supper. I didn't set the kit down; I carried it straight into the living room.

Roa glued herself to my side and inspected the box with fierce concentration.

"Big brother, you got a new kit? How much?"

"...One dollar."

"Ooooh. So how much did you earn?"

"...Twenty cents."

Roa stared blankly as if the news had shorted her brain, then bolted for Mother.

"Mama, we're going to starve to death."

"Kieran, where did the dollar come from?"

"I borrowed it from Leo."

Half of it I had taken off Gary, of course.

I left that part out.

Mother, not wanting to pile more weight on me, asked nothing further.

I spread newspaper on the floor, set the kit on it, and fetched the good shoes Mother only wore when she felt like dressing up. I propped them on the footrest.

"What're you doing, big brother?"

"What do you think? Practicing so we don't starve."

"You always said you've been shining since the day Roa was born. Hmm. Need help?"

"Brush."

I held out my hand; Roa found the right tool and slapped it into my palm like a pro. She made a perfect assistant, and her instincts for the work were no joke.

"Stop right there, big brother! What kind of order was that? Who holds a cloth like that?!"

"...If you stretch it tight with both hands it shines better."

"And the sole where the cloth never reaches? You have to go back over it, don't you? Don't you even know that?"

I had planned to hit those spots hard.

So that was why I had been so slow.

"Mama! Big brother's gone weird. His talent jumped from shoe-shining to knife-sharpening! He said he was reborn and now look—we're doomed for real."

My ears were about to bleed.

Then I remembered the ribbon hairpin I had taken from Gary and still hadn't given her.

Maybe this would shut that little mouth.

"Picked it up on the way home."

I held the pin out casually.

Roa blinked, eyes bouncing between the pin and my face.

"Big brother..."

"Try it. If it doesn't suit you I'll throw it away again."

"Absolutely not!"

She jammed the pin into her hair at once, then turned a brilliant smile on me.

"Well?"

"Looks good on you."

"You just keep doing what you're doing, big brother."

She scampered off to show Mother her prize.

I never used to understand how simply giving something could make your chest tighten like that.

Or maybe I had just forgotten.

What the hell had I been doing with my last life?

I was still rubbing polish with the brush, a bitter taste in my mouth, when rough breathing sounded outside the door.

Curses muttered under labored breath followed.

Mother stopped cooking and stared at the door. Roa and I did the same.

Click.

The door swung open. A solid middle-aged man stood there with Liam draped limp across his back.

Mother's third older brother.

My uncle, Larry O'Connell.

Mother rushed to check the boy on his back.

"What happened?"

"Company-hired sluggers and the union boys went at it. Why this idiot was even there—I'd like to ask you that—but first we get him on a bed."

He had sworn he'd quit if it rained, yet Liam had gone back to the docks today as a scab for the striking longshoremen.

Stubborn little bastard.

I moved to help; Larry, sweating hard, ignored me and carried Liam to my bed himself.

No real damage to the face.

But from fingertips to the back of the hand, wrist, and forearm the skin was scraped raw or blooming with bruises.

I rolled up the pant legs—calves and knees were the same.

"Stupid kid, getting mixed up for a few lousy bucks and making everybody else sweat."

Larry's rough words made my fists tighten on their own. Yet for all the cursing he had still carried Liam all the way here and given first aid.

The scrapes could be cleaned, but the real worry was fractures.

No one like us could hope for those expensive X-rays only the rich used; the best you could do was splint the suspect bones so they wouldn't set wrong.

And those splints were already on him—scraps of construction lumber lashed so the arms and legs couldn't move.

Who else would have done that?

Uncle Larry.

That was why Mother never flared up even while he cursed her son.

Larry had fought in the Spanish-American War twenty years earlier. This must have been the same field medicine he once used on wounded buddies.

I looked Liam over and spoke.

"Looks like he got trampled."

From the day he was born Kieran had never been welcome on Mother's side of the family. Growing up he had always slipped away or crouched in corners whenever relatives appeared.

Today I stood right beside him and opened my mouth without a flinch.

Uncle Larry eyed me like I was some strange animal, then grunted.

"Your idiot brother was working in a warehouse when a full brawl broke out. Then the fool couldn't even get clear, and this is what happened."

I could picture exactly what Liam had faced.

Longshoremen versus company sluggers—blood in the air.

Kids like him, there only for the pay, would have thought first of running.

In the chaos a small frame like Liam's would have been shoved and knocked down trying to escape.

He must have curled up to shield his head and face from the boots.

The wounds told that story.

Mother held out a glass of water; Larry took it without a word and drained it in one long pull.

Carrying Liam on his back had left his face running with sweat and his clothes soaked through.

"Damn it. I swore I was done worrying about this household. This really is the last time."

Mother dragged a dry palm down her face.

No sobs, no anger.

That quiet resignation was probably the same look she had worn a week ago when Leo carried me home.

Roa, scared of Uncle Larry, had vanished into the other room.

Larry moved to the little table and spoke again. Maybe the mood had softened him; his voice came quieter, almost to himself.

"Rain stopped and the company called in the gangs like they'd been waiting. Those bastards will do anything for a paycheck. It wasn't like this before."

His sigh turned into a critique of the gangs, measured against the man he used to be.

"Nora and I—we fought for our rights. We were workers once too, standing up to the company. These days the gangs just flap back and forth like bats wherever the money points."

Nora was the second uncle. He and Larry had both run with gangs in the early days.

It was a piece of the first chapter of American gangster history.

Irishmen fleeing the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠potato famine had needed protection from the old settlers' fists and hate.

Those self-defense crews hardened into organizations, then into gangs.

Back then, as Larry said, there had at least been a scrap of justification—looking after your own.

Once the companies grew fat and the unions rose, the gangs became tools both sides used to force their will.

The "bats" Larry meant were the crews that worked both company and union; the last few years had seen more and more of them.

He damned the company-hired gangs, yet the unions shook hands with the same men just as readily.

Professional strikebreaking outfits even started to appear.

The classic case was Paul Kelly, founding boss of the Five Points, who now sat as vice-president of the International Longshoremen's Association.

He was deep in the current walkout—ten thousand dockworkers strong.

That was knowledge from the books of my last life.

"Gangs are a problem wherever you go."

I muttered it without thinking; Larry snorted.

"What—planning to get even for your brother?"

"If I could."

"A runt like you? Forget it. Pull a weed and another one grows."

Then you needed poison, I thought. Even the strongest dose never wiped them all out.

That was what gangs were.

"I should go."

Larry stood; Mother caught his arm.

"Stay for supper. I'll put something on."

"You crazy? Why would I sit in a place crawling with Jews—never mind. Folks are waiting at home. You just feed the kids—"

He glanced at Liam, shook his head, and left.

Only then did Roa come padding out and approach Liam. She leaned over and blew gentle breaths on his bruises.

"You'll be all better tomorrow, little brother."

No, he wouldn't. Not for a while.

Mother still hadn't been paid properly, and now Liam was like this.

If we wanted even a thin paste of food tomorrow, I would have to take drastic measures.

After supper, after turning it over in my head, I scoured the tenement alleys for a scrap of board.

On it I wrote in white chalk:

If I wanted real money I had to shine shoes somewhere bigger. Cornered by circumstance, even in this second life the only work I could do was this.

Next morning I left Roa with a neighbor early, then reached for the kit.

"Hyung."

Liam had been awake for a while, just like I used to be, but had kept his eyes shut.

"I'm busy. Lie still and rest."

"...I need to piss."

This little shit?

Right. I had done the same for him once.

I brought a bucket and a funnel and helped him go.

I wondered how Mother's heart felt.

Two sons, one after the other, laid out like this in a single week.

Business finished, I dumped the bucket in the gutter and was heading out when his voice stopped me.

"...Sorry, hyung."

I didn't ask what for.

There were too many meanings tangled in the word.

I left Liam's quiet sobs behind me and walked the two kilometers to Wall Street.