This Is Business
Dopey sank into his chair the moment he got back to the office. Whiskey glass in hand, he replayed the conversation from the rooftop.
"I know the particulars because a friend of mine was involved. He got into a scuffle with Kid Dropper, the trigger went off by accident, and he took a bullet."
"I heard. Too easy a death. That bastard didn't deserve to go out like that."
"I agree. Did you know this, by any chance?"
What Kieran said next sent a chill straight through him.
"Kid Dropper died in bed with a rope around his neck. They dressed the body and threw it out a window."
"……Who the hell told you that?"
"The man who killed Johnny."
The look in Kieran's eyes at the end of that sentence was still vivid. Even a man like Dopey, who had been through every kind of hell, had felt a cold, uncanny dread crawl up his spine at that expression, that stare.
His whiskey glass was still trembling in his hand.
He couldn't get the shaking to stop.
He tossed the drink back with a snarl of irritation.
The burn down his throat sent a shiver racing through his whole body.
If Kieran was telling the truth, Johnny and Kid Dropper had been killed by the same man. And Kieran was tied to both deaths — as a witness, or as a friend of the killer.
"Anyone know where Free Your Body's bra factory is?"
Dopey asked the men playing cards. None of them looked up from their hands as they answered.
"Heard it's on Orchard Street."
"You know the place. Herman Kalman's factory."
"Right. Word is he bought it the second that guy dropped dead."
Dopey's face hardened. His mind turned next to where Kieran was operating.
The building that had belonged to Rosie Hertz, the Queen of the LES prostitutes.
In the basement, Jacob Reich of the old Eastman Gang had once run a saloon and a brothel.
And now Rosie was murdered, and Jacob, the prime suspect, had vanished without a trace.
Johnny. Kid Dropper. Herman Kalman. Rosie. The missing Jacob.
Every single one of them had gone down in Kieran's orbit.
And I'm supposed to call that coincidence?
A sudden chill ran through Dopey. He rubbed his throat and scowled. After a long moment of brooding, he pushed himself up out of the chair.
"I'm calling it. Finish up without me."
He left the office and headed for the Chelsea docks, where Tanner Smith was waiting.
You can't do everything alone, and you can't eliminate everyone who rubs you the wrong way.
Look at a hundred years of the Five Families of the American Mafia and you find the same cycle: loyalty and betrayal, feuds and alliances — an endless, brutal fight to hold power and expand it.
If someone has value, you have to be willing to take their hand, even if they might one day become an enemy.
Dopey came looking for me a week after we'd first met.
Thursday, January 3rd, 1918.
The second-floor office of the twin building on Allen Street.
He walked in with a bag slung over his shoulder — a backpack built to the exact specifications of the design I'd given him.
Producing a sample in a single week told me everything I needed to know about how hard he must have ridden his people.
"Everyone's real interested in this bag. You sure you're fine just handing it over to me?"
"As long as the accounting stays clean."
"I don't pull that kind of con. Twenty percent of the sales profit, just like you said."
I examined the bag carefully. The outer shape matched the drawings, but the overall quality left something to be desired.
"Send me the worker in charge. There's a lot that needs fixing."
"I'll do that. By the way — seeing Ida at the underwear shop damn near stopped my heart."
"You know her well?"
"It'd be stranger if I didn't. That woman was hot enough to start a gang war over."
Dopey cleared his throat and changed the subject.
"Business is business. I ran into Tanner not long ago. He says the Marginals have a new boss — some kid, pretty young."
"Is that so."
A sly look crossed Dopey's face as the corner of his mouth curled up.
"Anyway. I've decided to take your offer."
I'd already gotten the broad strokes from Tanner. They'd agreed to join forces.
Some people dismissed Dopey as a washed-up has-been past his prime, but the influence he still commanded was nothing to sneeze at.
Before long, the Tanner–Dopey alliance would tear through the labor-strike market like a hurricane.
The problem was that Dopey didn't have many men of his own. Taking control of labor sluggering would inevitably mean war with other sluggers.
Just as thirty Marginals members were backing Tanner, Dopey would need to build a force of his own.
"Want me to send you some people?"
"And spend every meal looking over my shoulder? I'll handle that myself."
Dopey also agreed to get into liquor distribution. That wasn't urgent, though — we'd settle on targets first and talk it through later.
Not long after he left, Cale and three of the boys showed up with the collection bags. They set them on the table and dumped them out, bills cascading across the wood.
"This is what we took in from the Allen Street unit."
A smaller bag spilled out more cash on top of that — protection money kicked up by the Jewish gang unit that had come under us.
What had started in the tens had grown to roughly a hundred. As our territory expanded, the unit was pulling in more protection money, and that meant bigger payments to us.
Originally, the protection racket had covered only Allen and Orchard Streets. Now it stretched north of Canal Street — Forsyth, Eldridge, Allen, and Orchard. Oliver, Cale, and Brian had done most of the heavy lifting.
While we were sorting the money, Cale, who managed the units, brought up something interesting.
"Weinberg says he wants to expand into other neighborhoods, and he's offering to lend a hand."
The more ground you held, the more protection money you collected. Stack enough cash and a unit got stronger.
And strength bred ambition.
Abraham Weinberg, boss of the Allen Street unit, was making no secret of his.
"How many men does he have right now?"
"He says thirty, but I figure it's more. Closer to fifty, maybe."
"Any of them worth a damn?"
"I've got my eye on about three."
I nodded and handed him six ten-dollar bills.
"Take care of those three on the quiet. Turn them into our informants, then bring them into the family later."
"Okay. I get what you're saying."
"And when we push into Ludlow and Essex Streets, bring Weinberg along. I want to see what he's made of."
After Cale and the others left, I sat alone and sorted the cash piled on the table.
Protection money collected from four streets this week came to more than fifteen hundred dollars. Money was flowing in from the underwear shop, the dance hall, and the gambling den as well.
I banded the bills by denomination, stepped into the hidden room, and opened the safe.
Roughly fifty thousand dollars in cash alone.
A large sum — and nowhere near enough.
I needed more money. A lot more.
Evening came.
I made a quick circuit of the gambling den, then headed upstairs as customers began filtering into the dance hall one by one.
I was talking with Patrick in the corner office when one of the men burst through the door with urgent news.
"Two cops at the entrance."
"Officers Michael and George?"
He nodded.
New year, new grease for the wheels. I pulled forty dollars from the dance hall office safe and handed it to Patrick.
"Keep them outside. Two envelopes. Slip it to them."
"Seeing this, I should've become a cop myself."
"It's not too late. Climb the NYPD ladder and come help me out as a senior officer."
"I'll just help you now."
Patrick laughed as he stuffed the money into the envelopes.
The moment he left the office, I took the secret passage up to the first floor.
Ida was explaining bras to a customer. I watched the two officers through the window.
A moment later, Patrick approached them with a bright smile, exchanged greetings, and struck up a conversation. The actual handoff happened in an alley out of sight.
I was pressed close to the glass when Ida's voice came from behind me.
"Standing there like that, you look like a mannequin."
"Meaning my back is that perfect, right?"
No answer.
I turned my head and found her talking with a customer, shaking her head.
I was about to ease away from the window and move deeper into the shop when it happened.
The bell above the door chimed.
Two men stepped into the store. Officers Michael and George.
I put on a reflexive, radiant smile and went to greet them.
"Welcome, Officers."
"How's business these days?"
"Thanks to you, I'm enjoying every day of it."
"That's what I like to hear."
"By the way, Kieran — my wife said she loved the underthings she bought here last time."
Officer George jumped in immediately.
"I'd like to score some points with my wife too. Got any recommendations?"
"Of course."
I glanced over at Ida.
She had just finished ringing up her customer and was walking toward us, an elegant smile on her face.
"And how lovely must the wives of our fine officers be? Just give me the sizes and I'll recommend a few pieces."
"Uh, well. The sizes……"
In front of Ida, the officers' words dried up fast. I watched with quiet satisfaction, considering what complimentary items to throw in for them.
That was when a man with a bleak, heavy air about him caught my eye through the window.
Collar turned up against the cold, he was walking straight toward the shop.
A face I knew. Eyes fixed on me.
Anthony — the man I'd seen at my grandparents' tenement house. He'd said he'd stop by before leaving for Chicago. Today was the day.
The bell chimed.
Anthony stepped inside — then flinched the instant he saw the cops.
The bell chimed again.
Like a film rewound, he backed out the door and vanished in a blur.
What the hell? The officers themselves were so absorbed in talking to Ida they hadn't even noticed.
Just what kind of crime had he committed to bolt at the sight of a couple of cops?
Anthony didn't reappear while the officers chose their underthings and paid.
"I threw in a few pairs of socks on the house."
"Ah, come on — you don't have to every time."
They clapped my shoulder with satisfied smiles.
"Kieran, if everyone your age worked as hard and lived as straight as you, the LES would be pure peace and quiet."
"Ain't that the truth. Look at what the rest of the kids out there are up to."
"Say — the dance hall crowd downstairs isn't giving you any trouble, are they?"
"Not at all. Same building — we look out for each other."
"That's how it should be. Anyway, thanks."
The two officers left the shop.
Only then did Ida turn to me.
"Who was the guy who came in and bolted?"
"No idea. If he comes back asking for me, let me know."
"Sure thing, Boss."
I went up to the second floor and into the hidden room. Seeing Michael and George had made something clear: it was time to spread some money around.
I pulled the thick notebooks from the drawer.
The ledgers I'd taken from the safes of the late Rosie Hertz and Pacifico, the Italian gambling-den owner.
I extracted a list of names, copied them onto paper, and pulled five thousand dollars from the safe.
New Year's greetings and a little oil for the machine.
I packed the cash into a bag and went down to the basement dance hall. Patrick was waiting for me in the office.
"What did the cops say?"
"What do you think? 'Let us know if there's a problem,' then they snatched up the envelopes and left."
"And used the money to buy underwear."
"Did they?"
Patrick let out a dry laugh.
I handed him the list I'd just written and the bag. Delivering bribes in my place was Patrick's job.
He scanned the names and cocked his head.
"I get the Tammany Hall side, but how did you put together the NYPD list?"
"I had some dead seniors who paid bribes before me. I used their ledgers."
What made Rosie Hertz's books especially interesting was this: the officers she'd greased back when her brothel was thriving — six years ago — were now high-ranking men in the NYPD.
Her ledgers were both a bribe list and hard evidence of their corruption.
"The amounts may be small for now, but make it clear that the bigger the business grows, the bigger the rewards. And this is for you."
I handed him a separate envelope with three hundred dollars inside.
"Why the sudden generosity? You're scaring me."
Patrick, early thirties, was neater than the other men — but his clothes and the air he carried still screamed street gangster.
"With bribes, the giver's appearance matters too. This is business. If it looks like it's coming from a Wall Street financier, the man on the receiving end feels better about taking it."
"Boss, thanks to you I might finally scrub the street off myself and put on a real polish."
"You'll need to get used to it."
I finished the short exchange with Patrick and left the office, making a circuit of the dance hall while I was at it.
Couples filled the floor, scarves pulled up, dancing to the band's accompaniment.
Among them was one man whose moves were stiff as boards but burning with pure enthusiasm — Anthony, dancing with one of Ida's juniors, a dance-hall girl.
Just what the hell was this guy?
He runs from the cops, then turns up here dancing like nothing happened.