Today's My Shift
In the basement of a shadowed alley off Mulberry Street, Rose and the owner of the Palm Garden had come to discuss countermeasures after the bombing of their club. They had sought out one particular man: Joe Hickman, boss of the Five Points Gang.
The man commonly known as Itski Joe puffed on a cigarette and opened his mouth.
"New Year's coming. Plenty of customers. This month's business is fucked, isn't it?"
"Fuck. Who the hell saw a bomb attack coming?"
Itski Joe exhaled smoke with a sigh.
"The place can be fixed. But what about the boys who died a few days ago? Even if they were useless bastards who couldn't handle one band, they were still my men."
The musicians hadn't been playing with guns. Combined with the bombing, it was impossible not to suspect gang involvement. The more he thought about it, the hotter his rage burned. Itski Joe was stacking his fury brick by brick when—
Clank.
The iron basement door swung open. His men dragged in a man who, the moment he spotted Rose and the Palm Garden owner, shouted in panic.
"What the hell is this about? If you're looking for the bombers, you've got the wrong address! I had nothing to do with it!"
The man they had grabbed was the owner of the Golden Flame. While Rose and the Palm Garden owner avoided his eyes, Itski Joe rose from his seat and walked over to him.
"I heard Silver Swing, the Moonlight, and you got together for a little conspiracy. What did you talk about?"
"We only discussed the bombings. We could be next, so—!"
Thud!
Itski Joe drove a kick into the Golden Flame owner's gut. He closed in on the man sprawled on the floor and cracked an open palm across his face.
"You're old enough for a coffin already. I'll send you there myself—look forward to it."
A savage beating with fists and boots. Rose and the Palm Garden owner didn't so much as blink; the sight was familiar. They, too, were members of the Five Points Gang.
"Were you the one who set up the meeting?"
Itski Joe pressed hard. The Golden Flame owner's face was a mask of blood when he finally forced the words out.
"The... Moonlight."
"Hoo. So now you're ready to talk proper. Make me angry and I'll send your head home in a box."
Itski Joe seized him by the collar and choked him. In the end the Golden Flame owner began spilling everything from that day's meeting—how the Pumpkin's owner had shown up, and every word about the Union.
"The Union Gang?"
"That's... what he said. If we put in a request, they'd handle it... told us to start paying protection money to them instead..."
Thud.
Itski Joe released the collar and straightened up. He looked away from the man collapsed on the floor and rubbed his chin, as if turning something over.
"Union... I'm sure I heard that name from Pacifico."
"Pacifico?"
The sudden name made Rose and the Palm Garden owner blink. Who was Pacifico? A Neapolitan gangster who had run gambling dens in the LES—and a victim of the smoke-bomb massacre. Pacifico had belonged to a different outfit, but he and Itski Joe had been close.
Relations between the Five Points Gang and the Italian gangs had never been particularly bad; each side stayed out of the other's territory and ran their businesses. And before he died, Pacifico had mentioned the name Union over drinks with Itski Joe.
"He said there were bastards snatching up protection money the second it got collected. Pacifico was sure it was the Union. Named themselves after a goddamn labor union—hard to forget a name that stupid."
"So they're connected to the smoke-bomb incident too?"
"How the hell would I know?"
Yet it looked connected. Smoke-bomb attacks, bombings—if the Union Gang had specialists in that line of work, everything lined up.
"Those crazy bastards have been hiding in some LES hole all this time. In my territory, no less—no fear at all!"
Bang!
Itski Joe slammed the table. The whiskey bottle and glasses toppled; ash from the tray scattered. As it settled, hurried footsteps approached. The iron door flew open and a blood-soaked subordinate shouted,
"The Mulberry headquarters got hit, Boss!"
"What!?"
About twenty men had stormed in and wiped the place out. The boys who had been playing poker and drinking never stood a chance; the hideout was a wreck.
"Fuck. So they want to play. Call the enforcers to the Bowery Pils—now!"
For more than a decade the Five Points had ruled as Manhattan's top gang. That many years meant plenty of enemies, and they had prepared—decoy headquarters and safe houses against just this kind of danger. The place that had been hit was one of them.
They dumped the battered Golden Flame owner in the street and relocated with Itski Joe's men.
Bowery Street, the Pils Building.
Itski and five enforcers gathered in one room. An enforcer ran a unit; his main role was action captain inside the gang. Itski Joe reined in his rage, turned cold, and began issuing orders.
"Burman. Take the boys and hit the Pumpkin Dance Hall. Grab the Pumpkin's owner—Patrick—and bring back everything he knows about the Union."
"And then?"
"Kill him."
"Okay."
To the other enforcers he gave orders to track anyone who might have contact with the Union, snatch them, and bring them in. They scattered to their assignments, leaving only Itski Joe and his right hand, Duffy Hills.
"Last thing we need is other people moving while this is going on. Duffy—keep an eye on Ioele."
"He's buried in bars and women right now. And his base is Brooklyn; he won't give a damn about this side."
"I don't know. The greasiest bastard I know is Ioele. He might use this chance to push into the LES."
On paper Itski Joe was boss of the Five Points Gang, but after Paul Kelly the outfit had fractured into warlords; he was merely one of their heads. That meant rivals outside and inside. Leaving the real headquarters and moving carefully, almost under a veil, was all to dodge the enemies who surrounded him on every side.
And the strongest rival threatening Itski Joe was Francesco Ioele—a man who ran business and gang affairs like a chessboard, with a mind that was razor-sharp.
"Watch him close until this is over."
"Got it, Boss."
Second-floor office of the Allen Street twin buildings.
Don't put all your eggs in one basket. A fox digs more than one hole to escape through. I've always liked proverbs like that. The only problem is when the enemy does it—then it's pure irritation.
We had hit two places in a single day, and neither was the real headquarters. Not that the Moonlight's owner, who had given us the intel, was at fault. There's a reason a gang lasts nearly twenty years. I should have assumed they had three or four fox dens dug and ready.
"Well, it doesn't matter. Gang wars are usually like this, aren't they?"
"True enough."
Patrick answered with a dazed look. Until now we had moved carefully, with a certain precision; this time we had been blatantly, almost excessively, obvious. Patrick's unease came from that sudden shift.
"I told you. I intend to drag this war out loud and messy."
The goal was simple. The Union that smashed the Five Points Gang. That reputation was what I was after.
"As long as we haven't caught Itski Joe, there'll be a counterattack. Tighten security not just at the dance hall but for the whole building, and check belongings thoroughly."
"Got it, Boss."
"And we need to dig our own fox dens."
Having every member piled into one building—beyond the people needed for the dance hall and the underground gambling den—was a risk that stood out. The gang and the businesses needed to be separated. I handed the job to Marcus.
"Go to Morris Goldberg Realty and ask him to find places we can move into as soon as possible. Rentals."
Buildings on alleys, the more space the better. After giving Marcus his orders I took a gun from the drawer and went downstairs to the lingerie shop on the first floor.
"I think you'd better carry this today."
Ida stared blankly at the Colt M1911. Then the corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile—aimed at the pistol.
"Long time no see."
"..."
"You're better, after all."
Ida stroked the pistol, then pulled a leather belt from somewhere in the shop. A holster was attached, and inside it sat a Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver. Nothing strange about that. The members who worked the dance hall hid guns the same way. Only Ida didn't do it quite like them.
Without warning she hiked up her skirt and strapped it to her thigh like a garter. She worked with her pale legs fully exposed, and no matter how I looked at it she didn't seem to be treating me like a man. In that case I might as well keep watching—
"You take the revolver, Boss. Trade."
Ida finished buckling the belt with more speed than necessary and held out the revolver. I tucked it into my coat. She glanced at the wall clock.
"Already closing time. I'll head downstairs, Boss."
Once Ida had gone to the dance hall I took my time walking the shop, tidying up. I was lowering the roller blinds over the glass when I brought my face close and looked outside. Under the streetlamps, late workers still came and went. Then something huge suddenly blocked my view.
It was the pumpkin mask, out touting for customers. I finished the blinds, unlocked the door, and stuck my head out.
"Who's on today?"
"Lanza!"
Cleaning, serving, and today the pumpkin mask. The pay was better than pickpocketing, so Lanza had been working hard. Today, though, he looked somehow precarious.
"Lanza, come inside a second."
When he stepped into the lingerie shop I tapped him lightly on the head.
"Take that off and go downstairs."
"Today's my shift."
"Too cold to take it off? Fine. Just go down."
"Got it! And this."
Lanza set down the flyers, peeled off the pumpkin mask like a shell, and used the secret passage to head underground. I turned the mask over in my hands, then pulled it on.
"Ugh, the smell."
Or maybe it was someone else's. The reek of stale cigarettes hit my nose. Still wearing it, I killed the shop lights and locked the door from inside. Then I went back up to the second-floor office, armed myself properly with a pistol and spare magazines, and stepped outside.
Just as I reached the entrance a mixed group of men and women suited to the dance hall passed by. I handed out flyers and started touting.
"America's finest pianist is about to play ragtime—starting soon!"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh my, the pumpkin is talking!"
"... Puh-puh-pumpkin."
"Aww, so cute!"
The women patted me as they went by. On top of that, even in the January cold my body stayed warm. I could see why once you put the pumpkin mask on you never wanted to take it off.
"Come on, come on! Second set at the Pumpkin Dance Hall is about to start! Step right in!"
Darkness had settled over Allen Street. A group of men strode along with coat tails flaring, casting long shadows down the road.
"That building's basement is the Pumpkin Dance Hall?"
"Obvious once you see the bastard in the pumpkin head."
"Pathetic. A grown man wearing a mask—what the hell is he doing?"
Buried in the dark shadows, they discussed their next move. Following Itski Joe's orders, there were two ways to grab the dance-hall owner: storm straight into the hall, or find another entrance and slip in quietly.
"Too many customers right now. We move when they close."
"But if we want to know where the owner is, shouldn't we figure out the layout first?"
"We go in and beat it out of someone—it'll come. But we've still got time..."
Conveniently, a guide who knew the inside well was right there in plain sight. A pathfinder who could also point them to the man named Patrick.
"Go grab the pumpkin."