Dynamic LES

The tightly strung bulbs at the dance hall entrance glittered. Soft music mixed with the voices of people already deep in their cups drifted to my ears.

In the short time I'd worn the pumpkin mask, I'd learned something.

More people approached with friendliness than mockery.

They didn't care who was under the pumpkin. Even if a homeless man who hadn't bathed in a month stood there, to them he was simply "the pumpkin head."

In a broader sense, this society was no different.

Peel the mask off a philanthropist the newspapers praised and you might find violence, blackmail, extortion, and exploitation coiled underneath. But the public judged by appearances and never bothered to look inside.

The same went for the ones across the street making odd movements. Even if they tore the pumpkin mask off me, they would never know who I was.

In the places the streetlamps didn't reach, black shadows twitched.

My senses registered them as attackers. They tried to pass for ordinary pedestrians, but their direction and their eyes were all wrong.

One of the men walked straight at me with a hand shoved into his coat, staring without any pretense of subtlety. When he got right up in my face, the coat pocket bulged and something hard jabbed me.

"Come quietly."

He dragged me into the alley beside the building, and three more closed in until they had me boxed in.

"If you don't want to die, answer the questions. You know the entrance into the dance hall?"

I nodded. That earned me a slap across the pumpkin for not speaking up. Bastards. I straightened the half-twisted mask and answered.

"There's a side door around back."

"And the boss?"

"Ah… the boss's office, you have to go through a secret passage."

"Secret passage?"

They traded looks, then suddenly ripped the pumpkin mask off me. They checked my face and immediately started snickering.

"No wonder you spilled so easy. There was a reason you wore the mask."

In their minds I was just some Oriental getting worked to death under a ridiculous pumpkin head. I used that for everything it was worth.

"If I show you the way… do I get paid?"

"Paid? Hell yes. Two dollars."

"…Could I have half now…"

"Ha. This little shit."

The man shoved a one-dollar bill at me like I was a nuisance. I took it with obvious delight, and they liked that even more. I glanced around and dropped my voice.

"Is this everyone? There are a few staff who guard the secret passage."

"How many?"

"About five?"

There were four of them. They hesitated a moment, then one signaled across the street. Just as I'd hoped, two more joined up. The enemy count was now six.

"Nobody else? With only this many…"

"Plenty, you little bastard. This is more than enough to wipe them all out."

"Then… follow me quietly."

That was all of them, then.

I tucked the pumpkin under one arm, opened the back door, and stepped inside. Another iron door appeared. As I pulled out the key, a throat-clearing sound came from behind me.

"They gave a key to a secret passage to a guy like you?"

"…They give it to whoever wears the pumpkin."

I left their snorts behind me and opened the iron door. The sudden blast of loud music seemed to erase the last of their suspicion.

"Take us straight to the boss."

"Understood. Stick close."

I led the way down the stairs. From inside my coat I drew a pistol and a knife. I slipped a hand into the pumpkin and screwed a suppressor onto the muzzle of the Colt M1911. The stairwell was dark and the band music swallowed every sound.

Gun in one hand, knife in the other. By the time we reached the bottom and entered the narrow corridor, I let the pumpkin drop from under my arm, spun, and drove the knife into the chest of the man right behind me.

Thuk.

I shoved the body forward as a shield and pulled the trigger on the ones still coming.

Pssh. Pssh.

Every pull of the trigger flashed light through the dark passage. Blood sprayed. One by one they went down.

Click.

Empty. I slammed in a spare magazine and finished the ones still twitching on the floor with clean headshots. When the last round was gone I picked the pumpkin up off the ground.

I walked the rest of the corridor into the office. Patrick was sitting there cleaning a gun.

"Get six beer drums ready."

"Huh? What for?"

"There are six bodies in the passage."

"What!?"

Patrick shot to his feet and bolted out of the office. He came back a moment later shaking his head.

"I didn't hear a damn thing. When the hell did you take care of them? And how did you even lure them all the way in here—"

His eyes landed on the pumpkin sitting on the table. He clicked his tongue.

"Idiots tried to kidnap the Grim Reaper."

A short while later the men brought the drums and got to work with mops and buckets. Ida slipped in, took one look at the scene, and gave me a strange look.

"The more I learn about the Boss, the more interesting he gets."

"That's a compliment, right?"

Ida didn't answer. She simply vanished back toward the floor.

Anthony was in the passage too—he should have been resting in the band room after the set. He was examining the bodies like a detective, reconstructing the sequence and studying my methods.

"You wouldn't have had the suppressor ready beforehand. You assembled it while you were leading them. But with six armed men right behind you, how did you even think of stabbing one and then opening fire? That's pure crazy… or pure confidence, I guess."

"Shut up and help clean, or get back to the band room, Anthony."

Anthony stood, walked over, and looked me up and down.

"You sure you didn't take a round and just refuse to show it? Don't go playing tough about that kind of thing."

"I got it. Go."

Anthony left, still shaking his head in disbelief.

Lanza, who had been mopping, quietly spoke up.

"I… I want to learn how ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to shoot and fight like you, Boss."

Same age as Liam. Lanza's eyes burned not with the desire to study books, but with the hunger to learn the craft of killing.

I had no interest in lectures or scolding.

"You'll learn soon enough. You're family now."

"…I am family. That's certain!"

Lanza's grip tightened on the mop handle. Every stroke washed more blood from the floor.

"Brian, call Captain Gray and ask when he can take the drums."

"Yes, sir!"

Even Brian, who usually shot his mouth off without thinking, answered with real snap in his voice.

I left the cleanup to the men and went down one more level.

The gambling den was running peacefully in its usual gloomy atmosphere. Whatever had happened upstairs, everyone was focused only on the cards.

I counted the customers with my eyes. Thirty-two people sat at the tables enjoying their games.

"Looks like we've got a few more customers."

Lenny came over with an awkward smile.

"Don't tell me you're satisfied with this many."

"Of course not."

"Anyway, you know how things are right now. If anyone looks suspicious, you tell me immediately."

"Got it, Boss."

Crash!

Right on cue, a man in his mid-thirties slammed a bottle onto the floor. Glass shards flew; the nearby customers frowned and edged away.

"Losing five hands in a row? That's impossible! This place is rigged and everybody knows it!"

"Looks like you've had enough. Time to go."

Men moved in fast and hauled him out. Lenny shook his head and explained.

"He's been coming for a few days. Lost his job, he says."

"Then he should go find work. Why crawl into a gambling den?"

"We let him win on the first day, so he keeps coming back thinking the luck will hold. Used to work for a magazine that went under. Claims he's trying to put meat on the table for his family."

If you started making allowances for every sad story, there wouldn't be a single person left who didn't deserve pity. Still—

"A failed magazine. Was he a reporter?"

"He said they printed the magazine on a small press. From the way he talks, more like a printer."

The man was dragged outside. I wondered briefly whether he would run to the police, but we had contingencies for that. Nothing to lose sleep over.

Right now the Lower East Side was a chessboard.

The Five Points Gang and the Union were placing their pieces, fighting for territory. The game of moves and countermoves had already begun; one bad play and the whole board would tip.

Marcus threw every source he had into finding where the Itsuki crew was hiding. Once the attack coordinates were set, our men hit those places hard and fast.

But after the assassins sent to the dance hall vanished without a trace, the Itsuki crew grew even more cautious. Both sides kept grinding through a war of attrition without either side managing checkmate.

Office on the second floor of the twin building.

I'd put all my eggs in one basket, and it felt like the enemy's entire offensive was now focused on this building. Just yesterday, roughly thirty men tried to force their way into the basement of the dance hall and a full brawl broke out. As the violence continued, one newspaper decided to unload a deliberate broadside.

The article was thoroughly critical, but it produced one positive result: the name of the Union, the outfit at war with the Five Points Gang, began to spread through the underworld.

This was the moment to push harder.

I called for Anthony.

"You already moved the band into the building. Time to stop playing, don't you think?"

"I was about to. Looking at your eyes, though, you've got something you want me to handle."

"Those damn eyes of yours."

But Anthony had never been wrong yet. I handed him the information Marcus had put together.

"An enforcer for the Itsuki crew."

Several places the man frequented were listed. Anthony scanned the papers, thought for a moment, then spoke.

"Before I take this bastard out, tell me about the other night. How you had the nerve to start shooting with six of them right behind you."

"I pulled the trigger with a lion's heart."

"…No, not that. I want to know if the Boss has some special grip or technique of his own."

He looked genuinely curious. I met his serious eyes, drew my pistol, racked the slide, cleared the chamber and magazine, and handed it to him.

"Hold it. Take a stance."

Anthony stood, raised the gun, and pointed it at me. He stood at an angle, arm fully extended in a classic one-handed stance—the traditional method the military still taught. The problem was that with a pistol like the Colt M1911 the recoil was hard to control, and accuracy suffered as a result.

As ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the years passed, shooting stances evolved. Bladed stance with one shoulder toward the target, Chamberlain, overhand grip, Weaver, isosceles—choosing the right posture for the situation was critical in a fight.

"The technique I used last time was…"

Center Axis Relock—the CAR system. Slightly bladed body, gun held close to the torso. Excellent for rapid close-quarters response and extremely efficient in tight spaces.

"If you shoot like this, target transitions are faster and the recoil control isn't bad either."

"Wow. I've never seen a stance like that."

Of course he hadn't. Combat technicians had spent decades refining it.

"Boss, do you know a lot more techniques beyond just shooting?"

"Of course. Once this is over, there will be time to teach you properly. For now, just do it the way you always have."

"Obviously. I don't plan on dying trying to half-ass something new. Anyway, target received."

Not long after Anthony left, a real-estate agent showed up at the underwear shop. I needed another fox den, and it seemed a suitable property had appeared.

"You want to lease rather than buy?"

"As long as the space is large, I don't care what it used to be."

"Alley and side door are non-negotiable, right?"

He hadn't forgotten my preferences. Among the places the agent mentioned, one immediately caught my interest. For the first time in a while I went with him to look at a building in person.

Near the Grand–Eldridge Street intersection. The agent stopped in front of a five-story building.

"Second floor of that one. Pretty spacious, don't you think?"

Judging by the width of the building, fifty pyeong at least. Alleys on both sides, entrances connected front and back.

We went up to the second floor. A crooked sign hung above the door.

Even the name reeked of socialism. In fact, The Masses had been a magazine that spoke for anarchists, socialists, and radicals. Then, on June 15, 1917, the Espionage Act was passed and it took a direct hit. Forced closure was only a matter of time.

Just as the agent reached for the doorknob, the door opened. A man ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in his mid-thirties looked at us with bleary eyes.

It was the same man from the gambling den a few days earlier.

"What do you want?"

"We're from Morris Realty. Mind if we take a look inside?"

The man nodded with a gloomy face and swung the door wide. Six desks stood in the main room; a separate office and printing space occupied the far corner.

I picked up one of the magazines stacked against the wall. Bold lettering ran across the cover; the background was a blood-red illustration that suggested war.

When I glanced at the printer, he shook his head immediately.

"I'm just a printer. Don't care about ideology or politics. Everyone else got arrested and I'm the only one left—can't you tell?"

He pouted, clearly resenting my look, then tossed a remark at the real-estate agent.

"You know the condition, right? Whoever takes this place takes everything."

"What do you mean?"

"Eastman was looking for someone to take the whole office. You didn't hear?"

"Isn't Eastman on trial right now?"

"Exactly. That's why he's dumping everything in a hurry."

The agent gave me a troubled look.

"Maybe we should look somewhere else…"

"How much for the whole thing?"

The man held up three fingers.

"Three thousand dollars."

"Does that include the press?"

"Of course. The press alone is worth over two thousand. It's used, so they're letting it go cheap."

"Does it still work?"

"I've been running presses since I was twelve. You think I didn't take care of it? It's practically new."

He had real pride in his work.

"Did you find another job?"

"…Looking. Worst case I head over to New Jersey."

"How about working with me instead?"

"What?"

I liked this office. The real-estate agent, on the other hand, clearly didn't understand.

"What's this all of a sudden? You planning to run a magazine?"

More precisely, a local business paper—something like a classifieds sheet. Papers and magazines of that type already existed, but no gang had dug deep into them yet. We were going to collect protection money anyway; if we also walked around with reporter titles and sold ads for shops and help-wanted notices, it was two birds with one stone. Once the money got big enough, we could start buying the newspapers that actually shaped public opinion.

"Let's draw up the contract."

The corner of the man's mouth—Simon McGraw's mouth—twitched. He seemed to think I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was a sucker. I wondered whether he would still wear that expression once the real staff arrived. He wouldn't even get near a gambling table; he was going to be buried in the print room working.

The editor and writers of The Masses had been arrested for violating the Espionage Act. They had planned to use the sale of the office to start a new magazine, confident they would walk free at trial.

Whether they did or not was none of my business. In just three days I closed on the office and paid in full.

On the way back to the twin building I witnessed a street fight. The sun was so hot they were brawling in the shade.

Under the elevated tracks on Allen Street a full-scale melee was underway. Looking closer, I saw our own men. Cale and the unit were tangled up with another crew. Territory expansion was that fierce right now.

Everyone doing their job properly—what a beautiful sight.

I took a wide detour. In front of the underwear shop two men were watching the brawl with lively interest. My youngest uncle by marriage, Derek, and his liquor-distribution friend had been waiting for me.

"Kieran, this place really isn't fit for human beings. How the hell do you do business here?"

"Tell me about it."

Just as we were about to step inside, a distant whistle shrilled. Police came running; the fight broke up instantly and everyone scattered.

"LES really is dynamic, isn't it."

Derek clicked his tongue and muttered.