Who Do You Need?
"I heard the dance halls in the LES were a complete mess. Turns out it was true. With a dance hall right in the basement, won't that bring trouble down on the shop?"
"Not necessarily."
This was my third meeting with Clifton, a friend of my youngest uncle by marriage, Derek.
Born to a family of Scottish immigrants, Clifton currently supplied liquor to bars, dance halls, and hotels across Manhattan.
Whenever the three of us met, the talk usually ran to whatever was happening in Manhattan—transport, warehouses, distribution, the whole chain.
Today's subject was the war between the Union and the Five Points. True to his salesman instincts, Clifton knew every detail of the dance-hall incidents and the recent clashes between the two gangs.
"No matter how high the Union flies, they'll never match the Five Points. The Five Points Gang isn't what it used to be, but in the LES they're still the top dogs."
"Funny thing is, nobody even knows who the Union boss is, and Itsuki Joe of the Five Points is in hiding."
Derek brought up the old rivalry between the Eastmans and the Five Points.
"Kieran, you wouldn't know, but back then the bosses settled things face to face. People even watched Monk Eastman and Paul Kelly box each other."
"Times have changed. The NYPD's hunting them with blood in their eyes—how could they show their faces? From what I've seen, Itsuki Joe keeps moving between hotels, motels, even boarding houses."
My ears pricked at Clifton's words.
"You've seen Itsuki Joe?"
"Ran into him by chance a few days ago while making a delivery to the Hotel Delancey. He's probably moved again by now. Word is he rotates through a few fixed spots."
So he would be back at the Hotel Delancey eventually. That was valuable intelligence.
"Clifton, my nephew here keeps his distance from the gangs. Let's talk about something else."
Derek changed the subject for my sake. To me, though, this was a very special subject.
December 1917.
A month earlier, the United States Congress had approved the draft of the Eighteenth Amendment—the amendment that would include Prohibition.
I had been too busy with one crisis after another to focus on it, but this was enormous.
Yet somehow the atmosphere in Manhattan felt unchanged. Even a liquor salesman, the man who should have reacted most sharply to Prohibition, refused to take it seriously.
"Impossible in New York. Banning liquor by law? That doesn't even make sense."
"But more and more states are already enforcing dry laws."
Derek pushed back against Clifton.
He did not believe Prohibition would simply fizzle out as a passing farce.
And the facts on the ground agreed with him.
As of 1918 there were forty-eight states in the Union.
Beginning with Maine in 1851, twenty-seven of them were already dry. By January 14 of this month Mississippi, Virginia, and Kentucky had ratified the amendment as well.
So why were more and more states embracing this insane legislation?
In the early nineteenth century a British naval officer had written:
These people can do nothing without liquor.
They must drink when they meet a stranger, drink when they form a friendship, drink when they close a deal.
They drink if they quarrel and drink if they make peace.
They drink because the weather is hot and drink because it is cold.
That was America, not Korea.
There was a time when the average American consumed seven gallons of pure alcohol a year—the equivalent of four hundred forty bottles of soju. Corn and sugarcane were so abundant that bourbon was cheaper than milk.
American men routinely drank away their paychecks and lost their jobs. Drunk, they beat their wives and their children. Leo's own father had been exactly that kind of alcoholic.
Yet liquor salesman Clifton still had no idea his livelihood was about to be cut off.
"The ones pushing Prohibition are all out in the Midwest and the West. Ban liquor in a place full of big cities like New York? You'll have riots. And why do you think a temperance crusader like Carrie Nation never set foot in Manhattan? Because she knew it wouldn't work for a second."
Clifton was absolutely certain.
He could not sense the turning of the age.
And who, exactly, was Carrie Nation?
Her nickname was "the Bulldog of Jesus who barked at liquor."
Six feet tall, roughly a hundred seventy-five pounds.
Dressed in black, Bible in one hand and hatchet in the other, she would storm into saloons alone and smash everything to pieces. She was a woman—yes, a woman—famous for exactly that.
To restore the foundations of a nation founded by Puritans yet sunk to the gutter, Carrie waged what her name promised: a "moral crusade" against saloons, gambling dens, and racetracks.
This legendary berserker inspired countless women with the immortal catchphrase "Keep your booze-soaked mouths off our bodies!" and gave the churches the push they needed to join the fight in earnest.
She had departed for an alcohol-free afterlife six years earlier, yet Carrie Nation remained the soul of the temperance movement, still lending it her strength. In truth she was a woman who would leave her mark forever on the history of American feminism.
In any case, Clifton refused to the end to abandon his claim that Prohibition could never be enforced.
Then, citing a delivery appointment, he left first.
Alone with Derek, I showed my hand.
"Uncle, you think Prohibition is actually going to happen, don't you?"
"Honestly, fifty-fifty. But why do you think so many states are swallowing this nonsense law?"
"Why?"
"Because the public wants it."
And the public's will was expressed through the ballot box—that was Derek's argument. It matched my own thinking one hundred percent.
"What won't a man do to win an election? Governors and state legislatures will have no choice but to pass Prohibition."
I agreed completely. Feeling I had found a comrade, I put more force into my voice.
"You can see it even if you look past Manhattan at the whole state of New York. Temperance groups are running active campaigns right now."
Their slogans were worth noting as well.
Do not waste grain in wartime!
One glass of beer starves one soldier!
In the end they were building the consensus that "a patriotic citizen keeps clear of liquor," pouring strength into the Prohibition cause.
Then Derek suddenly asked:
"Kieran, you said you were interested in liquor warehouses and distribution networks. That's why I introduced you to Clifton, right?"
"Yes."
"Is this because of Prohibition?"
Derek asked with a meaningful look.
This was the moment to draw him in.
"If you want to seize the market, you have to start preparing now."
"But once Prohibition takes effect, won't liquor warehouses and distribution networks become useless?"
Most people would think so. Derek's question, however, was only testing me.
I gave him the answer he wanted.
"When has the world ever run according to the law?"
I let him see my intent. Derek blinked in surprise, then greed gradually spread through his eyes as well.
"You're right. The law belongs to those who keep it. I'm not one of those people either."
Derek nodded as if confirming our shared nature. But then his expression darkened.
"Realistically speaking, seizing a market is extremely difficult. It's also pretty dangerous."
The point was clear: we can't do it with our strength alone.
I had no intention of laying every card on the table yet, but I needed to give him something to hope for.
"I have a few things already in motion. And I'm in contact with some reliable forces."
"You're really serious about this, aren't you?"
"Do it half-heartedly and you go under half-heartedly. Even grinding yourself to the bone isn't enough—you have to be serious."
"You have a talent for surprising people every time I see you."
Derek looked at me as if seeing me anew.
Then he smacked his lips bitterly and continued.
"I'd like to be of some help to my nephew, but I don't know how to do anything useful."
"Of course you do. And there's still plenty of time. We'll build it."
"This conversation stays secret from the rest of the family, though, right?"
"We haven't even done anything yet—what's there to tell? But going forward we'll need help from the others too."
People like my eldest uncle Noah, who ran trucking, and my third uncle Ted, the cop.
Persuading and recruiting them would be Derek's job.
For now we left it as a secret between the two of us, and Derek left the shop.
I called Marcus and passed on the information Clifton had given me.
"Itsuki Joe may visit the Hotel Delancey. Since he rotates through several places, focus your surveillance there."
The war with the Five Points Gang was dragging on. The more the NYPD and the press fixed their attention on the battle between the two gangs, the greater the Union's reputation grew.
Normally, once this much heat was on you, you kept your head down.
The thoroughly beaten Five Points became even more cautious, and the Union poured everything into hunting them down.
Marcus and Leo went to the members, the shoe-shine boys, the newsstands, even the homeless, scraping up every scrap of information.
The moment they located a Five Points unit or business, they attacked.
Hit-and-run tactics sometimes hit a snag. Today was one of those days.
"Boss, three of the boys got picked up by the cops."
It had happened during a raid on a bar on Bowery Street.
Fortunately they had been grabbed while fleeing rather than at the scene, so evidence was thin and no link to the Union was found; they were released quickly.
But how could you take that at face value? The police had let them go with clear intent.
"They might be bait to find the Union headquarters, Patrick. Keep them in Hell's Kitchen for a while."
"I was thinking the same thing. Coming and going from here looks too risky."
While we were on the subject, I decided to station some of the members in the newly acquired magazine-company building.
I called Leo in and handed him the papers outlining the magazine operation plan.
We had discussed it a few times already, so he only needed to check the details.
"I've already spoken to Mother. From now on you stay out of the clothing factory. Take thirty members and move into the magazine building."
"So for a while we wear reporter titles and work as informants? What about the magazine itself?"
"Do it half-heartedly and it dies. I'm looking for people with experience."
The members were a long way from anything that involved writing for magazines or newspapers. We needed experts who had that experience and could train the boys into real reporters.
Before leaving the office Leo hesitated, then spoke.
"Marcus has been busy lately. Can I take over the surveillance on Itsuki Joe?"
"Why?"
"Marcus is going to night school."
"Ah…"
I had forgotten. After meeting Edgar Hoover, Marcus's goals had changed.
Since that day he had been completing the night-school course at East Side High School.
"What about you, Leo? Not interested?"
"In what? Studying?"
"I'll support you too. Go. Who knows—maybe you'll become a politician and help me someday."
"Is this your way of saying I don't have a future as a gangster?"
No—why take it that way?
"I'm saying consider every possibility."
"Kieran, who do you need?"
"Lawyers, accountants, brewers, ship captains, truck drivers, pharmacists, doctors, reporters, politicians, cops… the list is long."
"None of those sound much like gangsters."
"Think of them as specialized, professional gangsters. Those are the ones you really have to fear. And honestly, it's better than walking around with the gang's name on your business card, isn't it?"
Business cards could be printed with any one of the companies. What I actually needed were people who possessed the real experience, skill, and credentials.
"Anyway, we're going to be running a lot more businesses. Don't try to fit yourself to me—think about what you want. Whatever it is, we'll be able to do it together."
"I'll think about it seriously."
Watching Leo's back as he left the office, a dozen thoughts crossed my mind.
Honestly, Leo did not fit the traditional gangster mold. Theft, assault, murder, extortion—those things were far from him.
But I trusted Leo.
Carrying a nearly dead man three kilometers home was not something just anyone could do.
Now that we were both eighteen, it was time to set clear goals instead of remaining half-formed gangsters.
I hoped Leo would find his path the way Marcus had…
Knock knock.
"Boss, it's me."
Marcus, shoe-shine kit slung over his shoulder, rapped on the office door. His bright expression suggested that, contrary to Leo's worries, the busy stretch was about to end.
"Thirty minutes ago Itsuki Joe entered the Hotel Delancey. Room 407. Our people are watching the hotel now."
I went straight to the Hotel Delancey with Marcus. The moment I saw the building I frowned.
It was flush against the buildings on either side—no alley—and sat on a wide avenue. Escaping would not be easy.
In the end we would have to wait for the target to come out.
Directly across the avenue from the Hotel Delancey, a hotel of nearly the same height caught my eye.