To New York
As Thanksgiving passed and the final month of 1929 arrived, the winter rain turned into snow, painting Chicago in white.
The Chicago Cubs, having been crushed 4-1 in the World Series, only deepened the gloom of a city that had already lost so much. Consequently, the bootleg liquor supplied by our organization sold like wildfire, perfectly matching the melancholic atmosphere of the late twenties.
Even the refrigerated trucks that were supposed to carry milk were being used to haul crates of booze once the milk deliveries were done. There was no need to ask how desperate the people of Chicago were for a drink.
However.
"Consigliere."
Right now, I was staring at a profit so massive that the enormous income from bootlegging felt like pocket change.
"Let's just stick to the usual, Mr. Goojik. That title is so cringeworthy I can barely listen to it."
Unlike those rigid New York families, the Chicago Outfit had been obsessed with pragmatism since its inception, making us relatively loose in such matters. Our initiation ceremonies were incredibly simple, and in daily life, we preferred corporate-style titles like 'Head of Bootlegging Operations' over the family ranks. It was only natural that the Italian term *Consigliere*—or whatever it was—sounded awkward.
"Haha. It’s a direct order from the Boss, so how could I do that? Consigliere."
"...I didn't know you had a hobby of teasing people."
"Think of it as a sign of respect for the Consigliere. Those guys over there would be more satisfied with it, too."
With that, Goojik gestured with his chin toward the men sitting in the corner of the office.
There was a young man in a plain suit who looked to be in his early twenties, and others around my age wearing flashy diamond rings on both hands.
The younger one was Tony "Bat Joe" Accardo, who served under Frank Rio, the Boss’s closest aide and head of his personal guard. The other was the organization's most formidable combatant, Jack "Machine Gun" McGurn.
Truth be told, having people other than Rio tagging along was a bit cumbersome, but my father-in-law’s point—"Do you think it makes sense for the organization's second-in-command to walk around without his own men?"—did have some merit.
That was the reason they were sitting on the office sofa, doing absolutely nothing.
Honestly, what kind of work could I possibly give those guys among the things I’m doing now? What I needed right now weren't Chicago-style typewriters, but people who knew how to use real ones. People like Goojik or Ahern, who were standing right in front of me.
"Well... putting that aside, how did the short-selling wrap up?"
"Hmm, the liquidation is complete. Truly... you possess incredible analytical skills, Consigliere."
Along with the cringeworthy title, Goojik reported on the profits gained through short-selling.
"48%... so, after a 10x leverage and deducting commissions, we earned a total of $72 million."
$72 million.
It was the result of taking $15 million—a portion of the organization's existing cash and asset sales—and applying 10x leverage. In just over two months, we had increased our principal nearly fivefold.
If I rolled this money around until the year after next and hunted down a few decent companies, the organization would have no problems even after Prohibition was repealed. Of course, I’d need to grow it a few more times since I’d have to spend quite a bit on the development in Nevada.
"7, $72 million?"
"Well, there are no legal issues, are there? There aren't even any relevant laws right now."
This was an era where there were no securities exchange laws, and brokerage firms didn't even share information on who was buying what. A madman using the legal maximum of 10x leverage to short-sell might have been a bit of an anomaly, but compared to the bungee jumping contest happening on Wall Street, it was child's play. Besides, since we bought them under borrowed names through brokers, it wouldn't be easy to track even if they tried.
"That may be true, but... it's astonishing. In just two months......."
It was too early to be surprised. The real deal was two years away.
"Then, what about my personal investment?"
I looked at Mr. Ahern, whose jaw had dropped at the amount, then turned my head back to Goojik to ask.
"The same. With a 48% return and 10x leverage, after deducting the fees you entrusted to us... you’ve earned $1.92 million. Congratulations on becoming a millionaire, Consigliere. I really should have listened to your suggestion earlier."
"I told you, you’d regret it. It’s not too late, so why don't you bet on short-selling for the next two years?"
"Two years... I'll think about it, haha."
I smiled at Goojik, who wore a troubled expression.
$2 million.
It was an amount I couldn't have even imagined this time last year, but in a situation where I was handling organizational finances in the tens of millions, it didn't stir much emotion. Could this be dopamine addiction? If I'm like this already, that's a problem.
I smacked my lips and turned my head toward Ahern.
"And... Mr. Ahern, what about the patent case from last time?"
"The PMMA patent is scheduled to be finalized soon, and the two new patents you mentioned are almost ready for filing as well. The pharmaceutical one might take a little longer since the animal testing isn't complete yet."
"That should be finished soon enough, so I'll leave it to you."
Hmm, then I can really dive into the pharmaceutical side next year. Even if I can't patent sulfanilamide since it's already a commonly used substance, I’ve included as many derivatives as I know, so defending it shouldn't be too difficult. And... as for the other one, there's still plenty of time, so I need to properly set up the production facilities first. I'll have to talk to the Senator about that....
Just as I was racking my brain about future business directions,
"Sir."
The secretary from the secretary's office entered the room.
"There's a call from Mr. Einstein in New York. Shall I put it through?"
It finally arrived.
"Ah, put it through."
As soon as I heard that name, I nodded and waited for the connection.
Before long.
Ring-ring-!
As soon as the phone on my desk rang, I picked up the receiver.
"Mr. Einstein?"
—It’s been a while.
Meyer Lansky.
The moment I confirmed the voice of the bald friend who was Charles Luciano’s brain, I could guess what he was going to say.
—It looks like the appointment you mentioned last time will be set.
Franklin D. Roosevelt.
It was time to go to New York to meet the future President.
Arriving in New York after nearly 16 hours, the city looked similar to Chicago yet different. If Chicago was just coffee, New York was TOP.
While the snow in Chicago had simply painted the roofs white, the merciless blizzard in New York had piled up to ankle-height, making it difficult even for cars to move, and occasional screams could be heard from the skyscrapers that pierced the sky. Consequently, I had no choice but to stay at the hotel Lansky had booked until the blizzard subsided, so I decided to discuss the pending business matters instead of just lounging around.
Ugh-!
"I can't tell if this is New York or hell."
"It's probably closer to hell... Consigliere. There's no place that took a bigger hit from this crash than Wall Street."
Perhaps because it had been quite difficult, Frank Nitti’s face looked rather gaunt. Or maybe he was just uncomfortable treating me as the organization's new second-in-command.
"So, how is the business? And the kid?"
"The black kid is doing fine now that we've attached a manager or two to him... so I'm not really paying much attention to that side."
"That's a relief."
As expected, a future star is different. But Nitti’s words weren't over yet.
"The problem is the milk business."
I hadn't thought of that.
"Isn't it just a matter of selling the milk we brought up from Chicago for now?"
"The problem is that Maranzano’s guys are being more troublesome than I thought."
"Those guys?"
"They seem to have noticed that we’ve sided with Luciano. They’re using the local railway unions and the milk delivery unions to continuously obstruct our milk transport and sales."
"I thought Mr. Nitti would be able to handle it well enough, but it seems it's not as easy as I thought."
"Of course, I took care of all the gangsters they sent. The problem is the police."
Ah, is that the problem?
"These guys, I don't know if they took money from Maranzano’s bastards, but they won't listen to reason. And it's not like I can just take care of the police. The situation is definitely very different from Chicago."
That would be the case.
If this had happened in Chicago, where my father-in-law had a firm grip on everything from the Mayor down, it would have been resolved with a phone call or two and a bit of sincerity. But this was New York. Like attracts like, and since the New York gangs were closer than us, there was no way our words would carry much weight.
In that case, it seemed we needed to use our own 'like' here.
"Have you received any cooperation from Luciano’s side?"
"Thanks to them, I was able to stop our organization members from getting arrested. But they say they can't resolve anything beyond this point on their own. Besides, it seems he’s been in the hospital for treatment ever since he was kidnapped and returned alive a while ago. I hear it’s a miracle he didn't die."
Well, since Joe Masseria is the boss above Luciano right now, his authority would naturally be limited. In two years, Masseria and Maranzano would both be cleared out... but that would take too long, hmm.
"Then, where is Mr. Luciano right now?"
"I heard he’s recovering in a hideout. But why do you ask......."
"I was thinking of paying him a visit."
And, I have something to discuss with him personally.
Luciano’s hideout was a villa located in a quiet area on the outskirts of New York City. Perhaps in preparation for another attack, I entered the villa surrounded by men in coats who appeared to be organization members, and I was soon able to face Luciano, who was covered in bandages.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Lee. No... I should call you the Consigliere of Chicago now."
"It’s still just cringeworthy. By the way... you seem to have been hurt quite badly."
Wrapped from head to toe in bandages, if he hadn't been able to speak, he would have looked less like a person and more like a mummy. To my question, Luciano nodded with difficulty while lying in bed and continued.
"It’s Maranzano’s men. We’ve had quite a few clashes so far, but they’ve never come out in the open like this, so I let my guard down."
"It’s a good thing, then. I’ve been having a headache because of them, too."
"If it’s a headache... you mean that business."
At the mummy’s words, I nodded.
"I heard you helped out quite a bit."
"It was a weak level of help to call it help. The police tend to listen to Maranzano more than us, so it wasn't easy to move. And it wasn't a matter I could bring up to Joe Masseria, either. This... I have nothing to say."
"Actually, that’s also the reason I came to see you."
With those words, I was about to request what I needed from Luciano.
Tu-ta-ta-ta-ta-!
That was before the familiar sound of a Chicago-style typewriter could be heard from outside.