The End of the War
The day after I visited the Hearst Building, newspapers like Mr. Hearst’s famous yellow rag, the Chicago Herald-Examiner, began spewing their usual brand of fresh, familiar fabrications.
[Has the Nation Abandoned Its Heroes? The BOI Targets a Saint!]
[Entrepreneur Who Escaped Japan’s Blade Now Faces Federal Guns]
[Controversy Over the Hoover Administration’s Overreach—Is This Acceptable?]
Come to think of it, the part about them being under investigation is just a fact. It was only slightly exaggerated.
Anyway, starting with Hearst, who fired the signal flare, newspapers and radio stations across the country unleashed a fierce bombardment against the BOI for investigating me and SCC.
Perhaps thanks to that, the BOI agents who had been picking through our factory like they were hunting for lice disappeared like cockroaches, as if they’d never been there at all.
"Everything alright?"
"Yes, sir. We recovered all the confiscated documents. Though, I suspect they might have kept copies."
"Well, no need to worry about that. There’s nothing in there that would cause us any trouble anyway."
I make sure to periodically clear out anything problematic from the factory files. Copying the rest of that trash would just be a waste of paper and ink. Sorry, trees. I’ll apologize on their behalf.
I sat at my desk in the president’s office and looked at the newspaper clippings taped to the wall. They were the ones my secretary had organized, noting that my photo had turned out well during the announcement of Sulfadine.
"Still, fame certainly has its perks."
It was a slightly different kind of fame than my father-in-law’s, but I realized through this experience that I could put this notoriety to good use. Of course, the downside was that I had to be more conscious of the public eye since so much attention was focused on me.
If I accidentally showed the reporters something they shouldn't see, I’d be on a one-way train to ruin. I’d need to be more cautious when handling business related to the organization.
"Well then... I suppose I should spend some time in the lab today."
What I was currently researching was the production line design for a substance I’d patented alongside Sulfadine. Synthesizing the material itself wasn't difficult, but my knowledge was limited to laboratory-scale synthesis—not a method for churning out endless quantities for mass sale.
Even though I had a rough understanding of the relevant technologies from my past life, adapting them to 1930s tech would inevitably require a lot of trial and error. Still, I’d developed it at least five years ahead of the original timeline, so it wouldn't be the end of the world if it took another year or two.
With that thought, I headed toward the lab on the first floor, where I was working my researchers to the bone. Or rather, I intended to.
"Sir, we have a visitor from the BOI."
That was before my secretary could even reach my office.
"They’re back? There shouldn't be anything left for them to dig up."
"It’s not for an investigation. They say they’d like an unofficial meeting with you."
Anyone listening would think we had an appointment.
"Show them in."
It’s not like I could just tell them to get lost, could I? I sat on the sofa and waited for the BOI agent. But the person who walked into my office was no mere agent.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Lee. I am Clyde Tolson, Associate Director of the BOI."
...Now that’s a big fish.
I’d seen Clyde Tolson on YouTube before. He was essentially the right-hand man to Director Hoover. I could easily guess why someone who was the closest of the close had traveled all the way from D.C. to Chicago.
One reason was to ease the pressure on the BOI, which was getting hammered by the press. And the other was...
"A pleasure, Associate Director. I thought the Director might reach out, but I didn't expect you to come in person."
"Officially, I am here to inspect the Chicago branch. I have to leave in... ten minutes, so I will be brief."
Tolson jutted out his square jaw, which looked sharp enough to cut glass, and continued.
"Stop the offensive using the media immediately."
"I thought you came here for a different reason than that. And besides, what power do I have to stop the reporters? I was merely cooperating with their coverage."
The order of events was just slightly different, but it wasn't a lie. I had simply been helpful enough to go all the way to the Hearst Building, where the Hearst-affiliated media outlets were gathered.
"I don't have time for your games. If you don't stop right now, you’ll be meeting your father-in-law in prison soon."
Tolson, seemingly not believing a word I said, delivered the threat with a cold, deadpan expression.
"My father-in-law is a legitimate businessman. I have no idea what you’re talking about."
"We have already secured circumstantial evidence regarding his violations of the Volstead Act. It wasn't our jurisdiction, so we didn't feel the need to intervene directly. However, if you refuse this demand, the situation will change."
In truth, everyone in Chicago had that circumstantial evidence. Since Bugs Moran and the North Side Gang disappeared, the Chicago Outfit was effectively the only organization supplying alcohol in the city. We’d reduced the volume by diverting some of the Canadian shipments to Mr. Kennedy’s side, but the SMC refrigerated trucks were still half-filled with milk and half with booze.
If a truly enraged Hoover decided to ignore the IRS and everything else to come after us, it would indeed become a nuisance. But...
"Well, if that’s what you want, feel free."
Bowing to an opponent is the mark of a novice; countering them is for the intermediate. And the master?
"If it comes to that, Mr. Hearst might find one more thing to be happy about."
"Are you threatening me right now?"
"How could I dare threaten the Associate Director of the BOI? I’m just trying to tell you an interesting story."
You make the opponent back down on their own.
"Love stories are always popular with the public. Especially if it’s a forbidden love that shouldn't exist."
"......."
I was worried my timing might be off, but seeing the color drain from Tolson’s face, it seemed I’d hit the mark perfectly.
"...What are you trying to say?"
"I’m just telling you about the promotional comic we’re preparing. Shall we say... a version of Romeo and Juliet with a slight twist in gender?"
The fact that Director Edgar Hoover’s right-hand man had functions beyond his professional duties was a secret that hadn't leaked anywhere yet. In this era, where there was an immense aversion to homosexuality, being caught would mean at least dismissal and potentially chemical castration, so he would have naturally taken every precaution to keep it hidden. And yet, to be found out here in Chicago, thousands of kilometers away from D.C.—no wonder he was so flustered.
"Well, the ending hasn't been decided yet, so I’m not sure how it will turn out."
I didn't need to show him evidence. In the first place, the only evidence was my memory from my past life, so there was nothing to show, but people always fear the unknown the most, don't they? The worry and fear of whether I possessed the evidence to destroy them.
"...My time is up. I’ll be taking my leave."
"Oh, what a shame. If we had more time, we could have had a longer conversation, Associate Director."
That was enough to keep Director Edgar Hoover leashed in his doghouse.
The process of dressing the Chicago Outfit in the shell of the SGO was quite complex. Because the Pinkertons—our Chicago neighbors—had made such a mess of things in the 19th century, we had to obtain all sorts of permits to enter the private detective and security industries. It was a good thing Mr. Ahern, our lawyer, handled most of it; otherwise, I would have had a massive headache trying to turn a gang into a security firm. Well, it seemed the hard work had paid off.
"Certainly, your methods and mine are quite different."
My father-in-law, who had been watching organization members walk around in uniforms instead of the usual mafia-style coats, looked at me from the seat next to mine in the car.
"I thought I was using my head, but you handle everything in a way that no one can complain about, even in plain sight. Thanks to that, the burden on the organization has been greatly reduced."
"That is only thanks to your permission, Boss."
If he hadn't allowed it, could I, an Asian man from a laundry family, have ever pulled this off? Of course, the process wasn't smooth, but the fact remains that my father-in-law provided the foundation for everything I achieved. That is why, even now, with SCC and my other businesses having grown significantly, I still respect his territory.
Unless he moves against me first, I will never betray him. Though, since you never know what might happen with people, I should always be prepared for that possibility.
"Permission, nonsense. Helping family is only natural. You’ve proven you’re worthy of being my family. Ugh."
It was then that my father-in-law, who had been laughing, groaned and clutched his head.
"Boss?"
"It’s nothing. I’ve had a bit of a headache lately. It’ll pass."
He looked like he was in quite a bit of pain for "nothing." Besides, I could see some red spots on his neck, too.
"Wouldn't it be better to visit a hospital?"
"A hospital? If the world finds out Al Capone went to a hospital for a mere headache, they’ll laugh and say I’ve turned into a coward. I can’t have that."
Well, the hospital isn't a respawn point, sir. Shouldn't you live a healthy life, if only for Sonny’s sake?
"In that case, I think it would be best if you took some Sulfadine. I have some pills left over in the lab, so I’ll bring them next time."
"Lee, you worry too much."
"Your health is good for the organization, Boss."
It was a bit toxic, so there would be side effects if he took it for too long, but if it was just a minor illness, he’d be fine before then. Regardless, if my father-in-law were sick, Rita would be sad.
-...This is NBC. It is 12:00 PM Eastern Time, and we are bringing you the NBC Noon News. Our first story.
It was then that the news of the day poured out from the car radio, which I’d salvaged from a Chicago police vehicle.
-This morning, Joe 'The Boss' Masseria, one of the major gang bosses in New York, was assassinated.
That news was the announcement of the end of the Castellammarese War—the bloody conflict between the two New York gangs.
"What? Masseria is dead? Huh, well now."
My father-in-law, listening to the news, dropped the cigar from his mouth in surprise. I was just as flustered. Of course, it wasn't bad news. The fact that the war had ended a year earlier than in original history meant...
"Boss, I think the time has come."
It meant that the formation of the Commission and the Syndicate, which would unite the gangs spread across the United States, was right before our eyes.