Chapter 27 - Gloomy Brooklyn
Inside the tram, the seats were arranged much like those on a bus.
Pulling my fedora down low and wrapping a scarf around my neck and jaw, I sat on the narrow wooden bench by the left window, gazing outside.
Or at least, I tried to, but it was impossible to focus with all the kids on board.
Most of the passengers were families.
Within the lively chaos, I could easily figure out where they were headed and why the kids were so excited and noisy.
"Dad, instead of Luna Park, how about we go to Steeplechase Park?"
"There'll be no sudden changes of plans. More importantly, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't cry in front of the rides like last year."
"I've grown up a lot since then, you know? This time I'm going to try the rides I couldn't go on because of my height."
For New Yorkers, the most popular destination for weekends and holidays was Coney Island, the peninsula at the southern tip of Brooklyn.
With its long stretch of beach and three amusement parks, it was New York City's quintessential family vacation spot.
Sometimes, Roa would mutter in her sleep, sounding like a little old woman, "When are we going to Coney Island…?"
I really should plan a trip there soon.
With a metallic screech, the tram began crossing the Manhattan Bridge.
In my past life, I'd crossed quite a few of the bridges connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn, but the only thing that had never changed was the East River.
Sailing ships, steamships, and barges were moored at the riverfront docks. Even though it was the weekend, harbor workers scurried around like ants, busy as ever.
Finally, I arrived in Brooklyn after crossing the bridge.
When I got off at the Jay Street intersection to transfer to another tram, the families heading to the amusement park also disembarked.
The cheapest way to get from Manhattan to Coney Island was to transfer from the streetcar to the subway.
It was a route mostly preferred by workers struggling to make ends meet.
A father, who had swapped his rotten-egg-smelling work clothes for his best outfit, held his child in one arm as he moved toward the transfer station to catch the subway bound for Coney Island.
While waiting for the streetcar to Red Hook, I looked around.
Just a river away, the scenery was distinctly different from Manhattan. The streets were wider and quieter, and most of the buildings were fairly low.
Most of the residents here were immigrants—Irish, Italian, Jewish, German, and Scandinavian.
You'd hardly spot any Asians.
At this point, I figured the East River, though only 600 meters wide, did a fine job of keeping out Asians.
"Are you headed to Red Hook, too?"
A man who was waiting for the tram sidled up to me and spoke.
This happened right after a group of men appeared on the street.
Surely they weren't gathering for church on a Sunday morning.
They were the kind of guys whose instincts drew them to drift the streets—gang members.
The man who'd come close to me spoke again, trying to make it look like we were together.
Better to look like a pair than stand alone.
"Do you work at the harbor? I work at Pier 6."
"I'm just stopping by for a bit."
"Oh, so you don't live around here. Where are you from, Manhattan? Anyway, since it's Sunday, the streetcars barely run. Damn, unless you're working, you might as well not bother coming out."
The man rambled on by himself, but even as he spoke, his eyes darted back and forth, sneaking glances at the movements of the gang members.
Once he was sure they'd disappeared, he put some distance between us again.
"You have to be careful around here. People die all the time— you never know what could happen."
It wasn't much better in Manhattan, but objectively, Brooklyn was by far the dirtiest and most dangerous part of New York City.
Dockworkers, shipbuilders, and workers from big manufacturing plants all lived mixed in with the middle class here, so the gap between rich and poor was extreme.
Unlike Manhattan, where law enforcement was concentrated, Brooklyn was much looser in that regard, and the law wasn't really enforced.
That's why Manhattan gangs so often operated in Brooklyn.
Delavan Street, the heart of South Brooklyn's Red Hook.
The area was full of rough-looking men— all harbor workers.
On one side of the wide street, a few street vendors raised their voices here and there.
"Fresh fish, caught just this morning!"
"Oysters are the best for Sunday dinner! Come take a look, you won't regret it!"
Walking past the street vendors, I stopped at the stall that looked like it had the fewest customers.
Knives were neatly arranged on a handcart—everything from butcher's knives to paring knives were on display.
"You can't tell just by looking. You have to feel them yourself. No need to buy, just take your time and browse."
I took my eyes off the knives and addressed the man sitting in the chair—clearly the owner.
"Tanner sent me."
"…"
The man jerked slightly, then held out his hand. The ring finger and pinky on his right hand were missing.
"Jack Dalton."
"I'm Nox."
Jack's lips curled on one side as he stared intently at my face.
"So Tanner hired someone from Chinatown. That's just like him."
I neither confirmed nor denied.
"Business is done for the day."
Jack brushed off his seat, stood up, and unfurled a rolled-up piece of cloth to cover his cart.
Then he removed the locking bar and began to push the cart away.
But his left leg was also gone below the knee.
Every time he pushed the cart, you could hear the wooden prosthetic hitting the ground.
'A few years ago, I saved him from being killed by a gang on Mulberry Street.'
Fearing retaliation, Jack left Manhattan and, with Tanner's help, settled in Brooklyn.
While running his business, he also acted as an informant, passing along local news.
That meant Tanner was keeping a close eye on Brooklyn, too.
"Anyway, this isn't a good time. Things have gotten pretty rough lately…"
"Hey, Three-Fingered Jack!"
Someone in the group gathered on the opposite sidewalk called out to Jack.
He was noticeably younger.
"It's not even that late, and you're heading home already?"
"I'm not feeling well. An old friend's son dropped by, too."
"You've always got an excuse. Damn, at this rate, how are you gonna pay up on time?"
"Don't worry about it."
Looks like even this guy is getting shaken down for protection money.
The sun was blazing, but heavy clouds were looming overhead.
Jack's back as he pulled the cart looked endlessly gloomy and downcast. And on top of that—
"Curious about my leg and fingers, aren't you?"
No, actually, I really don't want to hear it now that things feel so bleak.
"If you make a fortune gambling, you'll lose it all gambling, too. If you chase women and don't watch out, you'll catch syphilis and die, and if you show off with a knife, you end up like this."
"Hm, so you did all three, huh?"
"Not the womanizing. I'm still alive, aren't I?"
So, Jack was once known as a knife man, got into trouble gambling, and wound up like this.
"That's my place over there."
They say there's a shantytown along the Red Hook waterfront that's a disgrace to Brooklyn, and that's where Jack lived.
And that's not all.
He was even married.
"You're home already?"
"Had a guest drop by."
Sigh—just so gloomy, so depressing.
Times like this always make me think of Roa.
Positive thoughts, positive thoughts.
But I wasn't the only one thinking that way.
"Hey, Dad!"
"Did something happen today?"
The three kids came bursting out of the house.
When Jack opened his arms, they jumped right into his embrace.
"Nothing happened. I just came home to play with my little ones."
That's why he keeps going.
Just like that, the dark clouds hanging over Jack vanished in an instant.
Actually, the sun was shining all along.
Behind the shanty, there was a small vegetable garden.
We set up chairs next to it and sat down for a discreet conversation.
"You mentioned earlier that things felt tense around here. Do you know there's a civil war going on between the Italian gangs right now?"
"I'd like to hear the details—especially about how the power's divided."
"Look at you, must have money to spare. Anyway, listen up. Right now, there are four main factions in Brooklyn."
The Italian Morello Gang.
Next are the other Italian gangs—the Navy Street and Coney Island gangs.
"And then there's the Irish gang. The guys who tried to collect protection money earlier? That's them. I could complain about those bastards all day, but you have to admit, thanks to them holding out, we're at least able to scrape by."
In the early days of Brooklyn, the Irish were the dominant group.
But around the 1900s, a wave of Italian immigrants poured in, surpassing the Irish.
Since the composition of immigrants directly affects the size of the gangs, the Irish are now at a disadvantage.
"Anyway, let's set that aside for now. What really matters is the infighting among the Italians."
It started as a fight over control of the Manhattan gambling halls and the battle to monopolize the area. Then it expanded into the Mediterranean vegetable trade, the coal business, and even the ice trade.
"Last year, the leader of the Morello Gang got sent to prison, and his allies—one after another—were gunned down."
That set off a chain of events: both sides started sending assassins and raiding safehouses. It's still going on—even now, people are dying in Brooklyn almost every day.
"And those guys threatening the harbor security guard? They're Italians too."
"Which side are they with?"
"If you want the details, they're basically a branch of the Navy Street gang. If what you did ever reaches the top, you'll have a real problem on your hands."
That's why Tanner had ignored the security guard's requests so far—the risk was just too great.
One thing that puzzled me, though, was why Tanner, who was across the river, was being asked for help instead of the local Irish gang.
Jack explained it simply.
"They're bastards too. You think they'll go easy on him just because they're fellow Irish? They're even more vicious and ruthless."
Besides, they had no reason to get tangled up in the Italian power struggle.
"As far as they're concerned, if the Italian gangs kill each other off, that's perfect. Wouldn't you agree?"
I nodded in agreement.
After telling me the exact location of the guys who needed to be dealt with, Jack stuck out his hand. He was expecting payment for the information.
"How much do I owe you?"
"I don't really set a price."
So there was no upper limit; if I handed over just a dollar, I imagined he'd jab my eyes out with those three fingers of his.
Steeling myself, I handed him three dollars.
With no visible reaction, Jack took the money—so I added five more dollars on top.
There was more work waiting for me in Brooklyn than in Manhattan, after all.
"I'm counting on you."
Jack stared at me intently, then muttered under his breath,
"You're not just a regular hitman, are you?"
"There's a small gambling den in the warehouse marked 'Pier 6, 1889'. It's run by those guys and targets the dockworkers."
Before sunset, I spent my time scouting out the area and getting a sense of its layout.
I watched the people going in and out of the warehouse Jack mentioned, biding my time until night fell. While I waited, I kept mulling over Jack's words.
To be honest, aside from the details about the job, everything else he said was vague and unhelpful. Notably, he hadn't bothered to mention the names of the big gangs dominating Brooklyn.
But that didn't matter. I already knew who they were.
The book I read in my previous life, "Mafia Genealogy," began right here in Brooklyn.
A Napoli-born Italian gang based in Navy Street and Coney Island—that's the group people commonly refer to as the Camorra.
On the other side stood the Sicilian Morello Gang. But their true name, Mafia, still wasn't known to the public.
At the time, the press and locals lumped together the Camorra and their rivals under a single sinister label: the Black Hand—an invisible force in the darkness, enforcing silence through omertà and terrifying the Italian immigrant community.
The true source, submerged beneath the surface, wasn't hiding in Manhattan. It was curled up here, in Brooklyn.
And then there was the Irish gang, the White Hand, whose very name showed their steely resolve to wipe out the Italian Black Hand.
Once these three factions and the Manhattan gangs got tangled together, a storm of madness would tear through Brooklyn.
And whoever emerged victorious from that blood-soaked war would claim the final name. They are soon to become the Mafia.
That's why Brooklyn matters so much.
And now that night has fallen, I'm about to dip my toes into this war of madness—quietly, without drawing attention.
Just as I stood to leave and move on,
I heard footsteps behind me—more than one person.
Quickly, I ducked back into hiding.
Soon, several shadows stretched across the warehouse wall.
Each shadow was holding something.
It definitely looked like a gun.