Chapter 29 - Quietly yet Intensely at First
The Brooklyn trip was over in less than a day.
When I got home past midnight, my mother was asleep, slumped over at the dining table.
I tried to be as quiet as possible while changing my clothes and unpacking my bag.
That's when my mother slowly woke up and looked at me.
"My eldest, are you just getting in now?"
"The work ended sooner than I expected."
"That's a relief. But what's that?"
I'd tried to hide it quietly, but I was holding a Bible in my hand.
My mother's eyes widened in surprise, then she broke into a pleased smile.
"My son, firm in his resolve not to be swayed by the devil's temptation. I'm so very proud of you. That Bible will always protect you."
"I think so too. From now on, I'll keep it with me."
"That's a good decision, son."
After sharing a goodnight hug with my mother, I lay down in bed to sleep.
As I reviewed the day in my mind, different scenes played out before me.
Especially those thirty rifles kept flashing through my mind.
It was a shame I couldn't bring even one of them with me.
But honestly, where could I have hidden something that big?
Even if I dismantled it, the frame itself was so large that I would have easily drawn suspicion on my way back to Manhattan.
The rifles the IRA was trying to smuggle in were bolt-action Lee-Enfield models.
With the outbreak of the First World War, this rifle was being manufactured by Remington in America.
For that reason, although made in the US, it used British .303 ammunition.
Since that round was also easily available in Ireland, the Lee-Enfield was a suitable choice for the IRA.
That aside, the manager is probably being questioned at the police station by now, but the only name he knows is "Nox the Irishman."
There's no way he'll mention Tanner, and if I want to steer suspicion away from the Irish White Hand and the Italian gangs, there's only one way to do it.
***
Brooklyn Police Station.
Davey Johnson, who had passed out, found himself face to face with a police officer as soon as he regained consciousness.
He'd been brought to the station as a key witness and was now being questioned.
"What was missing from the bonded warehouse?"
"I don't know either. There are all sorts of things in there. I'll have to check in the morning."
"Then you also don't know why the Italians were there?"
"I don't know."
"Then why did you give them the warehouse key?"
"I didn't give it to them—they took it from me. Can't you tell by looking at the beating I took, getting knocked out cold?"
Davey shoved his bruised, bleeding face toward the officer.
'Damn it, did he really have to beat me this bad?'
Anger kept boiling up inside him.
But he figured he must have done it for his own good, so he swallowed it down and just kept shaking his head at the police.
"When I came to, the first thing I saw was a police officer. So I really don't know anything."
"All right, that's enough for now. We'll be counting on your cooperation with the investigation going forward, Mr. Johnson."
The first round of police questioning was over without incident.
But on the way home, an even greater danger awaited Davey Johnson.
"The boss wants to see you."
A far more dangerous crowd than the police.
He was taken to see the boss of the White Hand Gang.
As Davey Johnson found himself alone with him, cold sweat trickled down his face and his legs felt shaky.
Dinny Meehan.
A man who ruled Brooklyn's Irish laborers and unions with an iron fist—a figure so powerful that even the Italian gangs feared him.
And like the traditional Irish gang bosses, he never touched the drug trade.
But now Johnson had helped the Italian gangsters smuggle cocaine?
If Dinny Meehan found that out because of this incident, Johnson couldn't even imagine how painfully Meehan would kill him.
That's how terrifying Dinny Meehan was.
"Did you do business with those Italian bastards?"
"No, absolutely not. I didn't mention it to the police, but those guys already knew everything—the weapons heading for the IRA and the location of the warehouse. Otherwise, why would I give them the key? You know, I was the one helping to smuggle arms for the IRA."
Dinny Meehan's murderous glare.
Even as he tried to avoid it, Johnson's gaze kept drifting to the hatchet resting on the arm of Meehan's chair.
'This is exactly the moment to keep your head straight, Johnson!'
Hadn't he expected this?
He'd already prepared his answers in advance. His own life—and his family's—depended on this.
Steeling himself, Johnson didn't flinch as he met Dinny Meehan's eyes.
For several tense seconds, they stared each other down.
One man trying to see through him, the other doing his best to hide everything.
If Meehan found even the smallest clue, that hatchet would come down on him.
As Johnson's hands grew damp with sweat, he finally revealed the crucial information he'd been hiding.
"I didn't tell the police, but the culprit is someone named Nox."
Johnson offered up the information, hoping to turn Dinny Meehan's attention onto Nox.
As expected, Dinny Meehan reacted.
"That came out of nowhere. Go on."
"The truth is, those Italian bastards threatened and beat me until I handed over the key... It's embarrassing, but I was so scared, I just hid."
But then, after the gunshots and a while later, a man showed up.
He introduced himself as Nox.
"...That's completely out of left field. And?"
"He said he had Irish blood too. He told me he couldn't forgive me for giving the key to the Italians just because I'd been threatened and roughed up a bit, so he beat me until I passed out... See this?"
"Then why didn't you tell the police about this?"
There was a subtle shift in Dinny Meehan's demeanor. Davey Johnson noticed and chose his words extremely carefully.
"If they pin this on an Irishman, who do you think they'll suspect? And the dead guys are Italian Camorra..."
Naturally, the police would suspect White Hand first. They had bribed some officers, but that didn't mean the whole police force was friendly toward the gang.
If the sole witness had explicitly stated that the suspect was Irish, White Hand would have been in serious trouble.
"I'll give you that. It was a smart move."
Dinny Meehan's expression softened noticeably.
Since the whole dock incident had happened out of the blue, it was just plausible enough.
Rubbing his chin, Dinny Meehan took on the air of a detective, asking himself questions and trying to find the answers.
"This Nox guy… He couldn't have been working alone. There must have been others with him. But how did he know to show up at just the right moment? He obviously knew about the weapons in advance, and he's Irish, too..."
The IRA, founded just this year, was busy recruiting and training soldiers to properly confront the British government. If Nox was somehow connected to that...
Davey Johnson carefully watched every change in Dinny Meehan's expression. Without a doubt, Meehan's attention was now squarely on Nox. To make sure he didn't get caught up in this, Johnson decided to drive the point home.
"Before he knocked me out, he gave up some important information. He told me where the weapons were hidden."
"He didn't take the weapons?!"
Like the police, Dinny Meehan didn't think the culprit had acted alone.
Naturally, he was certain there were several people involved, and that they would have taken the weapons.
But instead of taking the weapons, this Nox guy had eliminated the Italians and even told them where the weapons were hidden.
With a look of realization, Dinny Meehan let out a dry chuckle.
"Maybe this Nox is actually working alone. And he could be an IRA secret agent."
Hmm? That didn't sit quite right, but…
"...It really might be true."
Davey Johnson nodded in agreement.
From that day's conversation, the story of Nox started heading in a strange direction.
***
Manhattan, Lower East Side.
76 Forsyth St., Tenement House.
Tanner Smith came looking for me three days after I'd gotten back from Red Hook.
I was coming back from a meeting with a brassiere hook supplier with my mother when I found him waiting at the entrance.
And then, on the rooftop, I listened as he told me what was happening in Brooklyn.
"You—did the IRA send you? So your goal wasn't to build a gang, but to create a military organization for Irish independence? Here in New York?"
"What the hell are you talking about all of a sudden… sir?"
"Davey Johnson told me. The White Hand boss thinks you're an IRA secret agent."
Calfa was playing the informant in Red Hook, and then there's Three-Fingered Jack, too.
"They said they were genuinely impressed with your skills. You could've just taken out three, but you went and killed eight. What exactly did you do over there?"
Instead of answering, I scratched my cheek.
I'd already guessed how the manager would react.
He'd play dumb for his own survival, and I'd even knocked him out to help with that.
But I hadn't expected the manager to turn me into an IRA secret agent.
Did I hit him too hard and knock something loose?
Then again, maybe it's for the best.
I had no particular reason to hide things, so I explained what had happened that day.
After listening, Tanner summed it up with a dumbfounded look.
"So, on the very day you happened to show up, the Italian gang decided to go after the smuggled weapons. And since those weapons happened to get funneled toward the IRA, you got labeled a secret agent?"
"Exactly."
"Then why did you leave the weapons behind?"
"How was I supposed to carry all that on a tram?"
"Fair point."
Tanner let out a hollow laugh, then gave me a strange look.
"Well, one thing's clear now. You're Irish, Nox."
What would happen if that rumor got out?
Not as someone with a mixed background, but as an Irishman.
As a hero who killed those Italian bastards.
As a freedom fighter fighting for Irish independence.
Even if people found out the IRA secret agent story was nonsense, it wouldn't matter.
Even if I'm not actually a freedom fighter, those first two things would definitely stick.
"I'm sure this'll help you build a gang and unite the Irish."
I was thinking the same thing as Tanner.
This is a winning hand for me.
No matter what I do for a while, I can keep my real identity hidden.
"You didn't plan all this from the start, did you?"
I just gave a crooked smile in response.
Tanner narrowed his eyes even more.
"You're saying you calculated all this?"
"I'll leave that to your imagination."
"Think I can imagine that? What are you, some kind of gen—"
"But anyway."
I cut Tanner off and asked him a question.
"What's your relationship with the boss of the White Hand Gang?"
"It's nothing special. Sometimes we curse each other out, sometimes we join forces. Why do you ask?"
"Weren't the White Hand Gang the ones who took over Red Hook Harbor?"
"That's right. In fact, the White Hand basically controls the Brooklyn docks and the north."
The Italian gangs mostly operate in the south, and thanks to the White Hand, they haven't been able to move north.
So in the end, if you want to take Red Hook, you either have to absorb the White Hand or crush them, but Tanner hadn't considered going that far.
Just looking at what happened with the harbor manager shows it.
It might be helpful, but ultimately, if you don't get past the giant that is the White Hand, the scale of smuggling will always be limited.
But what if I suggested we take them down?
Would Tanner see it as a good thing that I'm aiming for an even bigger gang than the Marginals?
He might start to feel uneasy, worried that he could be next instead of a partner.
Then I might stab him in the back too.
So there's no need to rush.
If history unfolds as it originally did, the White Hand will collapse on its own—from internal division.
And in that chaos, the gang that seizes control of Brooklyn will swallow the harbor, and it will be the Italian gangs who become the rulers of Prohibition.
I need to overturn the table.
***
Brooklyn, Navy Street.
A wing of the Camorra made up of men from Naples. In a dim, secretive backroom, the leadership of the Navy Street gang gathered together.
The topic: the bodies discovered in Red Hook. Because of them, the police investigation was now reaching in their direction.
"I just don't get it. Why did the guys running an errand, delivering cocaine on orders, get themselves shot up and killed there?"
Amazingly, even the upper ranks didn't know what schemes their satellite crew had been hatching behind their backs. Worse yet, since the entire group had been wiped out like idiots, there was no way to find out.
"The only thing we can do is maybe drag in Davey Johnson, the eyewitness, and torture him. I'm sure there's something he hasn't told the police."
"As long as he didn't rat us out for threatening him and helping with the smuggling, that's good enough."
Messing with Johnson, who keeps dropping by the police station as a so-called eyewitness, would only make things worse.
"If the Sicilian guys catch wind of this, they'll try to make a deal with Johnson. Leave him alone for now."
They had been at war with those Sicilian bastards for years.
But finally, it looked like the end was in sight.
The Sicilian boss, Morello, had been arrested and was about to go to trial.
If it came out at a time like this that they'd threatened and bribed the harbor manager, they could end up standing in court themselves.
Of course, it was only a temporary pause. Once the dust settled, their plan was to grab Davey Johnson and beat the whole story out of him. If he knew something, they'd get it out of him one way or another.
The meeting dragged on without reaching any real conclusion.
By the time the conversation shifted from the dockside bodies to the Sicilian crew, a man entered the room.
"I've got some intel. The culprit is Nox."
"...Who's that?"
"He's an Irishman."
"So it was the White Hand bastards after all!?"
The man quietly shook his head.
"Even the White Hand boss doesn't know this guy."
"….. Then who is it?"
It wasn't just the Naples crew—Sicily's gangsters were asking the same question.
"Nox?"
Who is that?
A name no one had heard before spread quietly yet intensely, like the mysterious Black Hand.