Chapter 30 - Protection Service for Managing Connections
An Irishman named Nox took out those Italian guys.
No one knows if it's true, but they say he's connected to the IRA, which was organized for Irish independence.
Rumors like these were spreading among the Brooklyn gangs.
Who could have started them?
For one thing, it wasn't me or Tanner.
Davey Johnson wouldn't have any reason to bring up the IRA either.
If he did, what was simply a gang-related murder would end up drawing in the British government.
That just leaves the White Hand boss, Dinny Meehan.
What was his motive for spreading these rumors?
Late in the evening.
Between 23rd and 42nd Street in Manhattan.
The Tenderloin—New York's biggest entertainment district, full of theaters, dance halls, casinos, salons, and brothels.
At the intersection with West 14th Street, Gavin, a Marginals gang member who had helped protect the picket line, suddenly asked a question.
"That Nox out there isn't the same Nox in front of me, right?"
"What is this, the golden axe and silver axe? What kind of question is that?" (referring to an old folktale about a test of honesty)
"You mean you haven't heard the rumors? It was Nox who wiped out those Italians in Brooklyn."
Cory, who was standing nearby, chimed in as well.
It had been about two weeks since the Red Hook dock murders.
Apparently, it took that long for rumors to make their way from Brooklyn to Manhattan.
"I even heard he's a freedom fighter for Ireland. But there's no way that's you, right?"
"Or is it?"
"There he goes again."
Cory and Gavin exchanged looks, then both flipped up their middle fingers.
"So, have you ever been to Ireland? Actually, do you even know where it is?"
"Doubt it. Why don't you try getting independent from your own house first."
I just snorted and replied,
"The truth is bound to come out sooner or later."
"Yeah, like anyone's gonna believe that."
"I mean, seriously, how is it that everyone these days claims he's Nox? Every random guy and his dog is 'Nox' now. Embarrassing, isn't it? Just stay a rookie for now."
The two of them completely brushed me off, denying any connection to Nox.
Naturally, there are a lot of people in this world with the same name.
Nox just happened to be one of those names.
What was interesting, though, was that as soon as the rumors started spreading, all the Irish guys with the name or nickname Nox were going around bragging, claiming, "I'm that Nox."
The most obvious example was the Hudson Dusters gang.
These guys, who had been teetering on the edge, were suddenly swaggering around for the first time in ages.
All of this stemmed from one man with quite a résumé.
He was a gunman from Manhattan's West Side.
A founding member of the Irish Gopher Gang that had once ruled Hell's Kitchen.
And, along with Circular Jack and Kid York, one of the three bosses who formed the Hudson Dusters on Hudson Street.
Frank 'Goo Goo' Knox.
Of all people, it just had to be him.
Those Hudson Dusters really ought to be wiped out one of these days…
"Goo Goo Knox disappeared for a while—could it be he went to England and took part in the Easter Rising or something?"
"No, he just got out of prison a little while ago. He did time for assault, remember?"
"That's right, he was locked up in Elmira Prison. So what, did he get all fired up about independence in there and somehow become an IRA agent?"
Gavin and Cory talked about Goo Goo Knox the entire way.
It was a bit odd that someone else was getting all the attention by accident, but I didn't mind.
After all, even if the world doesn't know who I am, talent inevitably shines through—like a needle in a bag showing its point, or a crane standing out among chickens—so when the time comes, they'll know naturally.
Anyone who truly understands what the IRA's existence means to the British government wouldn't be foolish enough to mess around.
I have no doubt that before long, all those people pretending to be me will disappear.
"We're here. That building is the salon run by Foley."
A place that sparkled even brighter at night than during the day.
It's the perfect description for the Tenderloin.
The streets overflowed with prostitutes reeking of cheap perfume and touts trying to lure customers into casinos and salons.
Of course, my reason for coming here had to do with Tanner's request.
'There's a man who runs several salons across Manhattan.'
'One of them in the Tenderloin has run into trouble, and I'd like you to take care of it.'
The salon's owner was being threatened with assassination. On top of that, he was one of the key politicians in the Democratic political machine, Tammany Hall.
At the entrance of the salon, Tanner's right-hand man, Patrick, was waiting for us.
"Glad you made it in time."
"We ran so we wouldn't be late. Can't you see how much I'm sweating?"
Gavin joked, but Patrick just looked at me and pointed to the top of the building.
"Let's go up."
The first floor looked like any ordinary bar.
qBut when we went up to the second floor, it was an entirely different world.
Heavy red velvet curtains, solid oak furniture, and Victorian-style wallpaper created a luxurious atmosphere.
Despite the rather somber mood, you could tell at a glance that the patrons weren't ordinary people.
This was a place where those who had—or were after—power, influence, or status gathered.
And there we were, standing awkwardly by the entrance like pork belly accidentally tossed in with grade-A Korean beef.
After a moment, a waiter led us toward a hallway.
If you want to swim with the big fish, you need to see this for yourself.
See where and how capitalists, high-ranking officials, and socialites let loose.
In my mercenary days from my previous life, I'd sometimes served as bodyguard for important people—those featured on Time magazine's list of the world's wealthiest.
As we followed the waiter, I glanced at the guests out of the corner of my eye.
Elegant gestures, hushed tones, an air of composure—they might have lived in another era, but these vibes never change.
The waiter led us to an office.
A man well past sixty greeted us.
Big Tom Foley.
A respected businessman and politician in the Lower East Side's 2nd District.
'Don't let appearances fool you. His real nature? He's no different from us—just another gangster.'
Tom Foley had long-standing ties with the gang bosses, especially Paul Kelly of the Five Points Gang.
But recently, Paul Kelly left the gang to become Vice President of the ILA, the American longshoremen's union.
With the Five Points Gang losing cohesion, Tanner seized the opportunity.
In fact, Tanner Smith was able to form the Marginals Gang thanks to backing from Tammany Hall politicians.
Political connections were nothing new.
"Mr. Foley. I'm Patrick, in charge of your security today."
"It's been a while. But…"
Tom Foley glanced over us, his expression darkening.
"You all look pretty inexperienced. And what about that guy?"
When I pulled down my scarf, Tom Foley's expression grew even less approving.
"So you're the Irish-looking Asian I'd heard about."
"He's the best among us, and I'll be here too. You don't have to worry about safety."
This is why Patrick had to show up today.
Gavin and Cory are only 21, and I'm just 17.
Without Patrick, we might have been kicked out on the spot.
Of course, I'll decide how we handle the security.
"There's not much time, so it can't be helped."
Tom Foley pulled four guns out of his desk drawer and laid them on the table.
"Take whichever you want."
It was odd for the client to be the one providing firearms, but that's reality.
How many gangsters actually have gun permits?
Tom Foley handed out the guns to make sure his own security was airtight.
In other words, this was his way of showing confidence that even if the police caught them, he could smooth things over.
Tom Foley, dressed in a neatly pressed coat and a tall top hat that looked like something Lincoln would have worn, tapped Patrick on the shoulder.
"I'm counting on you."
"Leave it to us."
We followed Tom Foley out of the salon.
I kept my distance as if I wasn't part of the group, while Patrick, Gavin, and Cory closed in around Foley to form a protective circle.
A short while later, we arrived at a casino called
Like Tom Foley's own salon, it catered to powerful clientele, and first-time visitors weren't even allowed inside.
Even the doormen at the entrance looked fierce.
The way they looked at Tom Foley versus how they swept their eyes over us made the difference in attitude painfully clear.
"Only two bodyguards can come in."
"Understood. Then have a good time, Mr. Foley."
Patrick gave me a nod.
Gavin and Cory waited outside, while I followed him into the casino.
With my face half-covered by a scarf, I kept some distance from Tom Foley and took in the scene.
The customers were all upper class.
Most of the women, dressed elegantly in Victorian velvet dresses, were gathered around the roulette tables.
The men clustered around card games like poker and faro, as well as dice games like craps and hazard.
There are gambling houses scattered all across the Lower East Side.
Several blocks of Mulberry and Moss Street, areas densely populated by Jewish and Italian communities, are even referred to as the gambling district. There, the clientele is mostly poor laborers and gangsters.
Here, on the other hand, the main customers are upper class.
The only thing the two types of establishments have in common is that they're all illegal.
Gambling houses and casinos are distinguished by whether they're legal or not.
In 1894, New York State's revised constitution banned all forms of gambling.
So these are all illegal gambling houses, not casinos.
At least, that's what the law says, but in reality, gambling was rampant, regardless of the law.
I was sure that the police would never raid this place.
One of the middle-aged men playing dice was a senior NYPD official whose name had even appeared in the papers.
When he noticed me looking, he responded with a triumphant shout.
"Five, five, five... Yes! All right! Luck's on my side tonight!"
"Good thing I followed along."
"You've got to ride the wave wherever luck lands, you know."
Prim, tinkling laughter and deep, solemn chuckles filled the casino.
In any case, nothing happened that night. During the day, the other guys would be on duty anyway.
"Well then, see you again tomorrow."
After escorting Tom Foley back to his mansion, I didn't make it home until dawn.
***
"When will Roa come to Brooklyn... Sheesh."
Whether it's some kind of reservation system or what, she always manages to call right as I get home.
Sometimes I even hear her sighing like a little old lady.
She really is asleep, right?
During the day, I work at my mother's company.
At night, I hit the streets for a second job.
Maybe I'm living too hard, but honestly, it's more enjoyable than my previous life, when I battled PTSD with zero expectations.
These days, I wake up with that kind of attitude.
***
I got up a little late and headed downstairs.
A small company plate hangs in the Underground Workshop.
Free Your Body Freedom for Your Body—FYB for short.
That's the name of my mother's clothing factory.
Pretty sleek and futuristic, don't you think? I'm the one who came up with it, and honestly, I think I did a great job.
As I stood in front of the door, admiring it, Leo and Marcus came down carrying heavy bolts of fabric.
"Jeez, there he goes again."
"If you're going to show up late, at least have some shame."
"I was just cleaning the sign, okay."
"Cleaning it with your eyes, huh?"
After leaving the shoe-shining business, those two now help out at my mom's company.
The place is mostly staffed by women and focuses on sewing, so, naturally, they needed someone to help haul things around.
Of course, there was some pushback at first.
'This isn't what we signed up for!'
'Yeah, we wanted something bigger!'
'Something with a little more thrill! Even a masterpiece starts with a single dot.'
'There are all kinds of ways to fill the margins. You can start from the focal points, or you can begin from the outer edges—the marginals.'
'In other words, you guys are already part of the Marginals, just like me.'
'...No way, screw you. You could start your own religion with that mouth of yours. Yeah, go ahead and found one. You'd have no trouble recruiting followers.'
These guys had been hardened by the world from a young age, so they didn't fall for it.
'How about $1.50 a day?'
'I'm in, starting right now. So, this company is ours, right?'
And just like that, the two of them started coming in to work at the basement workshop every morning.
There are a total of 32 employees at FYB.
Sourcing fabric and producing underwear were all running smoothly.
The problem was that, whereas the old scam-artist boss mostly handled contract work, FYB dealt directly with buyers.
FYB made finished underwear products themselves and supplied them straight to stores, but as soon as the strikes started, the heads of clothing manufacturers—the wholesalers—turned their backs on them, so there was no other option.
Nora Graves, president of FYB, my mother was grappling with new headaches over sales.
There had been a robbery at one of our regular buyers on Orchard Street, where all the clothing shops were clustered, and they lost their entire stock.
"Who the hell would steal underwear?" someone remarked.
"No, they took the expensive coats and ready-made suits. Those are easy to sell for cash."
The usual method is to steal high-end clothing and sell it to small shops at a cheap price, or transport it to another area to unload it.
Currently, many garment warehouses are concentrated in the Lower East Side and the Garment District.
On top of that, the area is full of narrow alleys and densely packed buildings, making it an ideal place for theft and a quick getaway.
"Anyway, the owner says he'll have to pay us a bit late."
"Well, want me to pay him a visit?"
"Oh, you. It's not just the owner's fault, you know. Let's wait at least a month and see."
The underlying problem was that there were too few buyers.
To keep selling brassieres in the future, we needed to increase our clients.
And not just street vendors or wholesalers only looking to slam down prices—we needed to diversify where we sold our goods, too.
For example, boutiques or department stores. Places that are nearly impossible to break into without personal connections—school ties, regional links, family relationships.
Sure, I could try tracking down Dopy Benny, that lunatic, or threaten and extort the shop owners. But let's save that as a last resort.
On the third day of guarding Tom Foley, we headed to the Tenderloin again that evening.
Patrick was waiting for us at the entrance to the salon, and I asked him quietly,
"Do you get paid by the hour for bodyguard work?"
"That's not it. I do get paid, but considering my relationship with Boss Tanner, you could say it's almost a favor."
A security service to maintain connections with powerful Tammany Hall politicians.
"Well then, the sooner we finish, the better."
To be honest, I almost want to be the one to pull the trigger myself.
Or, if not that, I'd love to disguise myself as an assassin and have someone else do it for me—but there's still no one I trust enough to handle that.
So I made another suggestion.
"Let's keep our distance while guarding him. If we want to lure out an assassin, that's our best bet."
And if Tom Foley winds up dead, I'll just find new connections.
It's not as if there's a shortage of corrupt politicians to replace him.
It turned out my guess was spot on—two days later, to be exact.
Tom Foley was on his way to the casino for the first time in several days.