Chapter 78 - What's the author's name?
Uncle Larry works at the harbor, less than two kilometers from where I am.
"Imelda's husband seems to have been hurt too. She was at work, but when she heard, she turned pale and ran out."
Some of the husbands of my mother's coworkers are laborers at the harbor.
Among them, Imelda's husband works for the same shipping company as Uncle Larry.
The problem is that the emergency room is completely inaccessible because of the union strike. They say he's badly injured, but he can't even get to a hospital.
It's not a war, so how can they let injured people get trapped like this?
I immediately caught a carriage with my mother and rushed to where Larry was.
Just in case, Jacob rode up front on the coachman's seat beside the driver.
I told Cory to gather the members and come to the dockside.
It was still broad daylight, so there was time before the Dance Hall opened.
There would be plenty of members idling around with nothing to do.
Inside the carriage heading to the dockside, my mother asked with a worried face,
"But son, I'm not bothering you, am I? You're so busy, but you're the only one I could think of. They say he's in the first aid room, but all they have are simple bandages and disinfectant."
"When family gets hurt, nothing else matters. Glad you found the shop."
While I reassured my anxious mother, we arrived at our destination.
South East Harbor, Pier 35.
As soon as I stepped out of the carriage, the roar of the crowd hit me.
The shouts of the agitators leading the union strike and their supporters shook the harbor.
Not far from where we got off, a few women and their companions stood helplessly, unable to push through the mass of over a hundred workers.
Among them was Mrs. Imelda from my mother's workplace.
"What's going on? Still can't get in?"
"The union's blocking the entrance! They're absolute monsters. They don't care if people die. It means nothing to them!"
Imelda cried out in anguish, her face streaked with tears.
Why are workers turning on their own like this? I just couldn't understand the situation. To get an answer, I turned to Jacob, who was a seasoned veteran of union strikes.
"Why are they blocking the way?"
"It's probably because they didn't join the strike, so they're being lynched by the group."
"In those cases, they're often suspected of being company spies. Or rather, people deliberately make them out to be."
So basically, if you don't take their side, you're attacked like a witch hunt. Jacob said that happens a lot when a strike lacks real justification or when a small group of agitators is stirring things up.
They're sacrificing someone to create an atmosphere of fear.
"What do you think would happen if we tried to push through by force?"
"They'd probably mistake us for sluggers hired by the company and attack. Things could get even more out of hand."
"What if we side with the workers?"
"There'd be some confusion at first, but… Wait, who's that guy? What's he doing here?"
Jacob frowned and stared at one spot. Just then, a man had climbed onto a large box to start a speech.
"That's Weiss. He used to work as a slugger under Johnny Spanish and Kid Dropper. You could say he was part of the same crew as Harmon Kalman who died recently."
Harmon Kalman is the boss of the Body Underwear Company who faked his suicide.
"But why is he siding with the workers?"
"He's probably leading the strike to cause trouble, while secretly planning to make a deal with the company on the side. If you milk both sides for all they're worth, you can make a fortune."
If the company refuses, he throws his weight behind the union and stirs up an even more radical strike.
Whether it's legal or not, you have to admit it's a brilliant scheme.
Now I finally understand why the gangs are so obsessed with these strikes.
"Boss, that uncle of yours is hurt, right? I can talk that bastard down myself. Timing is everything with this."
After saying something cryptic, Jacob fixed Weiss with a determined stare.
Then, without warning, he shouted his name at the top of his lungs.
"Weiss! Weiss—!"
Jacob's booming voice brought the rally to a halt before Weiss had even started his speech.
All the workers turned in unison to look at us.
"Even on strike, workers should look out for one another! Clear a path to the infirmary right now, Weiss—!"
The key in agitation is to capture everyone's attention.
Now, with all eyes on Jacob, Weiss frowned in annoyance.
"What are you doing here? Were you hired by management, or what?"
"Seems like that's what you want people to think. That kind of trick doesn't work on me, Weiss. If you don't want this to get out of hand, you better keep it in check."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You think I came here alone? And when fellow workers are injured, what's the point of striking if you're just going to block them? How can you demand something from the company while trampling on your own coworkers' rights?"
I couldn't tell exactly which part convinced him, but Weiss finally reacted.
He scanned the hall, consulted with a few people nearby, and grudgingly allowed us through.
With Jacob stepping in, the collective frenzy began to subside. The workers started to listen, giving themselves a moment to actually think. Of course, there was another crucial reason.
Weiss was probably worried that Tanner might get involved with this strike.
The two had clashed a few times before.
Anyway, we'd better get them out before everyone loses it again, Boss.
Mother, Imelda, and the others had already rushed ahead through the path the workers had opened.
I followed behind with Jacob, but the workers' gazes were anything but friendly.
Depending on how things unfolded, they could block our way again or even attack us.
There's a small first aid room on Pier 35's dockside. It's a hard-won victory the workers gained after fighting fiercely for their rights.
But today, it was used by the workers to imprison one of their own—someone they had beaten—turning it into a tool to stoke fear among others.
When we opened the door to the first aid room, we found several bloodied men inside along with four or five of their comrades protecting them.
"Lotz!"
"Larry, can you hear me?"
Imelda rushed to her husband, and Mother hurried to her brother Larry, checking their conditions.
Larry could barely open his eyes and only let out a faint groan.
"Let's get out of here first."
When I lifted Larry onto my back, I could feel his rough, labored breathing against my shoulder.
"Jacob, clear a path."
"Got it."
As Jacob started to move out, the others hesitated to follow, afraid they might be attacked outside.
"If we get stuck here, it'll be even more dangerous."
At my words, the others clenched their teeth.
The fear of even greater violence if they stayed isolated finally pushed them to action.
They began to hoist the injured men onto their backs.
Jacob charged out the door first.
The rest of us—including Mother and me—followed right behind him.
As we passed, the striking workers watched us with a variety of expressions.
Those who hadn't taken part in the beating looked uneasy.
The ones who had actively joined in glared coldly, their eyes betraying the resentment of predators watching their prey slip away.
Meanwhile, Weiss, whose agitational speech had stopped, glanced at us with a sneer.
Depending on what nonsense came out of his mouth—like a judge handing down a verdict—the workers could turn on us. That's what makes the madness of a mob so terrifying.
We have to get out of here as soon as possible.
Before that bastard says another word.
But sure enough, Weiss spoke up.
"I get helping the wounded, but who said the traitors could go too?"
He was targeting Larry's co-workers who were following behind me.
As if on cue, others started shouting in agreement.
"Those guys are going to get outside, call the reporters, and spread every vicious rumor they can think of!"
"The company'll use them to turn up the pressure on us, you watch!"
Suddenly, our path was blocked. The protesters, riled up by the agitation, stood in front of us, arms crossed, cutting off our escape.
From the wild look in their eyes, I knew even Mother and Mrs. Imelda wouldn't be safe if things turned ugly.
That's when—
"Shut it and move outta the way!"
A voice boomed across the hall, echoing powerfully.
I recognized that voice instantly.
It was Oliver.
"You people just side with the bosses..."
"Shut up, you bastard! Whose side do you think we're on? What company are you even talking about!?"
"······."
While the protesters hesitated, Jacob jumped in quickly.
"Weiss! If you don't want trouble with us and Chuck, clear a path now. We have no intention of interfering with your strike!"
"Who's gonna believe that?"
"If you don't, why don't you put it to the test!"
The standoff was tense.
In the end, Weiss backed down.
Like the Red Sea parting, the way opened up and I could see the members.
Oliver stood tall, brandishing a steel pipe, and behind him were dozens of our members holding all sorts of weapons, their presence completely overwhelming the strikers.
It proved the agitation hadn't taken full hold yet.
Ordinary workers, reluctant to join a mass fight, stepped aside, and we managed to escape the strike crowd's blockade safely.
Oliver came up beside me and whispered in my ear.
"How was that, Boss? Did I do alright?"
"You were amazing."
Then I let my uncle lean on Oliver's broad back.
Mother discussed with Imelda where to take the patients, and they decided to transfer them to Bellevue Hospital.
"I'll head to the hospital soon as well."
Three carriages set off, carrying the patients and their guardians.
Meanwhile, Jacob was engaged in a tense conversation with Weiss, the agitator.
Since Jacob could be in danger if I and the members left now, we stayed until the conversation was finished.
After a short while, Jacob came over to deliver the news.
"He agreed to end it here since it has nothing to do with Tanner. They've just started this strike business, so it seems like they're still being cautious."
So, he wants to just pretend this never happened?
Does he really think that's possible?
My family was hurt because of some damn agitator.
"For now, let's go."
We left the dockside.
Watching the members head back to the dance hall, I climbed into the carriage heading for the hospital.
Founded in 1824, Bellevue is the oldest hospital in New York.
By the time I arrived, Uncle Larry, having received emergency treatment, was sleeping in a hospital room.
Mrs. Imelda's husband and the other injured men were in different rooms.
"Has Aunt arrived yet?"
"No, even if she does, she'll be very late tonight because of work."
The kids are the same way.
To inform the family that someone has been admitted to the hospital, you either have to send a telegram or use a messenger.
Mother contacted them through a messenger stationed at Bellevue Hospital.
"Ciaran, were those people earlier all your colleagues?"
"Yes. We work together."
"Be sure to thank them for me when you go back. If it hadn't been for your colleagues, things could have gotten really dangerous."
"That's true."
At some point, Mother stopped asking questions about the work I do.
That's why she has no idea I'm a gang boss.
All she knows are just the obvious things—like the fact that I run the lingerie shop on the first floor of the Twin Buildings.
It's not that I meant to keep it a secret.
She never asked, so I never had a chance to say anything.
"I'll stay until Linda gets here, so you should go home first. You came straight from work, didn't you?"
Aunt Linda works as a housekeeper for a wealthy family.
She works from six in the morning to eight at night and earns ten dollars a week.
Still, it's steady income, so it's the job Irish women prefer most.
"Oh, and use this to pay the hospital bill. It should be enough to cover everyone else as well."
It was money I'd taken from the late fence, Mileno.
I handed over fifty dollars without hesitation.
Mother, her eyes glistening, gazed at me, then carefully tucked the envelope into her bag.
"Thank you, son."
"Then I'll head out first."
I left the hospital room and went down to the first floor.
There, around a stretcher, a group of police officers and nurses had gathered.
Among them was a familiar figure in a suit—Edgar Hoover.
"What brings you here?"
"I could ask you the same. Are you here because you're unwell?"
I briefly explained the situation.
Hoover frowned and clicked his tongue.
"A strike at such a critical time—what are they thinking? It's not just the transport of US war supplies that's at risk; it threatens the war effort itself."
As soon as I heard Hoover's words, something flashed through my mind.
What kind of time are we living in right now?
Not long ago, the October Revolution in Russia had succeeded, and, centered around the Bolsheviks, power had been reorganized into the Soviets—the councils of workers, peasants, and people's commissars.
The birth of a communist state was now just on the horizon.
Because of this, anarchists and communists influenced by the Russian Revolution are now beginning to plan terrorist acts aimed at overthrowing the government in earnest.
I carefully brought up the topic.
"Strikes aren't always just about helping the workers. Is it normal for workers to gang up and beat a fellow worker simply for not joining the strike?"
"Of course not. Are you saying…?"
"I heard there are people stirring up the strikes in Hell's Kitchen, Chelsea, and the Southeast Harbor, Hoover."
Anarchists, communists, or maybe German spies—any possibility is on the table, isn't it?
At my words, Hoover suddenly turned his gaze to the stretcher.
The patient lying there had limbs that were grotesquely twisted.
"Coincidentally, that fellow is currently suspected of being a spy as well."
All at once, memories from my previous life came flooding back.
There was a time when I, suffering from PTSD, sat in a daze on the couch watching TV.
Fritz Duquesne was a Boer from the South African Republic who operated as a spy during the Boer War and both World War I and II, under the code names 'Black Panther' and 'DUNN'.
Fritz was a man of a thousand faces whose life was marked by deception and fraud, and he was also a master of prison escapes.
On one occasion, while imprisoned in Manhattan, New York, he was receiving treatment for paralysis at a hospital...
Fritz Duquesne, the man of a thousand faces.
His life was so dramatic that he has appeared not only in documentaries but also in movies and American TV shows.
His character was so distinctive, and the sight of his paralyzed body lying on a stretcher overlapped perfectly with the scenes I recalled from TV in my previous life.
"He was originally arrested for insurance fraud, but he had some suspicious items with him."
He was carrying a letter from the German Vice-Consulate in Nicaragua, as well as a folder full of newspaper clippings about ship bombings.
"What's his name?"
"Fritz Duquesne."
Just as I thought.
I studied Duquesne, the con artist and German spy, carefully.
Seeing him groaning, supposedly paralyzed from head to toe, made me itch to speak up.
I had to fight the urge to say something to Hoover.
He's completely fine.
He's going to escape from the prison ward at Bellevue Hospital dressed as a woman.