Chapter 80 - Doing Something That Lowers Your Own Standing
Coffee shop near the Chelsea dockside.
A middle-aged man with slicked-back greasy hair squinted at his companion.
Suddenly dropping by to ask for support for the harbor labor union—what a random request.
"If you've decided to walk away, don't look back, Tanner. Otherwise, you'll just ruin the reputation you worked so hard to build."
"You're not wrong, but I have no intention of making my life complicated."
Tanner continued,
"Kid Dropper is nothing but trouble, Kelly. If you leave him unchecked, it's only a matter of time before you get hurt too."
"If you've got something to say like that, you should take it up with Kid Dropper, not me. I have no authority, and I don't plan to get involved. Besides, come to think of it, I don't see why you'd feel the need to meet with me directly."
The Marginals Gang, which had split a single territory among several factions, couldn't compare to Paul Kelly's stature—unless you were talking about someone who ran a whole neighborhood, like the Gopher Gang boss of Hell's Kitchen.
Tanner didn't deny it.
Though they started their gangs around the same time, the Marginals, in both strength and size, never matched Paul Kelly's Five Points.
They were simply operating on different levels.
Still, Tanner believed his own influence would keep growing, like a boy going through a growth spurt.
Even if that was all just wishful thinking or a dream, he was sure it was better than Paul Kelly, who'd been forcibly retired and stashed away in the ILA.
"No matter what you think of me, business is business I'll offer the same terms as before. Three hundred dollars a month—can't say that's a bad deal."
"Cut the talk about money in front of me. Lowering yourself like this is a real disappointment."
"We both know what we want—no need to dance around it, is there."
Paul Kelly fiddled with the ring on his finger as he stared daggers at Tanner.
"So what if I refuse your deal?"
"Then it'll come down to a bloody fight with Kid Dropper. But you won't see me coming around like this again."
"Take it while it's offered, is that it? How pathetic."
The response was just as Tanner expected.
Careful and cold-blooded, Paul Kelly shut Tanner's proposal down without hesitation.
"If you get tangled up with Kid Dropper, even that position of yours won't be safe, Paul Kelly. Think carefully about which side is really in your best interest."
"There's nothing hard about thinking, you know. Either way, looks like this'll be the last time we talk."
Paul Kelly stood up first.
Left alone, sipping his coffee, Tanner's lips twitched in annoyance.
'Let's see who ends up reaching out first.'
***
Secret space inside the second-floor office of the Twin Buildings.
A lantern was lit on the floor, illuminating a dangerous task. There are many ways to make improvised explosive devices (IEDs), but you can't ignore the historical context.
I chose to take six sticks of long dynamite, bundle them together, and focus on the key part: how to set off the detonator.
I went with a simple method—modifying a pocket watch so that the power from the clockwork would trigger the blasting cap after a set amount of time.
According to the pre-drawn bomb schematics, I made two sets of homemade explosives. I stored the bombs in the airtight room, took only the schematics, and went to find Marcus.
"How's the typing?"
"Right here."
Since it's impossible to mimic the Vice Consul's style perfectly when you haven't even seen it, I kept the sentences brief and in the form of direct orders.
Some letters were faint because the ink ribbon hadn't printed cleanly, but it wasn't enough to really matter.
Just as I finished checking, Marcus pulled out a few more items.
"This is an enlarged map of Southeast Harbor. The book is Karl Marx's The Communist Manifesto... And this was made by your mother."
On a long strip of fabric, red thread had been used to embroider the words—a German slogan.
It read,
It was a line from a poem written by a German poet during World War I.
"Did my mother really make this? Maybe it's because she hasn't used the sewing machine lately, but the lettering is really off."
"She said her hands were shaking. She was so nervous about getting caught while making it that her heart was pounding—she really wanted me to tell you that..."
I hadn't thought of that.
It can't be easy for an Irish person to make something like this, especially in times like these.
"Oh, and here—these are newspapers I collected from a few days ago, all articles about Fritz Duquesne."
New York World, New York Times, and so on.
The articles reported that a scammer who gave public speeches in New York under a false identity might actually be a German spy.
What caught my attention was that he had disguised himself as an Australian officer named Captain Claude Staughton and delivered speeches to the public.
This happened at an event meant to boost sales of Liberty Bonds—the war bonds the US issued to raise funds for the war.
Brazen as ever, Duquesne actually went up on the platform as a German spy and spun fake war stories.
He'd be too risky as a subordinate—I'd probably get stabbed in the back in no time. Still, honestly, when I look at Duquesne's nerve, quick thinking, and cunning, I can't help but find him impressive.
"He really tried everything, huh. For now, let's cut out just the Fritz Duquesne parts from all of these."
The two of us sat down and clipped snippets from old newspaper articles. But Marcus didn't look very happy as he worked the scissors.
"Don't like that we're framing him as a German spy?"
"No, it's just… after stories like this break, it's so obvious what kind of looks German immigrants are going to get. But the funny thing is, dumping one more piece of waste paper in a garbage dump isn't going to change their image anyway."
"So, what's your point?"
"I don't have one. It just frustrates me to see what Germany's doing."
Beyond love and hate, feelings toward one's homeland are always complex. And in part, there's probably some guilt over fabricating a German spy with his own hands. Anyone would feel that way.
"Marcus."
"Huh?"
"Since things have come to this, I'll make sure you're the star of the show."
"...?"
We finished making the bomb and clipping articles.
The next step was to track Kid Dropper's movements and find out where he was staying.
Cory was in charge of that part.
"These past few days, I've been meeting people around the Garment District. Looks like after the harbor, he's preparing to stir up strikes among the clothing factory workers."
A disruptive force in the labor market ecosystem.
The bastard who viciously squeezes the lifeblood out of workers is now moving in on the clothing industry.
"Let him enjoy running around while he still can. Anyway, what about his location?"
"He's got a room at an inn on Bowery Street."
He was apparently using it alone just for sleeping. It was only a block away from the hideout.
"Cory, get yourself a room at the same inn. If you can get a room right next to Kid Dropper's, even better."
"Okay, got it."
"And before we put the plan into action, find out where Dropper keeps his money."
The chances of there being a safe in a cheap motel on Bowery Street were close to zero. It wasn't really about the money, but if he did have some, we might as well take it all.
***
Under Rosenthal's supervision, the items stored in the Marginals' warehouse were successfully relocated.
The casino supplies were also moved one by one to the Basement Second Floor. Most of the work was done in the early morning, when the dance hall was closed, to avoid being seen.
Lenny Goldstein carefully examined each gambling table, diligently writing up instructions for their use in his notebook. All of it would be important for the manual in case the police ever did a surprise raid.
With the Kid Dropper operation and the other businesses running smoothly, I came home early for the first time in a while—with meat in both hands.
Click.
"It's Big Brother! He's even harder to find than Santa Claus!"
Roa came running, but instead of hugging me, she threw her arms around the meat.
"Do you know how much Roa missed you this whole time? You've been well, right?"
"Is that a doll or something?"
At Liam's words, Roa suddenly put her finger to her lips.
"Shh! Roa's Christmas present is a total secret."
"What? The present was a doll?"
"Big Brother, oh no! This much is okay, right? Little Brother is the one who told—not me."
"It's fine. Santa Claus will understand if it's just that."
"Whew, that's a relief. I'll just keep thinking about my present in my heart."
Just then, Mother walked in, saw me, and gave a bright smile.
"It's been a while since we've all had dinner together."
"I'll take care of the meat."
"Okay. Thanks, Son."
Roa was already standing there holding the salt and pepper. We started preparing dinner, and after a brief prayer, picked up our forks.
"By the way, did you visit Uncle Larry at the hospital today?"
"Yeah. He's doing much better. Turns out his bones weren't broken after all. They said he'll be discharged in a few days. Same with Mrs. Imelda's husband. Isn't that a relief?"
"It really is. I should try to visit Uncle Larry before he's discharged."
"He said he wants to see you, too."
Thinking about our relationship until now, that was something I never expected to hear. He'd never considered me part of the family because I'm mixed-blood.
"But if you're busy, you don't have to come. Don't go out of your way."
"I should still go. We're family. Now that I think about it, it's also been a long time since we visited our maternal grandparents, hasn't it?"
Mother nodded slightly. Unlike before, her expression wasn't sad or gloomy. Instead, a distant longing and nostalgia were etched across her face.
Just then, Roa, who had been chewing her meat, suddenly spoke up.
"Roa's never met Maternal Grandfather or Maternal Grandmother. Are they still alive?"
"Huh?"
Mother's eyes widened in surprise as she looked at Roa.
Her eyes quickly turned red, tears welling up.
"Of course they're still alive…"
"Okay, got it. Then, my present for next year—I've decided on it! But I'm not going to say what it is."
Even without saying it, I could guess what Roa meant.
Roa wants to meet our Maternal Grandparents.
Mother realized it, and tears started to fall from her eyes.
"Did… did Roa say something weird? Did I just ruin the mood?"
"No, no. It's just… I feel like I've been so unfair to you two all this time."
"It's because I feel sorry."
Maybe this was a sign she could finally breathe.
After living day by day, barely scraping by, suddenly she had enough space in her life to look back at her family.
That's how I interpreted Mother's tears.
But Roa saw it differently.
She stabbed a piece of meat from Mother's plate with her fork and popped it into her mouth.
"This isn't just steak. This is steak with Mom's Tear Sauce on it."
"Wow, that must be perfectly seasoned."
"You two…"
Thanks to Roa's comment and Liam joining in, we were able to shake off the somber mood.
That night, after playing with her until she nodded off, I carried Roa to bed.
Just as I was about to tuck her in and leave the room, I accidentally overheard something I probably shouldn't have.
"Mmm, the present… I'm definitely not going to say what it is. It's a total secret…"
I guess she was anxious with Christmas not far off.
Roa had just let the secret slip.
***
A few days later, I put the plan I'd been preparing into action. Before that, as a preliminary step, I sent the following telegram to Edgar Hoover:
[My friend has uncovered an important clue about those leading the strike. I'm tailing them to secure solid evidence.]
And that night, I put my plan into motion.
The first target was Slugger Weiss—the man who had accused Uncle Larry and his colleagues of being company spies.
That night, Weiss was playing cards down at the docks. My crew and I surrounded the area around the warehouse and lay in wait.
It wasn't until around midnight that Weiss finally stepped out of the warehouse. Just as we'd observed in our surveillance, he headed alone toward a nearby lodging house.
As I waited along his route, he suddenly stopped to relieve himself against the darkened warehouse wall.
Psshhhhh.
Now's the time. I moved in under cover of darkness, struck Weiss on the head with a club, and, as he staggered, wrapped a rope around his neck.
By the time Weiss's struggles had weakened and his body went limp, Brian and ten members of the crew arrived, pushing handcarts. Each cart carried a single drum.
They stuffed the body into the drum Oliver had brought and loaded it onto the cart. Then, as if just moving ordinary cargo, several handcarts set off at once toward the ship.
At the deserted pier, River Gray's ship was moored.
"All right, let's get it loaded, quick."
Only the drum that Oliver brought was heavy; the rest were empty.
Kali Dustin, the sailor, groaned as he received the drum containing the corpse.
"Damn, this thing is disgustingly heavy…"
Dustin opened the lid on the deck and rummaged through the corpse. After taking whatever loot he wanted, he stuffed some heavy rocks into the drum. That was the last we saw of him as the ship slowly drifted farther away.
That's one taken care of for now.
"All right, let's move."
This time, ten members were mobilized. We climbed into two carriages that had been prepared in advance and headed to the next location.
[Bowery Rest House]
A motel on Bowery Street where Kid Dropper was staying. Cory knocked on the door of Room 205, the room he'd been keeping for a few days.
Click.
Cory checked that it was me and quietly stepped out into the hallway.
"Kid Dropper's asleep. He's so drunk, he won't notice even if we go in."
"Then let's begin."
Cory picked the lock on Room 203, and I slipped quietly inside.