Chapter 41 - They Smuggled All Kinds of Things
Near Newtown Creek, Brooklyn.
An armed group boarded a medium-sized cargo ship.
Below the ship, five more armed men stood waiting.
Among them was a man with thick eyebrows and neatly combed-back hair—Dinny Meehan, boss of the White Hand Gang.
Checking his wristwatch, Meehan spoke.
"I'll say it one more time: under no circumstances should anyone know we're here. Keep your faces covered and don't leave a trace. All right, we'll head out first."
Apart from the group boarding the ship, Dinny Meehan traveled by land.
They mounted horses and set out toward the Italian gang's secret warehouse.
Dinny Meehan wanted to see how many accomplices Nox had and how they intended to handle the job.
This was a direct violation of Tanner Smith's agreement. The promise called for only ten members each from the White Hand and the Marginals to assist with transporting the contraband.
"Nox will only take out the Italians and won't get involved with the transport. But if you try anything funny before he acts, Nox will shoot anyone in his way—friend or foe. If you don't want him suspecting you of betraying the plan, then stick to what was agreed."
"How arrogant. This is Brooklyn. Not Manhattan. All we have to do is grab the Italians' smuggled goods. You were the one who suggested this deal in the first place. Fine, whatever. As long as it succeeds, attitude doesn't matter."
Despite what he said, Dinny Meehan led an extra team toward the warehouse.
This was bound to happen when untrustworthy gangs joined forces.
They couldn't help but suspect each other, especially since that Nox guy had asked for ten rifles, ammunition, and even bombs. With that kind of firepower, the White Hand could just as easily get wiped out themselves.
"If anyone's going to stab someone in the back, it'll be me who strikes first."
He had deliberately started the rumor that Nox was an IRA secret agent just to shift the Italian gang's attention elsewhere.
And, just like today, whenever something big happened and word spread that Nox was responsible, the White Hand Gang planned to slip away clean.
But the weapons and explosives Nox demanded really got under Dinny Meehan's skin. He couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that he might end up being used himself.
"If things go sideways, I'll take out everyone on the spot—Marginals and all."
Even with a plan in place, Dinny Meehan couldn't get rid of his anxiety. It was because he knew nothing about who Nox really was, or what kind of person he might be.
At that same time, another small freighter was moving north along the East River. Its name was covered.
On the deck, Patrick, Tanner Smith's right-hand man, gathered ten subordinates and explained the plan.
"When we reach the target location, the White Hand Gang guys will be there too. Once we break the lock on the warehouse, grab whatever you can—take as much as possible. And here."
Patrick handed out strips of white cloth.
"Tie these around both your forearms."
"What's this for?"
"For identifying friend from foe. If you're not wearing this, you're the enemy—so unless you want to get shot by your own side, make sure it's on tight."
"Ah, got it."
Everyone wrapped the white cloth around their forearms like bandages. After a moment, Patrick checked the time and told the captain to set off.
"All right, let's go."
***
Newtown Creek, a tributary of the East River. It's a narrow, elongated waterway about 5.6 kilometers long and 170 meters wide, flowing between Brooklyn and Queens, and serves as part of New York Harbor.
Oil refineries, chemical plants, shipyards, and steel mills line both sides of the river. The waste discharged from these factories not only caused a severe stench, but also made the river water nearly black.
Most of the boats floating atop this garbage-filled river were freighters transporting factory goods. But today, two unnamed boats were floating on the river at a distance from each other.
The sun was hanging low on the western horizon, painting the afternoon sky red.
As usual, the Italian Navy Street Gang members were guarding three warehouses.
Although they called it "keeping watch," only three men were actually on guard.
The rest gathered in front of the central warehouse to play cards or clean and polish their weapons.
Next to them, preparing dinner, they placed a pot over a small brazier, with bread and meat laid out on the table.
"We have to move goods tonight, so let's eat properly for once."
"It'd be better to find another warehouse, instead of being stuck in this stinking hellhole. If this goes on, I'm going to lose my mind."
"Lose your mind if you have to, but eat something first. Come on, everyone, gather round."
Bang, bang!
When someone banged on the pot, they began to gather one by one. Those without chairs stood or sat on the ground to eat. There were ten of them.
"Damn. While we're suffering in this reeking dump, Ralph's probably having a sweet time with his girlfriend."
"I heard he ran off to Nevada, but still, isn't this place better than that? What could he possibly want out in that wasteland anyway?"
The Navy Street Gang, whose roots lay in Naples and the Camorra, was still locked in a bloody war with the Sicilian Morello Family.
Both sides sent assassins targeting the gang leaders, resulting in a vicious cycle of killing and being killed.
With the NYPD intervening more aggressively, many assassins chose to flee New York.
Ralph Daniello of the Navy Street Gang was one of them.
"Guess you all haven't heard the news. Ralph lost all his money gambling in Nevada Rio. I heard he sent Bolero a letter begging for money."
"What an idiot."
"Hey, it's not like anyone stopped him. The real problem is that he lost everything. What a fool, right?"
Even as their colleagues fled and warrants were issued for their arrest, such things were just part of life for them.
Besides, things were looking up—the Naples side, their own, had the upper hand over Sicily, so everyone was optimistic.
Both Sicilian bosses, Giuseppe Morello and Ignazio Lupo, were now in prison, but the Neapolitan leadership remained strong.
Meanwhile, while the gangsters ate, three others kept their distance, patrolling around the warehouse in case anything happened.
And someone else, through a scope, was keeping a close eye on one of them.
"Let's get started," thought Nox.
Nox checked the time, placed his finger on the trigger, focused on the target, regulated his breathing, and squeezed.
Thump.
Whizz.
The bullet pierced straight through the watchman's head. He immediately worked the rifle bolt, ejecting the spent casing and reloading.
Click.
The muzzle swiftly moved to the next target.
Thump.
Whizz.
After taking out three of them in quick succession, the muzzle settled on the men having dinner in front of the warehouse, completely unaware of what was happening.
At that moment, some distance from the warehouse—
Dinny Meehan, boss of the White Hand Gang, was watching through binoculars; his eyes widened in shock.
He had almost brushed off the muffled thuds, but by the time he was certain they were gunshots, the third guard patrolling around the warehouse had already dropped to the ground.
"Damn, a sniper..."
Could it have been Nox who fired?
But he couldn't tell where the shots were coming from.
He'd scoured the area looking for Nox as soon as he arrived, but hadn't found a trace.
Where in the world is he shooting from?
Just as Dinny Meehan swept his binoculars around, trying to pinpoint the sniper's position—
Thump.
Another shot rang out.
He quickly redirected his gaze toward the front of the warehouse.
With each gunshot, the men eating dinner collapsed one after another.
Blood splattered on the table, food flew in all directions, and what had been a pleasant dinnertime instantly devolved into utter chaos.
The rifle, equipped with a scope, held five rounds. Nox quickly worked the bolt to open the chamber and shoved in a stripper clip loaded with five fixed rounds.
It took less than five seconds to reload and pull the trigger again.
Thump.
Thump.
Dinny Meehan watched the massacre unfold, mouth agape.
The Italian gangsters still had no idea where the bullets were coming from—not even a hint.
On the wide field beside the river, the heavy gunfire echoed like thunder, making the shooter's location nearly impossible to pin down. Not that they were thinking straight—their reason had short-circuited as the Italian gangsters kept dropping dead.
What was truly shocking was the sniper's choice of targets and deadly accuracy.
Anyone scrambling to duck behind the warehouse instead of sticking to the table instantly had a bullet punched into their skull.
Finally, when Dinny Meehan at last figured out which direction the shots were coming from, a cry of disbelief escaped his lips.
"It's across the river...!?"
Newtown Creek's width varied quite a bit.
In the case of this warehouse, it was easily at least 300 meters to the opposite bank.
Was it even possible to hit targets with such precision from that kind of distance?
It was rare enough for city gangs to use rifles at all. Unless you were a soldier, you almost never even saw a scope.
Having no experience facing something like this only made it all the more terrifying.
"...They're insane."
Dinny Meehan squeezed the binoculars in his hands without realizing it.
Meanwhile, the Italians knocked over the table and ducked behind it for cover. There were five of them.
Unfortunately for them, the bullets punched right through the wooden table and into their bodies.
And then, right on schedule.
Exactly at 6 p.m., not a single person was left alive around the warehouse.
"..."
While Dinny Meehan nervously swallowed and stared across the river, two boats approached the warehouse.
As they reached the dock, members of the White Hand and Marginals gangs poured out of each boat.
But every one of the Marginals had a strip of white cloth tied around their arm.
When Dinny Meehan saw that, his eyes narrowed.
"If things go sideways... we're the ones who'll get hit."
Both gangs disembarked and let out gasps of amazement at the bodies scattered around.
Then they rushed to the warehouse and started cutting open the locks with bolt cutters and crowbars.
Watching the scene unfold, Dinny Meehan's mouth went dry. What would happen if the snipers opened fire now?
It would be a massacre.
Even if they managed to escape with their lives, they'd have to abandon the smuggled goods. They wouldn't even be able to move the boats.
Even if they wanted to backstab, all they could do was watch helplessly. But if they rushed out now, they'd be breaking the agreement to send in ten men each.
Nox and his associates were aiming their guns from across the river, but there was nothing Dinny could say to them. According to the deal, they weren't interfering with the moving of the contraband.
"Damn it."
As Dinny Meehan's face stiffened and he stared across the river, something caught the light, glinting as if reflected by a mirror.
Dinny swallowed hard and raised his binoculars to focus on the source of the flash.
The German-made Carl Zeiss was a binocular with 6x zoom, commonly used for hunting and sporting events.
Through it, Dinny could see the person aiming a gun.
He couldn't make out the face clearly, but the crazy bastard was waving at him, almost like a greeting.
No—was that a warning?
Move, and I'll shoot.
"Fuck…"
A chill ran down Dinny Meehan's whole body.
His hands gripping the binoculars grew clammy with sweat.
"Boss, why don't we just join them at the warehouse and take everything—"
"Shut up, idiot. Don't even twitch."
Despite the burning frustration, Dinny and his crew could only stand there and watch as the goods from the warehouse were loaded onto the boats.
"But boss, looks like they're raiding another warehouse over there?"
The Marginals gang was picking the lock on another warehouse.
The original plan had been to hit just one warehouse and get out before the Italians from the area showed up.
But now the Marginals were breaking into a second—no, even a third warehouse.
"Hurry up and load it before the Italians get here!"
The Marginals gang was gleefully looting the warehouse. Patrick, Tanner Smith's right-hand man, encouraged his comrades while helping to load the heavy crates onto the boat.
However, when they started hitting the other warehouses against the plan, the leader of the White Hand Gang frowned.
"Aren't you guys being a little greedy?"
Patrick replied, "We'll get more done if you stop asking questions. It'll take the Italians a while to get here anyway, right?"
Since Nox had silently taken care of the enemies, Patrick figured they had enough time before the Italians arrived. That was also Nox's intention.
Conflicted at first, the White Hand Gang couldn't just walk away after seeing the warehouse packed with contraband.
"In that case, we're joining in too."
"Suit yourselves."
The first warehouse had weapons and ammunition, which had already been evenly split between both sides.
The second warehouse contained opium, cocaine, cigarettes, and fine whiskey.
Normally, the White Hand and the Marginals didn't touch drugs, but truthfully, nothing was easier to turn into cash. They could just offload it to Chinatown.
The problem arose at the third warehouse.
Inside, there were crates packed with artichokes—produce the Irish wouldn't care about in the slightest.
"Damn, they smuggled all kinds of stuff. We'll let you have this one."
The White Hand Gang made no effort to take it. But Patrick thought differently.
"If we want to make it look like an Italian gang job, we absolutely have to take these."
Artichokes are essential ingredients in traditional Italian cuisine. For the people of Naples and Sicily, they're not just vegetables—they symbolize the taste and cultural identity of home.
Because of that, the Neapolitan and Sicilian gangs had been fiercely fighting to monopolize artichoke production and distribution until very recently. So, it was highly likely that the artichokes in this warehouse were spoils seized from the Sicilian gang.
"No matter what else we take, if we see artichokes, we can't leave them behind."
"Who told you to bust open that warehouse door, anyway?"
"How were we supposed to know what would be inside? Don't try to back out now after pocketing so much already."
At Patrick's words, the opposing man spat and scowled.
"Youguys are getting pretty bold—do you think we're a joke? You can't even handle a single neighborhood in Manhattan, and you've got the nerve to boss us around?"
"I'm not giving orders. I'm just talking common sense."
"Shut up!"
One of the guys, furious, suddenly drew his gun. He aimed it right at Patrick's head.
Both gangs, who had been moving around busily, froze in place. The mood instantly shifted—everyone forgot about the smuggled goods and started to reach for their own weapons. At that moment—
Thud. Whiz.
A hole appeared in the would-be shooter's hat. The hat tilted to one side, and the man's eyes began to twitch uncontrollably.
"..."
The White Hand Gang stared across the river in shock. Patrick, grinning, pointed at the guy's hat.
"If you don't want a hole in your skull, put the gun down. Otherwise, you're the one breaking the deal."
"..."
The man, now completely rattled, dropped his hand and lowered his gun.
Watching from a distance, Dinny Meehan let out a sigh of relief, then clenched his teeth in frustration.
While they were looting those three warehouses, none of the things he'd feared had come to pass. Dinny Meehan, who had been nervously wondering if the other side would double-cross them, finally began to relax. But then—
"That idiot almost ruined everything. I'll deal with him later."
Fortunately, there was no wild gunfire and the plan didn't fall apart.
Even the Artichoke, which had nearly sparked an internal conflict, was loaded without incident, and the two boats leisurely pulled away from the dock.
"I guess, from now on, we should avoid teaming up with other gangs no matter what."
The job was done, but the process hadn't been easy. Days of careful preparation had nearly been wrecked by one idiot.
I turned my head and looked toward the western sky. The sun that had been hanging over the Manhattan horizon had disappeared.
Now, in the dim evening, the secret warehouse on Newtown Creek would be left with nothing but corpses and scraps of smuggled goods dropped in the rush to load up. Even after the boats disappeared, I didn't leave my spot.
I waited for darkness to fall a little deeper.
I hadn't even needed to fire the rifle I'd kept ready for emergencies. I'd planned to shoot if anyone approached, but no one came.
I picked up the spent shells scattered on the ground, counted and collected every one. I even pulled up the flattened grass to stand it upright again, erasing all traces as if no one had ever been there.
Finally, once darkness had fully settled in, I gathered everything and left the area
Until then, no one had shown up at the Italian gang's secret warehouse.
***
On the north side of the New Town River. About two kilometers from where I'd been, a fishing boat was docked at the pier.
"Looks like everything went well."
Captain River Gray greeted me from the deck with a bright smile.
"Shall we head back, then? This boat really comes into its own at night."
"I know. Let's go."
River Gray laughed as he raised the sail.