Chapter 48 - Guess I'll Have to Play the Big Brother Again
Hester Street, at the end of a certain alley, in an office.
Pacifico, who ran the casino, looked with pity at his beaten-up subordinates.
"There's nothing you can do when you're ambushed like that. So, what did you say their name was?"
"...Union."
"Union? Are they labor union bastards?"
It was an era when trade unions were common.
Every sort of labor organization ended with "Union," so the confusion was understandable.
"Shit, why would some labor union punks attack us? Don't just stand there looking dumb—help me understand."
"We couldn't even get a clear look at their faces—they all wore black scarves."
"Yeah, I suppose that makes sense."
Pacifico nodded in understanding.
Then he stood up from his chair and picked up an iron pipe next to him.
"I get it, but you should have at least protected the pizzo."
Pizzo is a slang term for protection money used in Italy—in Sicily and Naples.
But these idiots had let 150 dollars' worth of pizzo get stolen from them.
"...Sorry."
"You useless bastards."
Whack! Whack!
An enraged Pacifico swung the iron pipe mercilessly. Even though they were hit again where they'd already been struck, the subordinates didn't resist.
"I told you things aren't going well these days, didn't I? We're scraping by for every last dollar, and you let the pizzo get snatched? By some no-name union punks?!"
When the wild swinging finally stopped, blood dripped from the end of the pipe. The subordinates lay groaning on the floor, swallowing their pain.
"Get out of my sight. Now."
Pacifico leaned the pipe against the wall and sank back into his chair. The subordinates left, leaving one man sitting silently on the sofa. He was Pacifico's right-hand man and longtime friend.
"Don't like what you see? Did I lose my head in there?"
"No. It'd be stranger if you were calm after all this. The whole place has turned into a mess because of one damned rat."
The betrayal of Ralph Daniello, the informant.
With the arrest of the top brass of the Naples Gang, the entire foundation was shaken to its core. Businesses everywhere wavered like branches in the wind, and the leaves fell away.
The biggest reason was the sudden change in attitude from the police and Tammany Hall, who had been happily sucking the sweet nectar for so long.
Those who had once looked the other way were now tightening the noose around the neck of the Naples Gang.
Bribes no longer worked, and operations in Manhattan—casinos, drugs, brothels, and smuggling—couldn't run properly.
That was the situation facing Pacifico and his Navy Street Gang satellite crew.
"Damn it, the whole game's been flipped. How did this happen?"
"I had a bad feeling ever since the New Town river warehouse was hit. That's when everything started to unravel."
The trouble began when the New Town river warehouse, storing smuggled goods worth tens of thousands of dollars, was robbed.
Pacifico ground his teeth, picturing the faceless culprit behind it all.
"We still haven't found that sniper bastard?"
"If we had, you'd know—we'd be the first ones there. It'd be the most gruesome execution in the world."
"True enough. Even an iron pipe would be too good for scum like that."
Pacifico tapped his fingers on the desk, trying to ease his anxiety.
"This Union gang, or whatever they're called. Any chance they're Sicilian?"
"If they were Sicilian, they wouldn't have just taken the money. They would've gone for the casino outright."
"So that means it's either the Jewish or Irish, huh…"
Since the collapse of the Eastman Gang, the Jewish gangs hadn't made much of a mark. The same went for the Irish.
The Gopher Gang in Hell's Kitchen had fallen apart, and its remnants had splintered in every direction.
"Whatever it is, even these nobodies think they can make a fool of us now."
That was the reality facing the Naples Gang.
With the mood increasingly subdued and Sicily creeping in to take over their territory, the Navy Street Gang out in Brooklyn seemed focused only on hunting down the sniper.
"The future looks pretty bleak."
Pacifico lit his cigar and exhaled with a weary sigh.
***
Tenement House Rooftop, Forsyth Street.
Gavin was swinging his arm in circles when he suddenly let out an "Ah!" and started to laugh.
"I think I hurt myself. My arm won't go all the way around. You think that's enough for an exemption?"
"You must think doctors are idiots. It'd have to be broken, at least. Like me."
"Wow, look at this guy's forearm, it's all swollen."
"I just grit my teeth and blocked that iron pipe with my arm. Looks like it snapped clean."
Jealous of a broken arm.
Are these guys even human?
As I clicked my tongue, Drew Williams, the chubby one, asked,
"But, Boss. Did you hear that Italian guy ask earlier if we were a labor union? I told you, everyone's going to get the wrong idea if we call ourselves the Union."
"That's exactly what I wanted."
Union stands for alliance or solidarity.
When gangsters hear it, they assume it's a labor union; meanwhile, workers feel a sense of familiarity.
"It sounds strange now, so people mention labor unions. But give it time—eventually, the gangs will assume we're some sort of collective of organizations."
It creates the illusion that we're bigger than we actually are.
Of course, the name Union holds a far greater meaning.
"Right now, it's just us Irish together, but our Union won't care about anyone's background. We won't care about race, either. That's why we're called Union—to never forget that."
"Our leader sure has a way with words."
"Yeah, Union or unicorn, what does it even matter what the gang's called."
Even after all that explanation, they still don't get the real meaning behind Union.
I let out a frustrated sigh, and then Gavin suddenly asked,
"So, what about the casino?"
"We'll take our time with that. They're probably on high alert right now—no need to poke the hornet's nest."
There's even a chance they might be carrying guns in broad daylight, not just at night. There's no reason to risk hitting the casino right now.
"By the way, is this our hideout for now? What do we do if it rains—go somewhere else?"
"We're a gang. If it rains, we let it rain on us."
At Gavin's words, everyone nodded solemnly. If anything, that just made them look even more pitiful.
All of them live several kilometers away, either in Chelsea or Hell's Kitchen. It wastes time coming and going, and it's a problem for mobility if anything urgent happens.
Each of them threw in their piece, thinking they were helping me out.
"Leader, let's hurry up and save some money so we can get a hideout."
"The money we took today isn't nearly enough, right? We'll have to do this at least ten more times."
"Or should we just rob a truck?"
"Enough. Everyone, gather around."
We shook down those Italian bastards and took $175 from them.
$150 of it was protection money, and the rest was just pocket cash.
As soon as I pulled out the bills and coins, they swarmed around me like magnets.
"I'll take care of the hideout. You guys just take your shares."
Someone's hard-earned protection money. Is it really right to handle protection money for my mother's company like this? Not that I care in the slightest.
So I divided it up—$13 each.
Of course, dividing up the profits is only natural, but not like this. Normally, the shares would be split according to contribution, with the boss taking 30 to 50%.
That's why they kept glancing at me and the money with complicated expressions.
"Today, everyone contributed equally. It won't always be like this, but I think rewards need to be fair."
"······."
Part of it is because it's still early days for the group, but more importantly, proper rewards are key for building their loyalty.
Besides, these are guys who, when desperate for cash, would pickpocket, steal, or even mug people without a second thought.
If they blow through their money recklessly, it's a problem, but the more I can fill their pockets, the less likely they'll resort to other crimes.
"The remaining $6—let's use it for a company dinner."
"Ooh, a company dinner!"
I was waving around the $6 bills when—
"Someone's coming up."
Everyone turned their eyes to the stairs.
Two heads popped up.
One of them instantly cowered and pulled back, while the other froze, eyes wide as saucers.
It was Roa.
Her big eyes quickly filled with tears as she suddenly shouted,
"Big Brother, don't give the money! That's Roa's meat money!"
Everyone blinked in surprise, then quickly waved off my suggestion.
"Forget the company dinner. Just put it away."
"Let's buy your sister some meat, Boss."
The mood changed instantly. Everyone's voices grew hushed.
"I guess it's been a while since I acted like a proper brother."
"We made some money—it's only right to go home and treat our families."
"Comeback home!"
An unexpected surge of family love.
Thanks to Roa, the gang members' hearts all grew a little softer.
We broke up right away, and I calmed Roa down and took her home.
That evening, Roa didn't stop talking the whole time we ate meat.
"Mom and Little Brother, you should thank me with every bite. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be eating any of this. There's no way."
"What are you talking about?"
Roa lowered her voice like she was about to reveal a secret.
"On the rooftop, I protected Big Brother's money from being stolen."
"You did what, with my money?"
"How many were there?"
"There were so many, even my fingers weren't enough to count them. Right, Big Brother?"
As I rubbed my face and nodded, Mother quietly asked,
"They… are all right, aren't they?"
"Yes."
I decided not to talk about the Union gang today.
For now, let's just eat this meat in peace.
Still, I really need to find a hideout soon.
Even after visiting more than ten places around the Lower East Side, it wasn't easy to find one I liked.
Today, I went around looking at listings with another real estate agent. Before I knew it, we ended up back on Allen Street, arriving at that problem building again.
"Don't even look at the building on the left. The one on the right is priced pretty well, you know?"
But my eyes kept drifting to the left.
Just then, I spotted a customer heading down the stairs to the basement—the one they said was a brothel.
He was a neatly dressed, middle-aged man in a suit.
As I watched him go, the memory of that strange noise—someone knocking on the basement wall—echoed in my head.
Should I go check it out myself?
I shook my head right away. What would change if I went? There's a chance no one's even there, and even if I did go, I might just get chased off—told to get lost to Chinatown or something.
"That building has a two-level basement, which is practically unheard of in the Lower East Side…"
The real estate agent kept talking, but I barely heard him. In the end, after we parted ways, my steps took me toward Chelsea Harbor, where Tanner Smith was.
Pier 60, dockside along the eastern shore of the Hudson River. Tanner Smith, a rope tied around his waist, was up on a platform rousing the labor union to strike.
"The company executives aren't worried about the ships here—they're too busy lining their own pockets! But what about our kids? How much longer do we have to feed them nothing but potatoes? How much longer do we have to live putting up with these conditions?!"
"This damn world!"
"Raise our wages! Shorter hours! Guarantee us days off!"
Tanner—who wasn't even married—was using family as a rallying cry today.
When his speech was over, I met up with Tanner by a stack of crates.
Swinging the rope around his waist as if by habit, he immediately took a jab at our gang's name.
"Honestly, don't you think I'm the one who fits the name Union? I mean, I'm perfect for a labor union."
"I see your point. Want to join us?"
"I'll think about it. Anyway, what brings you here?"
I explained to Tanner about the building on Allen Street.
"The owner is Rosie Hertz, the Queen of Prostitutes on the Lower East Side. But you're telling me the basement tenant runs a brothel and she's not involved?"
"The real estate agent said it sounded like she was winding down her business as she got older."
Tanner scoffed, clearly finding that ridiculous.
"Do you have any idea what a piece of garbage Rosie Hertz is? I could go on forever."
I'd heard more than a few stories about Rosie Hertz's endless misdeeds myself.
Still, listening to Tanner, my fists clenched in anger.
"Just last October, she got caught running a brothel on Broadway. It's not that she quit—she probably just had trouble with her tenants."
"What happens if I smash up that basement?"
"If Rosie Hertz is involved, you can bet the Jewish gangs are mixed up in it, too. So it's not enough that you're messing with the Italians—you're planning to take on the Jewish gangs, too?"
Rosie Hertz, a Jew from Hungary, had built her infamous reputation in the red-light district of the Lower East Side for decades.
Naturally, she had close ties with the Jewish gangs.
"If you start trouble and then buy the building, people will point the finger at whoever bought it. We need to avoid that. Besides, do we really have to pay money to someone like her for a building?"
"So, should we just take it from her?"
Tanner hesitated, his eyes filling with a cold, predatory glint of greed.
Then, a slow smile crept across his face.
"She's sitting on a fortune, you know."
Rosie Hertz lured poor Jewish women newly arrived in America into prostitution, driving some of them to suicide.
Running nine brothels that way, she'd made over a million dollars.
Why pay for a building owned by such garbage?
"If we play this right, we might score even bigger than we did with the Newtown Creek warehouse job."
"We'll see."
After putting our heads together, Tanner and I decided we'd start by gathering information.