Chapter 85 - The Boss Really Would Do That
Bowery Street is one of the oldest streets in New York.
It was a neglected area where workers and the poor lived, and incidents of robbery, assault, and fraud were frequent.
Countless gangs had risen and fallen here, their histories layered upon this place called Bowery.
Late at night, the street was lit by streetlamps, with cheap bars selling beer and whiskey adding their own glow to the scene. You could also spot low-cost boarding houses where you could spend the night for just 10 cents.
And those who couldn't even scrape together 10 cents would crouch on the roadside, smoking cigarettes or tightly wrapping themselves in blankets to keep out the cold.
This was also part of the Lower East Side (LES), a sight I was pretty accustomed to.
Cory, walking beside me, was no different.
Living in Hell's Kitchen—a cesspool that rivaled LES in its own way—meant this street wasn't unfamiliar to him.
In fact, he probably understood these people even better than I did.
"If you've got no cash, you're really screwed," Cory said.
"I've been there too. Damn landlord kicked us out just because we were two weeks behind on rent."
Luckily, it had been spring at the time.
Cory's expression turned bitter as he added that if it had been winter like tonight, at least one member of his family—his parents or younger sibling—would have frozen to death out there.
"Back then, digging through garbage cans was how we survived. It was miserable. But honestly, I was so young, I don't think I even understood just how bad it was."
"This is depressing. Let's drop it."
"Anyway, back then I really wanted to be rich. So I thought to myself—if I wanted to survive, I needed a skill."
That's when I learned how to pick locks.
I honed my skills to become the very best.
"Lately, I've been feeling good about things. Following the Boss around, I actually think I'll end up rich. Plus, there are plenty of chances to put my skills to good use."
"'Think'? Not enough faith there, Cory. Even Santa Claus only gives gifts to those who believe."
"Of course, I trust the Boss."
Cory replied in a flat voice and then changed the subject.
"But Boss, when you're out this late alone, haven't you ever had trouble with guys picking fights? At this hour in Hell's Kitchen, it's a rule—you never walk alone."
"Why, are you nervous because it's just the two of us?"
"No way. You don't even have to step in, Boss. I can take care of everything myself—"
Right then, a group blocking the street glared at us.
"Damn it, my big mouth's always getting us into trouble."
Cory slowed his pace, dragging his feet.
I gave him a shove on the back, like urging a turtle forward.
"Go take care of it, Cory."
"...Wouldn't it be better to just turn back?"
"A real man doesn't back down, Cory."
"Look at their numbers. There are five of them, five."
"Numbers don't matter, Cory. Push through."
With his mind made up, Cory started fidgeting with his fingers as he moved forward.
As we closed the distance, the gang reacted first.
"Take off those scarves, you bastards."
"Look at these assholes—think you're tough?"
The group closed in around us. Cory pulled out a blackjack from inside his coat and slipped the strap over his wrist.
"Whoa, you planning to hit us with that?"
"You've got guts, kid. But do you even know how to use it?"
Cory was on the smaller side.
He was three or four years older than me, but because he was shorter, I sometimes looked more like the older brother.
And a blackjack, while similar to a club, is short enough to fit in a pocket.
Maybe that's why, when short Cory held the blackjack, he didn't look threatening at all. The thugs in front of us just sneered and mocked him.
"Is something funny to you?"
Cory suddenly charged forward and smacked one of them in the face with the blackjack. Only then did the others start cursing and pull out their weapons.
While Cory went wild like a mad bull, swinging the blackjack, I jumped in too. Before they could even get a grip on their knives and metal pipes, I tripped them and kicked them in the face.
Wham, wham!
It became a routine: I'd knock them down, and Cory would finish them off.
Once they were all sprawled on the ground, we just kept hitting them with the clubs, not caring where we struck.
Blood spattered, and we stomped on them.
The fight, in the end, was ridiculously one-sided and quick.
"Smile now, you bastards."
"Cough…"
Cory started rummaging through the pockets of the beaten men, while several pairs of eyes watched us—the street vagrants.
They only slinked over like hyenas after we were done and walked away.
Then I carefully checked the condition of the gangsters and began to rummage through their pockets.
Leaving that behind, Cory caught his breath and spoke to me.
"Boss, should I switch to something besides the blackjack?"
"Why?"
"Everyone just laughs at me."
"They'd laugh even if you carried something bigger. Just use what you're comfortable with."
We turned left onto a street and entered an alleyway. At the end of this alley was Kaplan's hideout.
A steel door leading to the basement was locked with a key. Cory dug around in his bag and pulled out two small metal picks. He poked them into the keyhole, and in no time, the lock popped open.
"In this sort of thing, Cory, you're the best."
"I've got to be good at something, right?"
"And you fought well just now, too. You're pulling your weight better than anyone, so be confident."
Cory wiped his nose and smiled.
He dropped the lock into his bag and slowly pushed open the steel door.
Inside was pitch black.
We took out a lantern, turned it on, and stepped inside.
Clank.
We locked the steel door from the inside, and began our search in earnest for Kaplan's hidden safe.
The air was stale, and the basement reeked with its unmistakable musty smell.
The scene on the table looked like it had been abandoned in a hurry: poker cards and whiskey bottles were scattered everywhere, as if to announce that the police had raided the place. On the floor lay cigarette butts and the remnants of something that had been partially burned.
In the roughly sixty-square-meter basement, there was one more door—and it was locked.
"Always making things more troublesome, aren't they," I muttered.
While Cory started picking the lock again, I searched the basement for any hidden mechanisms, just like the secret spot in my own office.
But nothing stood out.
Click.
Cory got the door open.
Inside, there was a desk, some drawers, and a cabinet—it looked like Kaplan had used the room as an office.
But no matter how thoroughly we checked, we couldn't find a safe.
"Boss, I think that woman was wrong. There's just nowhere a safe could be."
Alma had only given us her best guess based on memories from seven years ago. I'd figured there was only a fifty-fifty chance, but I couldn't help getting annoyed.
I was grumbling to myself and glaring irritably around when I heard someone approaching. And it wasn't just one or two people.
"Turn off the light."
Cory and I switched off our lanterns almost at the same time.
In total darkness, we stood completely still without making a sound.
Several footsteps stopped right outside the steel door.
It sounded like someone had just realized the lock was missing.
"Tonichi, didn't you lock the door?"
"No way. I came by the day after you guys got hauled off to the police station and definitely locked it… Oh."
The guy cut himself off and yanked the doorknob hard.
"What the—? It's locked from the inside?"
"Which means someone's in there."
Thud, thud.
"Robert? Yanik? If you're in there, open the door."
"Maybe those punks got drunk and passed out?"
"They're not that heavy of sleepers."
When knocking didn't get a response, they started trying to force the door open. They kicked it and even threw their bodies against it. Maybe it was too loud, because someone started cursing from somewhere.
"What the fuck! If you've got a problem, come say it to my face!"
"Should we go find those assholes who just cursed? Huh?"
"Enough noise, just open the door first. There's definitely someone inside."
"Hey, does anyone have a hacksaw?"
"I do."
Who the hell carries a hacksaw around?
Soon the sound of metal being cut scraped through the air. It seemed like they were sticking the saw through the crack in the door to cut the latch.
Shk shk shk.
At that moment, Cory started moving in the darkness. He quietly closed the office door and locked it again from the inside.
Will they skip this room if they get in?
For now, we'd better hide in the cabinet. Groping in the dark, I searched for the cold metal cabinet. Just as I was about to open it, my hand brushed against Cory's.
"The boss doesn't hide. Cory, you get in."
Setting aside admiration and awe, I hid under the desk.
At least I was lucky enough to bring my gun.
And the silencer.
Crouched beneath the desk, I relied solely on touch as I attached the silencer to the barrel.
Then I suddenly realized there was a rug beneath where I was sitting.
The rug stretched from beneath the desk all the way to the cabinet.
I had a feeling there might be something hidden underneath it.
If it weren't for those guys sawing outside, I would have checked right away.
I was just smacking my lips in frustration when—
Thunk.
"It's cut."
Clang.
The metal door swung open, followed by a click—then the lights in the hideout flickered on.
The office itself was still dark, but light began to spill in through the crack in the door.
Several guys rushed into the hideout, and soon shadows danced chaotically in the sliver of light.
"No one's here. How did they lock the door from inside?"
"There's still one more place to hide, isn't there?"
A brief silence fell before the guys suddenly gathered at the office door.
Pressing my face to the floor, I tried to count the number of dark shapes, which I assumed were their feet, through the crack under the door.
Of course, that alone wasn't enough to figure out how many there were.
"If someone came in here, there's only one place left to hide."
"Kaplan's dead, so let's just break down the office door while we're at it. This place belongs to us now, anyway."
"Bring the hacksaw."
Why do they even carry a hacksaw around?
At the same time, another sound caught my attention.
Click, click.
Clack.
That's the sound of a pistol being loaded. I think one of them's got a revolver, too.
I wondered what Cory was thinking, trapped in that cabinet without a gun.
Anyway, judging by their voices, there were at least four of them.
It'd be lucky if I could take them all out at once.
The real problem was if any of them managed to escape.
In that sense, hiding under the desk wasn't the best choice.
So, hugging the floor, I started crawling closer to the door instead.
Just then, a long saw blade began to poke through the gap under the door. They started moving the blade back and forth, cutting through the latch in no time.
Leaning my back against the wall beside the door, I slowly rose to my feet. I held the pistol close to my face, right hand on the trigger, left supporting the grip from below.
Ssshk ssshk.
Thunk.
Clack.
As the door swung open, light spilled onto the cabinet against the far wall.
At that moment, someone stepped in first, gun drawn.
Grabbing him with one hand, I pulled the trigger.
Thwip.
His head snapped sideways and he collapsed.
I shoved his body out the door, using it as a shield. I quickly aimed at the next targets, following their movements with my sights.
Thwip, thwip, thwip.
Head, neck, chest—wherever I saw a target, I pulled the trigger without hesitation. After firing the last round—
Clack.
I swiftly dropped the magazine and snapped in a spare. I followed up with finishing shots on the one who'd fallen by the door.
Thwip, thwip.
With two bullets left, I dragged the body lying by the doorway upright Then I used the body as a shield once more, quietly propping it up in front of the door.
No response.
Was that all four of them?
I gingerly poked the corpse's head out and scanned left and right. Looks like I got them all.
There was no sign of anyone hiding and ready to shoot. Luckily, the basement's layout was simple.
Thud.
I set the body down and called out softly to Cory.
"Come out."
Creeeak.
The cabinet door opened cautiously, and Cory timidly poked his head out. His face was ghostly pale.
"Wow... Boss..."
"Save the admiration for later. Turn off the lights and move the bodies."
The entrance lock had been cut. The only option was to barricade the door with the corpses.
Any unplanned killings were spur-of-the-moment.
Since this place was used as a hideout, a bit of noise shouldn't cause much trouble. Still, my heart was pounding
After we finished up, I had Cory collect the spoils while I moved the desk and cabinet to pull out the rug.
I was hoping there would be a door underneath, but it was just like the rest of the floor.
"How annoying."
I turned on the lantern and inspected the floor closely. That's when I noticed a gap between the floorboards. It looked like a roughly 30-centimeter square block had been fitted in.
But how did they open this thing? There wasn't even room to slip in a fingertip. Even if I poked at it with a sharp knife, lifting it up would be another story.
Right then, Cory quietly came over and looked at the block I was studying.
"Looks like something's hidden under the floor," he said.
"How would Kaplan have lifted this?" I asked.
"I think I know," Cory replied.
He went over to the cabinet and came back with two slender wires.
What was interesting was that the ends of the wires were bent into little hooks, like fishhooks.
With an excited look, Cory slipped the wires into the gap.
"I grabbed ahold of these inside the cabinet and wondered what on earth they were for."
Click.
"This is it"
Cory slipped the two wires into either side and lifted.
A thin stone slab came up with it.
I grabbed it and pushed it aside, revealing a safe underneath. The strange thing was, there was no dial. It seemed like the original had been removed.
"Maybe they got rid of it to keep the stone slab level," Cory said. "With it hidden like this, there was no need for a combination in the first place," I replied.
Once again, Cory slid a wire into a small hole in the metal box and levered the door open. At last, the contents were revealed—it was packed full of cash.
"This bastard was loaded," Cory said, excited.
He started pulling out the money.
But the safe was deeper than we'd thought.
"What is this? There's probably tens of thousands of dollars in here."
As Cory handed me the stacks, I swept them into a bag.
There was easily enough money to fill two full-size briefcases.
"Boss, even getting this out of here is going to be a chore."
"I came prepared for this," I said.
I took out a larger bag that was rolled up inside.
I'd had Mother make this bag for me; it was canvas, extra wide and long.
Overall, the bag looked a lot like a military duffel, but its design was more futuristic than the army bags used in this era.
How long are we going to make just underwear?
We ought to start producing backpacks for hiking, for students, and for the military, too.
We swept the money into the duffel, along with the loot Cory had gathered.
We put the stone slab back in place and covered it with the rug.
Once we moved the cabinet and desk back, the room looked just as it had when we arrived—other than the bodies.
It was 3 a.m.
We dragged the bodies that had been blocking the door to the basement floor and slipped out.
Even as we left the alley and walked along the main road, we stayed alert.
Cory, carrying the duffel, kept glancing around, worried someone might try to bother us for the bag.
Of course, I was on my guard, too.
"If anyone tries to touch the bag, they're dead."
It was only four blocks from Bowery to the Allen Twin Buildings—a pretty short distance.
The entrance to the dance hall was deserted since business was done for the night.
We managed to bring the duffel safely into the office.
As soon as we arrived, we counted the money.
It was forty-five thousand dollars.
"Did the bank stab him in the back? Why on earth would he keep so much cash just sitting here?"
"Boss, for someone like Kaplan, this amount is normal. You know the kind of stuff that bastard's mixed up in."
Before he even went to prison, Kaplan had been committing all sorts of crimes with Johnny Spanish.
Cory figured there might actually be even more money somewhere.
Well, considering Tanner Smith paid thirty thousand dollars for Patrick's bail while he was in jail, it makes sense.
"So, Boss, I'll head up to the third floor. I'll just sleep here tonight."
"Don't sleep here—take this home with you in the morning. Get some real rest for a day."
I handed Cory five thousand dollars.
He just blinked and didn't reach for it right away.
"It's too much. You don't have to do this, Boss."
"You've earned it—it's your fair share."
Cory came from a poor family and had even been exempted from the army because of it.
He supported his whole family by himself, so giving him a lump sum like this was the least I could do.
"Christmas is coming up. Get your family some gifts, buy some good food—take care of them."
"...I don't have to tell the others about this, right?"
"Don't worry. Sooner or later, we're all going to be rich."
"To be honest, if anyone else said something like that, I'd think they were crazy..."
Cory swallowed the tremor in his voice and continued.
"But Boss, you're really going to make it happen."
That afternoon, I gathered up the money and headed for East 26th Street, where Alma was.