Chapter 86 - Is This Really the Time for That
The east end of Misery Lane meets the dockside along the East River.
When I arrived, there was a long line at Charity Pier, run by New York City's Department of Public Welfare, as people waited for their evening meal distribution.
Alma was waiting her turn, holding her son's hand.
— "I don't want to live under the same sky as the bastards who ruined my life. Johnny's gone, so now it's Kaplan's turn. What can I do to help?"
That day we took out Kaplan, Alma's words lingered in my mind.
Back then, I thought it was just a woman's bitterness, driven by hatred and the urge for revenge, but looking at the money now, I couldn't help but wonder if that was really all there was to it.
Hadn't I gone after Kaplan in the first place not just to kill him, but to get my hands on his money?
Even spending two days holed up at the motel together—it was all about waiting for the right chance.
I was lost in thought, watching Alma and her child, when two police vans suddenly pulled up behind me on the dockside.
What's this.
Startled, I edged back and blended in with the crowd.
Luckily, it turned out they were prisoner transport vans.
Police officers began dragging out eight prisoners in turn, each bound with rope.
They were of all races and skin colors. I wondered what kinds of crimes they'd committed. The prisoners, clearly agitated by all the eyes on them, reacted with irritation.
"Aren't you going to look away? If I see you on the street again, you're all dead."
"Shut up and move."
The police dragged the prisoners toward a pier. Their final destination was Blackwell's Island Prison, right in the middle of the East River—a place of dread and despair where criminals, the mentally ill, and anyone in need of isolation from Manhattan and Brooklyn are sent.
I swore to myself I'd never end up there. Just as I was thinking that, Alma, who had picked up her bread and potatoes, headed home with her son. Brian and two other members followed after her.
***
A public housing complex on East 26th Street. On the rooftop, I handed Alma an envelope.
"There really was money?"
"See for yourself."
Alma opened the envelope and gasped, her mouth falling open.
"A hundred dollars!?"
Face lighting up, Alma looked at me with excitement.
"Are you really giving this to me?"
She didn't ask how much was in Kaplan's safe. Maybe she thought I'd make up any number I wanted, or maybe a hundred dollars was enough for her.
"Are you planning to stay here?"
"No. Now that I have a hundred dollars, I'll move somewhere else and find a job too."
According to Brian, Alma had been here for less than a year. Her previous company had gone bankrupt, and something unfortunate had happened where she'd been caring for her child, forcing her to move to Misery Lane.
"What kind of work did you do before?"
"I did whatever I could find. Why, are you thinking of getting me a job?"
I'd just asked offhand, but when I nodded, Alma actually looked surprised.
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
The Kaplan matter still wasn't resolved.
Still, I couldn't watch Alma forever.
And in the first place, what I should've given her was 10%—$4,500.
"I'll pay you a hundred dollars every month. In return, help me."
"...A hundred dollars? Every month?"
"It might be tough work for that much."
"I'm willing to do anything as long as I don't have to be separated from Sean."
"You'll have to take care of your child, and find a place to live on Allen Street yourself."
"Allen…?"
Alma flinched, then quickly nodded.
"It's okay. I can do it."
Allen Street was notorious as a red-light district.
Alma misunderstood, thinking I wanted to hire her as a prostitute.
Regardless, I had Brian and one of my men help Alma move, and we left East 26th Street behind.
Even today, the alleys were filled with the desperately poor, shivering as they sat and begged for money. With my knife dangling in one hand, I passed them by and headed to my next destination.
As Christmas approached, the busiest places in the city were the churches and department stores.
The corner where 34th Street met Broadway.
In front of Macy's Department Store, a fairly large crowd had gathered.
They were gazing through the shop window at the Christmas decorations.
Macy's Department Store stood in stark, almost jarring contrast to the misery of the alleys on Misery Lane.
Back in 1874, Macy's was the first in America to showcase a Christmas display using a massive glass window.
Taking things a step further, Macy's used clever marketing to lure customers peering through the shop windows inside the store.
They especially targeted November, with Thanksgiving, and December, spanning Christmas and New Year's.
Macy's strategy spread to other retailers in the area, transforming the whole street into a festive scene.
People found themselves tempted by fancy things they didn't really need, and were quick to open their wallets.
I was one of them too.
"What? This bear costs five dollars!?"
"Sir, this isn't just any bear. Just holding this Teddy Bear will make all the neighborhood kids jealous."
Teddy Bear.
It doesn't look quite like the ones I saw in my previous life. This guy looks like it's been living in a tenement house—skinny and lanky, with long arms and legs.
Not cute at all.
The clerk was desperate to get into my wallet, so I got an in-depth explanation about the Teddy Bear.
"There was this one time when President Roosevelt went hunting in Mississippi. The hunt wasn't going well, so his aides caught a bear cub for him."
When they told him to shoot it, Roosevelt just couldn't pull the trigger and told them to let it go. This story ended up in the newspaper cartoons, and with those caricatures, the Teddy Bear was born.
The Teddy Bear is handmade and so expensive only middle-class families or higher can afford one.
"The cheap Teddy Bears you see sold on the street are just shoddy imitations without any trademark. The quality's terrible, too."
"All right. I'll take it"
Five dollars is roughly four days' wages for a typical laborer.
Roa's Christmas present is that expensive.
Holding the ribbon-tied box with the stuffed animal inside, I headed to the next store. With so many people in the department store, even moving around wasn't easy.
As I pushed my way through the crowd, I suddenly felt something slip into my overcoat.
Gotcha.
As soon as I grabbed the hand, the culprit struggled desperately to break free.
The pickpocket was a boy about the same age as Liam.
When our eyes met, his face fell, on the verge of tears.
"Please... let me go."
From his awkward English, it seemed he hadn't been in the US for long.
Judging by his looks, he was probably from Italy. Leaning in close, I whispered quietly into the boy's ear.
"If you hand over everything you've got, I'll let you go."
"I... I don't have anything. Not a single cent."
"Then you're going to the slammer."
When I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, he hurriedly pulled some money out of his pocket.
"This is all I have."
Eighty cents.
There's no way that's all he's got after working this crowded department store so early in the day.
With my hand still gripping his collar, I went through his pockets.
I found another six dollars.
"Sometimes, you just get your pockets picked. I'll be putting this to good use."
When I let go, the pickpocket looked up at me in disbelief.
"You're unbelievable."
"Want me to show you what 'unbelievable' really means? I can do much worse, you know."
"...Tch."
Grinding his teeth, the pickpocket melted away into the crowd, disappearing somewhere.
Looks like I just covered the cost of Roa's present. Feeling a little lighter, I headed up to the second floor.
Bags section.
I asked for something Liam could use.
"These four designs are very popular—which one do you like?"
"Just give me whichever."
"Oh, okay..."
I bought a bag that would suit a sixteen-year-old. When they offered to tie a ribbon on the box, I almost refused, but in the end, I told them to go ahead.
"Three dollars and fifty cents."
I can't believe the teddy bear costs more than the bag.
Unbelievable.
"Your sibling's going to love it."
If he doesn't, is he even human?
His older brother's even going out of his way to get him a Christmas present.
After tying up the gift package with string, I was about to leave the department store when I suddenly stopped.
I almost forgot to get a present for Mother.
What would she like? Buying underwear feels like a waste of money, and besides, I don't even know her size.
I went down to the first floor and wandered around the women's section. I looked at expensive handkerchiefs, silver jewelry, perfume, velvet gloves, and fur scarves.
"Who are you buying for?"
An all-too-familiar voice. Standing behind me was Hazel, from the illegal weapons workshop in Hell's Kitchen.
If I'm running into her twice in the department store, she must really like shopping. Noticing my expression, Hazel pouted.
"It's not an indulgence, it's a reward for myself."
"Did I say anything?"
"Anyway, are you picking something out for your mother?"
"Yeah. But I have no idea what to buy."
"That kind of thing, women know better."
Hazel asked what my mother usually liked.
"If I knew that, I would have bought something already, don't you think?"
"Fair point. Well, let's go up to the third floor. It's the end of the year and New Year's coming up—your mother must have some gatherings to attend, right?"
Now that I think about it, my mother is a respectable clothing factory boss herself.
Lately, she's even been getting more and more invitations to banquets from all over.
"Do you know your mother's size?"
"If it doesn't fit, she'll fix it herself."
"What kind of answer is that? You should at least try to get something that fits."
As Hazel picked out a dress, the shop assistant praised her taste and flattered her.
"Oh my, this dress is very popular these days—you have such a great eye! It's an elegant yet sophisticated design that combines Art Deco and Edwardian styles."
"And the price?"
"Fifty dollars."
What? Did I mishear that?
"Formal evening wear costs about that much. Fifty dollars is actually cheap."
I can't believe it—how much do you think I earn hammering away all day in a basement workshop?
Hazel's words left me speechless.
In the end, almost like I was possessed by a ghost, I paid sixty dollars for the dress and hat.
"But aren't you getting anything for yourself?"
"Me?"
"You're a boss too, you know. How long are you going to keep dressing like that?"
Now that I think about it, Hazel was right. The style I wore was something you'd see all the time in the Lower East Side. A newsboy cap and a cheap coat—definitely not how a gang boss should look. Honestly, I hadn't moved on much from being a shoeshine boy.
"Alright, let's go get something for me."
We went up to the men's department on the fourth floor. While Hazel browsed, a saleswoman came right up next to me.
"Is there anything I can help you find, sir?"
Don't ask—I'm still trying to figure out what I'm looking for myself. Just like in my previous life, having a salesperson trail me always makes me antsy.
Fortunately, Hazel picked out a suitable suit for me.
"You have to at least wear something like this. How much is it?"
"Seventy dollars."
At the saleswoman's words, Hazel looked over at me.
"Is that too expensive?"
"No. Let's go with that. I'm the one wearing it, after all."
"What's this..."
It wasn't really for me—it was an investment for bigger business. What's seventy dollars for that?
We left the store with our arms full of boxes. Hazel had her hands full too, including a Christmas present for the gunsmith.
"What did you buy?"
"A new set of tools."
"Ah, I see."
We walked out of the department store, each of us carrying our gift boxes. As we were walking side by side with Hazel and turned into an alley, we stopped in our tracks.
Right there, someone was being mobbed—of all people, it was the pickpocket who'd gotten caught trying to steal my wallet.
In this world, it's always one of two things.
Either he didn't meet his daily quota, or he crossed into someone else's territory.
A slap to the face, a punch to the stomach. When the pickpocket finally slid down the wall and slumped to the ground, our eyes met.
His defeated gaze was fixed on the gift box I was holding. Was he planning to snitch that I'd taken all his money? But he defied my expectations. The boy chose to ignore me and just kept taking the beating.
As I looked on, puzzled, Hazel asked,
"Do you know him?"
"He's a pickpocket. Tried to steal my wallet."
"So?"
"So I emptied his pockets. Six dollars and eighty cents."
"Wow..."
Hazel looked at me in disbelief.
The group that had been beating up the pickpocket disappeared down the alley on the other side.
Left alone, the boy leaned against the wall and stared up at the sky, fists clenched.
As I walked over, the boy didn't even glance at me but spoke up.
"Thanks to you, I got quite the beating. Could you… give the money back?"
"Isn't it over now?"
The boy shook his head. He said that if I gave it to him now, at least those guys wouldn't be able to take it from him.
"I have to give half to them. So… just give me back half."
"Is that why you didn't rat me out to them? What if I'd just walked away?"
"If you were really planning to leave, you wouldn't have stopped and watched me."
He's sharp, and clearly not dumb.
"Where in Italy are you from?"
"Palermo, Sicily. Do you know it?"
"No. What's your name?"
"Lanza."
Sounds familiar somehow.
"Where do you live"
"...The gutters. Lower East Side."
"I live there too."
Lanza stared at me curiously, then squinted as if he'd realized something.
"Is it Chinatown by any chance?"
"No."
If I want to widen the talent pool, I need diversity of race and background. I need Italians too.
I took out $3.40 from my wallet. Exactly half of what Lanza had asked for.
And one more thing— I handed him an unmarked business card.
Pumpkin Dance Hall, Basement, 157 Allen Street
Lower East Side, Manhattan, NY
"If you don't want to stay a pickpocket forever, come find Patrick after 6 p.m."
Lanza stared holes in the card. Leaving him, I walked out of the alley.
"Did you just recruit someone?"
"Yeah. Now's the time for that."
"Give me a business card too."
"Why, things not great between you and that old Gunsmith?"
"No, I'm just curious, alright? What, am I not worth giving one to?"
"That's right."
Hazel pouted and glanced at the carriage, then asked me,
"Want to skip the shooting and just go?"
"Not really."
I'd already shot last night.
We each hailed a carriage—Hazel headed west to Hell's Kitchen, and I went south to the Lower East Side.
Lanza showed up at the dance hall the very next day.