Chapter 87 - There Must Be a Reason
Monday morning, December 24, 1917.
Pier 35, Southeast Harbor, Manhattan.
Dockworkers who had gathered since dawn hunched their shoulders against the cold, cigarettes dangling from their mouths as they waited for the day's work to begin.
Steam winches and derricks hauled up large wooden crates and sacks of coal from cargo ships that had crossed the Atlantic Ocean. Horse-drawn wagons and trucks waiting on the dock bustled about, moving in a frenzy of shouting men.
It was a scene Larry O'Connell had witnessed countless times over the years, but this morning, he made his way to a dockside office with a heavy heart.
Just then, a fellow worker spotted him and rushed over.
"Larry, are you alright?"
"As you can see, I actually got some real rest for once."
"Jeez, Christmas is tomorrow—why didn't you just keep resting till then instead of coming out here?"
Why did I come?
To quit this job, that's why.
When Larry pulled a bitter face, the coworker, reading the mood, hesitantly spoke up.
"I'm really sorry I couldn't help you back then."
"You knew how things were—what else could you do?"
At first, the coworker had opposed the strike, but with Slugg's threats and pressure, he had no choice but to go along.
Even when Larry was being lynched, he could only pretend not to see.
"We all had no other choice."
"...Yeah. I couldn't help it either."
The same went for Larry.
He couldn't help but carry each word and action of his coworkers in his heart.
Even if they greeted him warmly as if nothing had happened, the bitterness didn't disappear so easily.
"In any case, I've worked here too long. I should have quit when the company changed owners."
"Why would you say something like that? No one's worked as hard as you. Let's just put what happened last time behind us, Larry."
"No, after spending some time in the hospital, I realized that even if you look fine on the outside, you can be rotten inside. I can't handle heavy lifting anymore."
Larry was now in his mid-forties.
In contrast, Manhattan was full of young, strong laborers.
It was hard enough just working alongside them, and not long ago, he'd even been assaulted by some brash, young Sluggers.
"I think it's better to find something else while I can still walk around on my own two feet."
"..."
"You go take care of your errands. I'm heading over to the office for a bit."
[Clyde Steamship Company]
Larry stopped in front of a two-story building.
The Clyde Steamship Company is a shipping firm specializing in freight and passenger transport between the southeastern United States and the Caribbean.
Originally, it was owned by the distinguished Whitney Family of America. In 1907, however, it was sold to Charles Morse, known as the "Ice King," and now the company has even expanded to handle war supplies.
As Larry opened the door and walked in, he immediately noticed the atmosphere was different from before.
Where once union leaders would gather noisily, today it was quiet—almost solemn, like stepping into a church sanctuary.
The employees only glanced at Larry before burying their heads in their work, fully focused.
"Larry, how are you feeling?"
What's this?
The accounting clerk, who had always been curt and indifferent for years, greeted him with a smile.
"Oh, well... I'm feeling better now. But the atmosphere in the office seems different today."
The clerk lowered her voice, glancing around nervously.
"Harris just got fired."
"What?"
Just then, Harris came down from the second-floor stairs, clutching a box of his belongings.
He was the manager in charge of the Clyde Steamship Company's ship schedules, cargo management, and worker personnel matters.
In reality, though, he hadn't done much—just a parachute appointee who spent his days chatting idly with the union members.
Wearing a grim expression, Harris shot Larry a look, then disappeared outside the building.
Was it because of the strike?
It was a rather humiliating exit for Harris, who had always strutted around with such self-importance.
As Larry stared at the closed door, an unfamiliar voice echoed in his ear.
"Good timing—you're just who I wanted to see. Let's talk in the office."
A middle-aged man standing at the top of the staircase waved him over before disappearing into the office.
"That's Henry Prescott, the Executive in charge of labor relations."
"He's from the head office?"
"Yes. He's been asking about you for a few days now."
"Me?"
"He's a tough one, so you'd better go."
Larry scratched his cheek, then headed up the stairs.
Thunk.
The Executive was sitting at the desk usually used by the harbor manager, flipping through a stack of paperwork.
"Sit anywhere you like."
Before long, the Executive grabbed a sheet of paper and sat down opposite Larry on the sofa.
"Larry O'Connell. You've been with our company ever since the Spanish-American War. You've even taken part in a few strikes, haven't you?"
"Yes..."
"So why did you oppose this strike?"
"A few months ago, we wrapped up a tough round of negotiations, and now they wanted to go on strike for no reason."
Kaplin had been stirring up strikes not just at the Clyde Steamship Company but at several other firms as well.
According to newspaper reports, the motive was shocking: he intended to carry out a bombing attack on U.S. military ships heading to the European front.
In response, the police and Bureau of Investigation began conducting extensive background checks on workers involved in the strike in order to root out spies.
In that context, those who had opposed the strike—and had even gotten beaten up for it—ended up, unintentionally, looking like clean hands.
The Executive, satisfied with Larry's answer, nodded and set the papers down.
Then, fixing Larry with a sharp look, he asked,
"Do you know any of the ILA executives?"
"Not at all. I'm just a regular union member."
"What about Tanner Smith?"
"I've seen him in passing, but I've never spoken to him."
The Executive stroked his chin, tilting his head thoughtfully.
The ILA had long been entrenching its influence by collaborating with gangs, moving back and forth between the port unions and the employers to seize control of lucrative opportunities.
Sometimes they'd threaten the harbor companies or use force, even getting involved in employment decisions. Harris, who'd just been kicked out, was one such case.
But with the Kaplan incident having severed ties, did the ILA and Tanner Smith really choose Larry O'Connell as Harris's replacement?
'There must be a reason.'
Looking at Larry's expression, he truly didn't seem to know anything about it. After a moment's contemplation, the Executive made up his mind.
'He's got to be better than Harris.'
He's rational, and he's not one to aggressively push for strikes.
Office experience?
Even if he doesn't have any, that's fine.
The subordinates do most of the work anyway.
What the company needs is someone who can keep strikes in check and manage relations with the union.
"Larry, from now on, you'll be running this place."
"...Excuse me?"
Larry's eyes widened as he stared at The Executive.
He had come here intending to quit, and now he was suddenly getting promoted?
And not just any position—he was being made General Manager. An office job!
Still reeling from The Executive's words, Larry even signed a new employment contract.
His weekly wage had also been significantly increased.
"You've only just been discharged from the hospital, so why don't you head home for today. Let's have you officially start coming in on Wednesday."
"Thank you!"
"No, thank you. I'm grateful to have someone who's worked with us for so long."
Larry stepped out of the second-floor office.
He wondered if this was all just a dream.
Would it hurt if he rolled down the stairs? That seemed too risky, so he pinched his cheek instead.
As he made his way down to the first floor, he realized all the female staff and other employees were now staring at him.
"What happened?"
A female employee asked nervously.
After rubbing his face with his hands, Larry replied,
"I'll be taking over Harris's job."
"Wow. I knew it would be you."
She leaned in and quietly added, "I'm counting on you from now on."
Larry, feeling a bit awkward, waved to all the staff as he looked around.
"Have a great Christmas, everyone. I'll see you all in two days."
"Merry Christmas to you too, Larry!"
As Larry stepped out of the company building, his heart felt like it might burst.
It was Christmas Eve, and his steps quickened as he hurried to share the news with his family.
***
Second floor of the Allen Street Twin Buildings.
Tanner had come by early in the morning.
"Hurry up and hand over The Present. I heard you gave each of the kids five dollars."
"Shouldn't you be giving it to me instead? I'm still only seventeen, you know."
"Wow, you've killed a lot of people for someone your age. Anyway, cough up the Christmas present."
Tanner stuck out his hand with a sly grin.
After coming all the way here, I couldn't refuse, so I took five dollars out of the drawer and handed it to him.
"Looks like I'll have a feast this Christmas."
As Tanner stashed the money into his wallet, his expression suddenly turned serious and he shook his head.
"What's with the sudden attitude?"
"If you gave each member five dollars, that's almost eight hundred dollars total. Anyone would think you were Rockefeller."
"Money comes and goes. If I spend it, I just have to earn it back, right?"
"I heard not even flies came to the casino."
"...Where would you even find flies in winter?"
"What, not even flies? Damn, what are you gonna do?"
"You're taking your present and rubbing it in my face?"
"I'm just worried about you. I can't even sleep these days."
As Tanner said, there haven't been any customers at the casino lately.
That's why I only gave the employees there two dollars each as a Christmas present.
Bastards.
"By the way, I heard your uncle was released from the hospital. Did he go back to work?"
"I don't know."
"Be honest with me. He's not really your uncle, is he?"
"Why would I lie about something like that? It's just, we haven't been that close until now."
"Well, I guess you'll get close now. They made your uncle the harbor manager at his company. Who did? I did."
The more fundamental reason was that the ILA Vice President had quickly cut ties with Kaplan and chosen Tanner, fearing he might be accused of being a spy.
"Who made it happen?"
"Yes, it was you, you. I'll give you that. Actually, it's more than that—it's admirable. You know Paul Kelly used to be a boxer, right? His neck is thick as hell. Even a guy like Paul Kelly had to lower his head and come to you. Who else could pull that off but you?"
Tanner let out a whistle of admiration, but I took it as only natural.
But this is just the beginning.
In the end, I will take Paul Kelly down.
When that time comes, Tanner must become the ILA Vice President.
Uncle Larry was just one piece of the plan.
"We have to keep planting trustworthy people. Once Uncle Larry gets more experience, we'll send him into the ILA. If we keep increasing our numbers like that, Tanner, your influence will only grow."
Absorbing the harbor unions one by one through violence, extortion, and threats, while also planting our people inside the unions and the ILA.
And since most of the harbor workers are Italian, Jewish, or Irish, background is crucial.
This isn't just about the Prohibition era—it's a setup for the Second World War.
After Tanner left, I finally started making rounds to the businesses around lunchtime.
The first-floor underwear shop was quite busy, probably because it was Christmas.
"Ida, have a good Christmas. See you the day after tomorrow."
"You too, boss. Merry Christmas."
Leaving behind Ida's lifeless smile, I headed down to the basement. Since it wasn't open yet, the staff were leisurely hanging around the floor.
"Hope you all have a good Christmas."
Next was the Basement Second Floor.
As soon as I opened the door, all eyes fixed on me.
"Flies have come in."
"...."
At least they had the decency to lower their heads.
What on earth is the problem? The opening event where we let customers win big with higher odds wasn't a bad idea. The problem was… we didn't have any customers in the first place. At this point, it's unavoidable—we'll have to rethink our strategy.
Just then, Lenny Goldstein, a middle manager who looked gaunt from worrying about the same issue, approached me with a somber expression. He handed me some documents.
"I spent a few days working on this report."
He clearly sensed the danger to his life. I looked over the report, keeping my face serious. Lenny suggested two strategies.
First, take down the competing casinos. He listed examples like reporting them to the police or setting the place on fire.
"You're out of your mind. Pass."
The second strategy was to plant people in rival casinos and spread rumors. Specifically, it involved circulating word-of-mouth that "someone hit the jackpot there yesterday."
How long did you actually spend thinking about this?
To write just six lines?
"City College of New York, Department of Mathematics. If your academic record is fake, you'll be floating across the Atlantic Ocean in a barrel."
"...It's real. I told you I was accepted at the top of my class."
I shot Lenny a glare, my eyes burning. Thinking about it, the second strategy wasn't a bad idea.
"Alright, let's go with the second one."
Lenny's face brightened. So, excluding the essential staff for the dance hall and casino, we decided to infiltrate our spare manpower into the competition.
We'd see the results in two days.
For now, I grabbed the Gift Boxes I had hidden in the secret room and headed home.
***
Tenement House. I opened the door to my home, carrying the gift boxes. Roa and Liam, who had gotten home before me, greeted not me, but the boxes.
"Big Brother!? What are all those?"
"What could they be?"
I hesitated, wondering if I should give them the Gift Boxes, but decided to just hand them over.
"Santa Claus dropped them off at our door."
"Really? Roa, should we close our eyes?!"
"Liam, should we close our eyes too?"
"You're so weird, man."
Today, for the first time in our lives, my siblings and I are going to visit our maternal grandparents' house with our mother.