Chapter 91 - Do You Want to Hear the Details?
"You probably don't know much about him. Three years ago, he was notorious as a labor slugger."
Anyone who knows anything has heard just how vicious he was. Still, considering my age, the metal supplier boss started explaining just how dangerous Dopy Benny Payne really was.
"I've met him before. You don't need to go into all the details."
"Oh, is that so…"
"If it's Dopy, he couldn't care less about patent rights. In any case, I'll take care of it, so you don't have to worry about a thing."
My answer actually left the boss looking more troubled.
It turned out coming to see me wasn't only about Dopy.
"To be honest, things aren't going well for the factory these days."
The cause was the European War.
Big corporations were grabbing all the government contracts and enjoying the wartime boom. Meanwhile, since steel was classified as a military supply, its production was restricted and prices shot up, putting small suppliers out of business one after another.
This was something Mother and I had known since we started looking for brassiere manufacturers.
At the time, we visited several companies, but most of them turned us down because our order volume and prices were too low. The only one willing to sign a contract was Aiback & Company. In other words, it was only possible because it was a small family-run operation. And then.
"Our losses are piling up like snowdrifts. I tried everything to cover the costs, but I just can't hold out any longer."
So, he said, they'd be filing for bankruptcy soon, and the factory wouldn't be able to produce hooks anymore.
"I even thought about just giving in and handing the business over to Dopy, seeing as I can't win against him anyway. But even if the factory's about to close, I have my agreement with you, and I didn't want to betray my conscience—which is why I came to you."
The struggle was plain on the boss's face. Facing bankruptcy and being threatened by that ruthless Dopy—he must feel like he's drowning.
"How much hook inventory do you have left?"
"Enough to make about five thousand sets of brassieres."
"So, when exactly are you planning to shut down the factory?"
"Once we finish producing and delivering the orders we've received, that'll be the end."
"So, for both you and me, the real problem is money."
Finding a new hook supplier will be a hassle, and making sure the quality holds up will be another challenge.
But if we can find a win-win solution here…
"How much debt does the company have?"
"…That's not something I really want to talk about…"
"Who knows, maybe I can help."
The boss's eyes flickered, and after a moment of hesitation, he finally spoke.
"Seven thousand dollars"
I thought it was going to be tens of thousands of dollars.
Well, if a small company like his owed that much, they would've gone bankrupt ages ago.
If a boss with $7,000 of debt files for bankruptcy, that entire debt becomes his personal liability. At that point, he'd have to liquidate the factory—but with more companies going under because of the war, it's not easy to find a buyer.
In the end, the boss's personal assets get seized, and his family could end up on the street—the worst possible outcome.
"Then let's do this. I'll take over the company."
The boss blinked in surprise, but then he shook his head.
"If you're thinking it's all about hooks, you're going to have a hard time making a profit, too. Besides, you don't have any experience, do you?"
"I'll buy out your entire share, and you can run the company for me."
A salary just a little higher than a typical skilled worker: $150 a month.
"And I'll give you a 5% bonus from the profits."
"I don't think you understand what I'm saying. Taking over the company won't solve anything. Making a profit off hooks is almost impossible."
I rummaged through the desk drawer, pulled out one of the blueprints, and handed it to the boss.
"What… is this?"
The patented product I'd been holding onto all this time.
It was the Potato Peeler Y-Peeler.
Originally, I'd planned to manufacture it a year later, after the war ended and steel prices dropped.
But maybe now was actually the perfect opportunity.
"Let's make it and see if we can sell it."
Whenever I had free time, I poured money into applying for patents—not just for the Brassiere Hook and Y-Peeler, but also for things like a can opener, a measuring spoon for precise quantities, a double-bottomed pot, a height-adjustable dish rack, and more.
There were dozens of patents I had come up with while cooking in the kitchen with Mother.
***
So, I changed the company name from 'Aiback & Company' to 'Life Steel.' I wanted to turn it into a kitchenware specialty supplier.
While the boss went back to the factory to prepare the acquisition contract, I called in Rosenthal, the fence.
"There's steelware circulating on the black market, right?"
"As soon as that stuff shows up, it gets bought right away—so it's almost impossible to even see it. Sometimes, when some clueless guy jacks up the price too high, you'll see a few items that just don't get sold."
Steel prices have hit record highs because of the war.
That means it's easy to turn steel into cash, so it's often targeted by thieves.
Because steel's so heavy, crimes were organized—they'd hijack it from carriages, trucks, or trains, or work with insiders at steel mills to smuggle it out.
"What's the going rate?"
"About 20 to 30 percent above the regular market price. Because of the crackdowns, they need to get rid of it quickly, and the buyers are taking on a lot of risk too."
"At that markup, just buy up all the steel that hits the black market."
"Got it, Boss."
While I was chatting with Rosenthal about various things, Ida knocked on the door.
"Boss, there's someone here who says he's your uncle-in-law."
Derrick, the cigarette salesman, had stopped by the store.
Coincidentally, I'd been discussing related goods with Rosenthal—the timing was perfect.
"You said there were cigarettes in the warehouse, right?"
"Lucky Strike, Camel, Chesterfield, and a few kinds of cigars."
"Then let's head down to the first floor together."
When we went downstairs, Derrick was looking around the store. As soon as he saw me, his face broke into a bright smile.
"I've only ever seen you passing by outside, but the inside of your shop is really impressive... Wait, Rosenthal?"
"Derrick?"
Both of them looked puzzled at this unexpected meeting.
Almost immediately, their eyes turned to me.
"Derrick is your uncle-in-law?"
"What's Rosenthal doing here? Have you started doing sales now?"
***
Office in the back of the store.
The three of us sat at the table, putting our heads together.
Derrick had bought cigarettes from several fences, and one of them was Rosenthal.
During Christmas, I'd kept myself hidden given the occasion, but now there was no need for that.
For the sake of the family business, I revealed a bit more of myself.
"You're working with Rosenthal?"
"I'm not going to get rich just running an underwear shop. I need to do whatever makes money."
"Wow, that's really unexpected. I never would've guessed."
"You said you wanted to supply to the dance hall, right?"
"Wait—you know the boss too?"
Even though we're family, I still don't know Uncle Derrick all that well. That's why it's risky to reveal too much too fast.
Catching my glance, Rosenthal stepped in.
"I know the boss. Supplying them won't be a problem. And do you need cigarettes?"
"You've got stock?"
"It can be done by tomorrow."
"Okay. Wow, it was worth coming to see my nephew. I just thought I'd have a meal, but look at this."
I asked Derrick, whose grin stretched from ear to ear.
"You said you have friends who work as liquor salesmen, right?"
"Yeah, I do. Are you thinking about supplying liquor, too?"
"That won't be a problem, either."
Rosenthal made the call for me.
Even fences don't always have steady goods on hand, so a supply salesman was definitely necessary.
By now, Derrick seemed to view Rosenthal as a partner of the dance hall boss.
"Looks like I need to be on my best behavior around you two from now on."
Our brief conversation wrapped up, and Rosenthal excused himself.
Derrick and I headed to an Italian restaurant.
While we ate, I casually asked,
"Do you know a lot of liquor salesmen?"
"Hmm. I know a handful, and through them, I can get connected to pretty much anyone. Why do you ask?"
Currently, liquor didn't go straight from the distillery to the consumer, but was supplied through intermediaries.
In other words, the distribution went distillery–wholesaler–retailer–end consumer, and when Prohibition went into effect, it was the Mafia who took control of that chain.
"I'm interested in liquor distribution, so could you introduce me to your friends?"
"Of course. Actually, because of the dance hall supply, you'll get a chance to meet them soon anyway."
After finishing our meal, I parted ways with Derrick.
Instead of heading to the office, I made my way to Lafayette Street.
[Dopy Shirtwaist Factory]
The third-floor office was filled with cigarette smoke, and grim, menacing-looking men were hanging around. As usual, Dopy Benny was sitting at his desk, sipping whiskey.
"What brings you here? Don't tell me you've got news that'll make me happy, because I doubt it."
Dopy Benny's greatest objects of contempt and hatred—Johnny and Kid Dropper—were long gone from this world.
Aside from that, he didn't seem interested in much.
I got straight to the point. What I wanted to know was how much Dopy actually knew about the brassiere he was trying to copy.
"Are you interested in the Free Your Body product?"
Dopy Benny let out a dry chuckle, whiskey glass in hand.
"Why, are you interested in it too?"
Does this bastard really not know it's a product made by my mother's company
As I watched Dopy's reaction and explained the situation, it was clear he really didn't know.
"What? That product was yours? Not bad, you've got some talent. Anyway, so what do you want from me?"
He glared at me with an annoyed expression. I had a strong urge to get rid of him, but Dopy still had his uses.
Raiding and wrecking a small factory: $150.
A big factory: $600.
If someone's shot in the arm or leg, or if part of their ear is cut off—depending on the injury—it's $60 to $100.
Throwing someone down an elevator shaft or breaking an arm or a thumb: $200, and so on.
Benjamin "Dopy Benny" Payne was the one who had turned labor slugging into a business, sticking to his own pricing system.
I needed Dopy's violent nature and methods. I had to coax him carefully.
"I heard the factory's shutting down soon, so I thought I'd take care of any leftover stock. What do you think?"
"You're asking me?"
Dopy slammed his glass down after gulping his whiskey.
"Let's just split it and sell it fifty-fifty. Wouldn't it be better if we helped each other out? Besides, in the end, everyone figures out how to copy it anyway."
"Don't you know how this market works?"
"You're right. That's why we need to milk it for all it's worth while we can."
"Exactly, so let's both get our fill."
If I refused here, our partnership would be over. But if I just left it alone, there was a good chance that the counterfeit goods Dopy produced would be absolute garbage.
That could end up turning first-time brassiere customers against the product altogether.
It would be better to hand him a different product instead. I handed over the designs I had prepared in advance.
"What's this?"
"You think selling brassieres is going to make real money? Let's make bags and sell those together."
"Bags? This thing?"
At that time, backpacks hadn't really caught on yet. Students still carried boxy briefcase-style bags with thin straps that left their shoulders sore. Right now, my mother's factory couldn't handle making bags. It would actually be better to let Dopy take care of it, and then take over from him down the line.
"These bags are sure to be a hit."
"Hm."
Dopy tilted his head, clearly not understanding.
"I designed and patented the brassiere, too. Don't you trust me?"
"So you're saying, forget about that and make this instead? How do we split the profits?"
"Let's go with 20%."
Dopy stared intently at the designs, then stuck his head out the door and shouted.
A female employee rushed over, and Dopy handed her the drawings.
"Check if we can make this."
"Understood."
After the female employee left, I lowered my voice and spoke to Dopy.
"Can we talk privately for a moment?"
Hearing this, his subordinates scowled, but Dopy ignored them and took me up to the rooftop.
"What is it?"
"Have you ever thought about getting into another business with me?"
"What kind?"
"Labor slugger work—liquor distribution."
Dopy had gotten out of the slugger game because his influence had waned, but his fearsome reputation remained. In particular, he still had considerable sway over Jewish workers.
If Tanner coordinates the Irish workers and Dopy leads the Jewish workers, that gives us two main pillars to build on.
As for liquor distribution, the Italian gangs had already taken over several territories. They extorted protection money by force, and would completely destroy any suppliers who didn't fall in line. The methods weren't much different from what the labor sluggers did.
"So, you want us to get into that together?"
"Give it two years, and we'll be playing in a whole new league."
Dopy hesitated for a moment, then smirked and shook his head.
"Let's just pretend I never heard that."
As we were heading down from the rooftop, Dopy glanced over at me and spoke.
"Tanner seems to have gotten quite the ego lately, and now I know it's because of you."
"When you share a vision, that's what happens. Any man should have at least that much ambition."
"Well, fine. If you had brought me some good news—like how Kid Dropper finally got himself killed—maybe I'd really give this some thought. Shame, isn't it."
I stopped in my tracks and looked straight at Dopy.
"Would you like to hear the details"