How to Survive as a Mafia Member During Prohibition

Chapter 73 - His Last Bow

A scream echoed from somewhere inside the store.

As the gang members tensed up, Ida spoke up.

"Come back tomorrow. As you can see, only staff are here today since we're preparing for tomorrow's opening."

"It's not open yet?"

Did you idiots really come here without even knowing that?

The thugs exchanged glances, then finally withdrew empty-handed.

Once outside, they lingered around the entrance to the basement for a moment, but finding it blocked, gave up and headed elsewhere.

"What were those guys after, and what's with the noise in the basement?"

Ida asked in her usual flat tone.

I scratched my cheek and answered,

"Don't worry about them, and I'll check on that noise."

"By the way, has Tanner come by?"

"He's in the basement right now."

"Ah, I see."

Ida nodded, understanding the source of the noise.

"People really never change, do they."

Was that a compliment or an insult?

Ida, like a gambler with a poker face, was impossible to read.

Anyway, I should ask the gunsmith if the reason the noise carries so well is because of the secret passage.

If you walk into the back of the lingerie shop on the first floor, there's an office.

There's a sofa, a desk, and a filing cabinet, and on the back wall there's a door leading further in.

I used that to go upstairs to the second floor, where the gunsmith was.

The Twin Buildings were originally one structure.

The stairs going up from outside are at the far ends on the left and right, and there's a wall built in the middle, making it look like two separate buildings.

I set up my own office on the second floor using that middle wall, and you can access it from either side of the Twin Buildings, and it's connected both above and below as well.

Inside the office, there's a secret space where weapons and a safe are kept, and it looked like the construction work had just wrapped up. The gunsmith and Hazel were relaxing in the office, just outside the secret room.

"Go ahead and take a look inside."

A lever jutted out from the wall.

When I pulled it down, there was a soft whirring sound, and a door slightly taller than me slid open.

What appeared was a roughly three-pyeong space (around 10 square meters)—perfect for hiding all sorts of things.

Since I was involved in much of the construction, it wasn't anything new for me—just needed to check the finishing touches.

Overall, I was thoroughly satisfied.

"Nice work, everyone."

"Just so you know, if it ever malfunctions, you could end up stuck in there. You'd still be able to breathe, but might starve to death."

Stock up on emergency rations and an oil lantern.

Hide the lever behind a display case or cabinet, and mask that section with other items so it blends in.

After some final advice, the gunsmith just shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, I'm sure you'll manage just fine without me saying anything."

Meanwhile, Hazel was silently staring up at the ceiling.

She looked worn out from all the work; beads of sweat were glistening on her exposed face.

When I took out a thick envelope from my pocket, the gunsmith frowned.

"I told you, I'm not taking any money."

"A deal's a deal. I don't want to owe you for this."

"I'm the one who owes you. And the older you get, the less debt you want to carry. Even if I die, I want to go with a clean slate."

The gunsmith firmly refused the money.

Maybe he still felt uneasy about having aimed a gun at me, and was trying to mend our strained relationship.

"By the way, I could hear noise from the basement all the way up in the shop on the first floor."

"That's because the secret passage connects them. Check if the door's open—if it still carries, we'll need to seal the gaps with some rubber." "I'll go down and take a look later."

The gunsmith and Hazel went upstairs to pack their things on the third floor.

After working here for nearly a month, they had quite a lot to gather.

Hazel went to her own room, while I watched the gunsmith pack up in his.

"I think Tanner's here?"

The gunsmith asked as he put his tools into his bag.

"They're probably talking with Rosenthal down in the basement."

"…So that's what the noise was."

The gunsmith let out a long sigh, then gave a wry smile.

"If I'd had a kid, I'd probably be dead from worry by now. I did well to stay single all my life—see how peaceful it is?"

Ironically, that's probably why the gunsmith treated Rosenthal like his own child. And there was someone else he cared for the same way.

"I don't know what you think of me, but Hazel's a pure and good kid."

"Is that so?"

"When she won't even talk to me these days, that says it all, doesn't it?"

It was the gunsmith who'd pointed a gun, not Hazel—she had nothing to do with it.

So, don't hold anything against her.

That's how I took what he was saying.

Watching the gunsmith pack his things, his back looked lonelier than usual today—just like an old man worrying about his child…

After the gunsmith and Hazel left, I headed down to the basement.

The club that Tanner had borrowed was now broken, and Rosenthal, bloodied and battered, was writhing on the floor.

Surely he's not dead, right

"I think I'll spend the night here tonight. I need to have a drink with Rosenthal."

Is this what they call giving both the disease and the cure?

Or is it the carrot and the stick?

Whatever you call it, Tanner wasn't planning to abandon Rosenthal—he intended to fix him up and use him again.

But my approval was needed for that.

"If Rosenthal messes up again, I'll take full responsibility. How about it?"

"Good."

Tanner vouched for Rosenthal.

If Rosenthal betrayed us again, he'd probably die at Tanner's hands before I could get to him. 

***

It was well past sunset by the time I finally slipped out of the Twin Buildings.

Tonight was shaping up to be a long one.

Instead of heading home, I decided to pay a visit to Lenny Goldstein, a dealer who'd been lounging around in his room lately, over at the neighboring Tenement House.

"When's it finally going to open?"

Lenny, looking much healthier these days, asked point-blank.

The casino we planned for the second basement level was still completely empty.

To fill it with gambling tables, we needed the help of real experts.

"I actually brought the person in charge of purchasing the supplies... but tomorrow's going to be tough. Come find me in two days."

"Got it, Boss."

Lenny pulled a few scraps of paper out of his pocket and handed them to me.

"This is what you came for, right?"

The phrases written on the paper were in Hebrew, and I couldn't understand them.

As a Russian Jewish immigrant, Lenny was fluent in Hebrew. I'd taken advantage of that to ask him for a favor.

"You wrote the phrases I wanted, right?"

"Of course. They're straight from the Midrash Commentary, the Kohelet Rabbah. Anyway, I won't ask why you need these."

"That's fine. You'll figure it out soon enough anyway."

After parting ways with Lenny, I headed home.

As soon as I opened the door, Roa came running up to me.

"So this is what Big Brother looks like. It's been soooo hard to see you lately, I almost forgot what you looked like."

Sure enough, looking at the drawing on the table, it wasn't me. She'd definitely forgotten what I looked like. Instead of a person, she'd drawn an animal.

"Son, I stopped by the store earlier—where were you?"

"I was in the basement."

It seemed Mother had just returned home; she walked out of her room, having just changed her clothes.

"That place was locked. Oh, and the staff said they heard someone screaming—nothing's wrong, is it?"

"It was just the sounds from the construction."

I gave a vague answer and went to my bed to change clothes. Liam was sprawled across my bed, reading a book.

"Well, well, who said you could use my bed?"

"You can use mine if you want."

"No thanks, man. Anyway, what are you reading?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I had a hard time borrowing it from a friend, and I have to return it tomorrow. I have to finish it tonight, even if I have to stay up all night"

The book with the glaring red cover was Sherlock Holmes: His Last Bow, a recently published collection that brought together eight short stories.

There were so many readers fascinated with Sherlock Holmes as he tracked down clues and solved cases—Liam was one of them.

"Still, come on. Your older brother's here, and you don't even say hello? I ought to—"

"I did when you came in, though?"

"Yeah, Roa heard it too. It was just really quiet, like, 'He's here?' 'Yeah, he's here.' Like that."

Roa mimicked Liam's half-hearted greeting.

"Hey, when did I do that?"

"Little Brother, if you don't want people to get the wrong idea, you have to greet them properly, like Roa does. When the door opens, you smile and wave together. That's it. Not hard, right?"

"Why don't you do it yourself. I need to read, so don't talk to me."

"Talk, talk, talk."

"You're going to get in trouble."

While I was changing into new clothes, Roa, bored, suddenly made a cryptic comment out of the blue.

"I've already decided what I want for Christmas. So starting today, I'm going to pray to Santa Claus."

"It's still two months away, though."

"Yeah, well, my present is super expensive. Even Santa Claus will need time to get ready. Big Brother, are you curious what I want?"

"…No. You're supposed to keep your Christmas wish to yourself."

"If I say it out loud, does that mean I won't get it?"

"Of course. Wait—don't tell me you already told someone?"

"No! Absolutely not!"

Roa shook her head emphatically and bit her lip.

"But, I feel like Big Brother might be curious? You know you won't be able to concentrate at work because you'll be too curious about what I wished for, right?"

"Not at all. But what if you don't get your present because of that? I'll hold back."

Time always flies when I'm spending it with Roa.

Before I knew it, it was late at night.

My younger siblings had fallen asleep, and while Mother sat at the table looking over the ledger, I changed into black clothes.

"Son, are you heading out for business?"

"I'll be back by morning."

"Hmm. Thanks to you, I'm already satisfied and happy."

The factory has moved to a bigger place, we have more employees, and sales have been steadily increasing.

These days, I'm so happy I feel like humming all the time. In other words, she hoped I'd stop doing anything dangerous now. But—

This is only the beginning, Mother.

I can't let them squeeze protection money out of people on my own turf.

Just as I was gathering what I needed to put in my bag and get going, I heard Roa mumbling.

"Christmas… present…"

Clunk.

I hurried out of the house.

Thankfully, I hadn't been heard.

And I planned to keep it that way.

It's night.

The city is bathed in pale moonlight.

A desolate autumn night breeze wraps around me as I walk past the hazy glow of streetlamps illuminating a darkness that settles equally on everyone.

On Allen Street, drunken passersby come and go in droves. They bargain openly with the prostitutes enticing customers on the sidewalk, and, pretending to be reluctant, allow themselves to be led by the hand of a woman into the dingy brothels beneath the elevated train tracks.

"Hey, Mister Scarf. How about it for a dollar?"

"No need to rush. Take your time and enjoy yourself."

Beautiful women cling to you, wrapping their arms around you, but stories abound of men who fell for their looks and sweet voices only to find their wallets emptied in the brothel. Of course, I had no interest in that kind of gossip. With what I was about to do, feeling a little on edge wasn't so bad.

I heightened my senses as I turned into an alley off Allen Street. There, Cory and three other Union members were waiting for me.

"The Lombardi crew is on the second floor of the building at the end of the alley."

Paul Lombardi, the boss of the Italian gang that controls half of Allen Street.

There are rumors that he's a unit of Five Points, and right now he runs two brothels and shakes down Jewish-owned shops for protection money.

"What's the layout on the second floor?"

"There's just a cabinet, a round table, and four chairs. That's it. It's tiny."

It's hard to believe a street-level gang unit operates out of such a shabby setup. In Lombardi's case, the gang's meeting place is either the basement they use as a warehouse or just the alley itself. The reason their headquarters is so run-down is probably because they haven't been here long or they switch locations all the time.

Gang members were stationed throughout the alley, and I went up the stairs with a member named Austin.

When I nodded in front of the door, Austin quickly pounded on the heavy iron door. He'd once dreamed of being a Hollywood actor.

Bang! Bang!

"Boss! Fioji's been killed! He was shot!" Austin shouted, delivering his line with desperate urgency.

Fioji was my second target, another gang boss who jointly controlled Allen Street. Austin cried out his name, putting on a dramatic performance. It was clear he'd long since given up the Hollywood dream.

Would anyone really fall for a story like that? My palms were sweating. To my surprise, the guy inside actually opened the door. Instead of looking shocked, he stared hard at Austin, brandishing a knife with a baffled expression on his face.

"What the hell is this idiot doing again—!"

Clunk.

Austin shoved the door open, and at the same moment, I wrapped my arm around the doorman's neck. Using him as a human shield, I drew my gun and entered the room.

Two men blinked at us, cards in hand. There was no way to tell which one was Lombardi.

Thud! Thud!

I shot each of them squarely in the forehead, then kicked away the one I'd used as a shield.

Thud!

And put a bullet through the back of his skull, too. Austin quickly began searching the bodies, and before I knew it, Cory had come upstairs and started working on the safe inside the cabinet.

"So, which one was Lombardi?"

Just then, as Austin was rifling through a corpse, he slapped one of them across the face and said this guy was Lombardi.

As I tucked the thin, narrow message paper Lenny had given me between his lips, Cory cracked open the safe. Ledger, cash, a pistol, and ammunition.

"Grab the ledger and half the cash and close it back up."

After Lombardi, I took care of Louis Fioji, who operated on the same Allen Street, and then Chick Luger from Orchard Street, one after another.

Before dawn broke, I finished everything and arrived at the Twin Buildings. I went up to the second-floor office and hid $3,000 in cash and my weapons in my own secret warehouse.

Fighting off sleep, I returned home to find Mother just getting up and starting breakfast.

She saw my hands and hurried to fill the sink with water.

"Son, wash up. Quickly."

"Yes."

I scrubbed the blood off my hands in the water.

Mother sat at the table, peeling potatoes, and spoke to me.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"I'm fine."

"Well, the store opens at nine, so get some good sleep until then. I'll tell everyone not to wake you."

As I roughly changed clothes and was about to lie down on my bed, I met eyes with Liam, who was on the top bunk.

"You're up already?"

"I wanted to finish Sherlock Holmes. But, what on earth have you been…"

"The east wind's blowing, Liam."

"Many of us may wither away before it."

But that's the wind of fate, and after the storm passes, a cleaner, better, and stronger land will lie beneath the sunlight.

"…?"

"That's Sherlock's final line in the book."

"Oh, when did you read that?"

Instead of answering, I just grinned and lay down on the bed.

Sherlock's last line, that 'east wind'—meaning the coming storm—is a kind of metaphor, hinting at England's situation on the eve of World War I.

I really like that line.

I also enjoy when stories push deductions using artificial clues, and on the other hand, I love the tricks and setups that bring unexpected twists. Isn't that the fun of reading detective novels?

***

Three murders occurred overnight.

Two in Allen, one in Orchard.

What these incidents have in common is that .45 ACP shell casings were found at the scene. And the culprit left a long slip of paper in the victims' mouths.

A Jewish officer at the scene understood the words written on the paper.

[אין אדם יוצא מן העולם וחצי תאוותו בידו, יש לו מנה רוצה מאתיים, יש לו מאתיים רוצה ארבע מאות.]

"When a person leaves this world, he has not even fulfilled half of his desires. If he possesses 100 pieces of gold, he wants 200…"

This phrase appears in the Jewish book of Ecclesiastes, Kohelet 1:34, and addresses the boundless desires and greed of humanity.

"Damn, why would they leave something like this? Are they trying to play Sherlock Holmes or something?"

"That lunatic must think he's James Moriarty—Sherlock's arch-nemesis or something."

Even among the police and detectives, opinions were divided over this clue, which seemed like a childish prank.

"This is a fake. Someone pretending to be a Jew."

"No, maybe that's exactly the point. Maybe it's a ploy, since a Jew would never reveal themselves so obviously."

"Or maybe it's a double-bluff, gambling on the idea that no one would think they'd give themselves away?"

"…Shit, this is a pain in the ass."

There have been cases where killers intentionally leave behind traces or symbols.

One of the police brought up such a case.

The 'Jack the Ripper' case in London, England, in 1888.

The serial killer brutally murdered at least five women.

"There are some similarities, don't you think?"

"Like what?"

"At the Jack the Ripper crime scenes, the killer left messages written in chalk on the wall."

[The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing]

"Is that real? I heard someone made that up."

"No, my uncle was working for the London Metropolitan Police back then, and he said it really was there."

But the reason the message wasn't reported in the media at the time was because the inspector at the scene erased it, fearing it would spark an anti-Jewish riot.

Here, the NYPD officers found themselves faced with a new dilemma.

The Lower East Side, densely populated by Jewish and Italian immigrants.

Out of the ten victims, most were Italian immigrants, with only two being Jewish.

If they hastily pinned the suspect as Jewish, it could fuel fresh conflict and division in the neighborhood.

But it was already too late.

With three separate crime scenes, reporters had already taken photographs at the site.

"Damn, I think I'll have to head over to headquarters and report this upstairs. I'll go."

Michael, the officer in charge of the Lower East Side 7th Precinct, quickly left the scene on Allen Street.

While he was walking, someone suddenly approached and handed him a flyer.

"Hello, Michael. We just opened our shop—if you need women's underwear, come by anytime."

"Well, if it isn't the hero of the Tenderloin."

Ciaran tipped his hat with a bright, friendly smile.

Michael glanced over at the lingerie boutique, Intima, behind him.