Chapter 43 - The Danger of an Inside Informant
'Ciaran, can you deliver these undergarments to the shop on Mulberry Street?'
From the morning, I loaded the underwear onto a handcart and headed out to our client.
Lately, the streets have been so dangerous that I make the deliveries myself instead of sending Leo or Marcus.
This is all my karma to bear.
I've even postponed the conscription training—thinking it's better than risking something awful happening if we all gather together.
Either way, with bundles of underwear tied up with string, I made my way down Canal Street and entered the Little Italy district.
Mulberry Street, the heart of the Italian community, was bustling and lively.
Of course, if you looked into the corners, every alley was a hotspot for gambling, drugs, and prostitution—a dangerous, high-crime area.
Proving the point, today as well, people were crowded together murmuring in front of one alley.
"Looks like something happened again last night."
"As soon as the sun goes down, I head straight home. It's too scary to be out wandering around."
"Everybody step aside!"
The police pushed through the crowd and loaded bodies onto a Ford Model T wagon. I stopped my handcart and watched the scene.
It's been a week since the Naples and Sicily gangs started a bloody war.
Relentless attacks, retaliation, and assassination attempts.
The fury of two groups crying out for blood vengeance has swept through Manhattan.
Of course, there was a brief lull in the fighting.
But apparently, someone didn't like that—someone poured fuel on the barely smoldering flames.
In the same way I once did.
Was it two nights ago?
Under the cover of darkness, someone left ten crates of artichokes at the entrance of Saint Anthony Church on Sullivan Street.
That church is a beloved institution for Italian Catholic immigrants, especially those from Naples.
Who else would have copied my trick in such a lazy, unoriginal way?
I'd bet a hundred dollars it was the White Hand Gang.
They probably wanted to get rid of the artichokes just as badly.
But even this shallow attempt at stirring up trouble worked again.
The brief pause ended immediately, and now the Neapolitan Navy Street Gang was pointing their guns right back at the Sicilian gang.
The corpses lying before me now, with gunshot wounds to the head and chest, were the grim result.
"Hey, don't block the way. Move it."
Passersby kicked at my handcart.
Without hesitation, I left the scene and headed for my client.
After stopping by two underwear shops on Mulberry Street to make my deliveries, I was on my way back.
That's when I spotted some familiar faces.
Meyer Lansky and Benjamin Siegel—the rising stars of the Jewish gang—and Irving, who'd transitioned from shoe-shiner to gangster.
Even in these dangerous times, they were roaming the streets.
"Ciaran, I heard you've been busy lately—are you helping your mother out?"
Irving called out to me, eyeing my empty cart.
"As you can see. What about you?"
"I'm busy too. I landed a job in the Tenderloin."
The Tenderloin was New York's biggest entertainment district. I wondered what kind of job Irving had found there.
Meyer, standing next to him, chimed in.
"Hey Ciaran, you didn't kill those anarchists, did you?"
"Why?"
"The guy that did has the same name as you."
"I already told you it wasn't me. Does that even make sense?"
At Irving's words, Meyer just shrugged.
"Anyway, how much money do you expect to make hauling that handcart around? If you work with me, your whole future could change."
Here we go again. Every time I run into Meyer, he tries to rope me into joining the gang.
"I've gotten a job at a pretty big salon in the Tenderloin. If you want, I can…"
"Give it a rest. He wouldn't hire him anyway."
This time, Benjamin Siegel, the ten-year-old kid, chimed in.
He casually climbed onto my cart and rocked back and forth.
"They're not going to let in an Irish half-blood like you. You're better off with that handcart."
"Yeah, it suits you too."
Someday, he would become famous as Bugsy Siegel, but for now, he just looked right at home as a kid riding on a cart.
Just as our pointless conversation was wrapping up and we were about to part ways, Irving spoke up.
"You know things are pretty tense these days, right? The Italian gangs are at war with each other."
"I heard about that."
"If you get caught up in it, you're done for. Seriously, don't go out at night unless you have to."
"This could be a good time to join our gang, you know?"
Right up until we split, Meyer kept pushing me to join their crew. I left them and headed on my way.
Everyone was laying low because of the war between the Italian gangs.
According to what I remember from my past life, the Mafia–Camorra war doesn't last long.
I don't know the exact timing, but one side of the Camorra is going to collapse.
That was why I agreed to a deal with White Hand boss Dinny Meehan. I only targeted the Navy Street Gang so boldly because I knew they were going to fall.
And two days later, it really happened.
***
Tenement House rooftop.
Early in the morning, Tanner Smith came to see me.
"The Navy Street Gang leadership just got hauled in, one after another."
"I see."
"What's with that reaction? You'd think you saw it coming. But wait till you hear the rest, you'll be shocked."
Here's how it all went down.
Yesterday, the NYPD made emergency arrests of the Navy Street Gang bosses.
But their charges had nothing to do with the current war.
"There's this guy, Ralph Daniello, who used to work as a hitman for the Navy Gang. He ran off to Nevada a few months ago, and he got caught by the police there."
Ralph, who had been charged with multiple murders, grand theft, and perjury, was brazenly hopping casinos around Reno, Nevada with his girlfriend.
Then he lost all his money and tried to ask the gang for help, but that's when the police nabbed him.
Since he was indicted on several counts, Ralph was extradited back to New York. That's when the NYPD coaxed him, offered him a deal, and got him to confess.
"I heard from the police that he even gave them evidence for twenty-three murders committed by the Navy Street Gang leadership against the Sicilian gang."
Tanner's account matched what I'd read in a book in my previous life.
In other words, it was a major event—so significant that it had been recorded in history and I remembered it.
First, the Neapolitan Camorra, which had always held an upper hand over the Sicilian gang, began to collapse because of an informant from within.
Second, the weakening of the Camorra's power continued into the Prohibition era, allowing the Sicilians to seize complete control.
In the end, it was the decisive incident that allowed the Mafia to surpass the Camorra and emerge as the ultimate victor.
Of course, Tanner had no way of knowing all this.
To him, this event simply heightened his awareness of how deadly internal informants could be.
"At this point, I really need to make sure the guys keep their mouths shut. Oh, and I already warned everyone not to say a word about you."
"Good job. But is that what you came here to tell me?"
"As if."
With a sly smile, Tanner tapped the bag he'd brought with him.
"Guess what's inside."
"It must be something big. I nearly went blind waiting for it."
Chuckling, Tanner pulled out a bundle of bills and a roll of coins from the bag.
"I split up the first batch we sold, half and half. It comes to $12,323.75. Can you tell just by how I calculated it down to the last cent? I'm always exact when it comes to numbers."
It's usually con artists who insist on being precise, right down to the cents.
But even if I have my doubts, there's nothing I can do about it.
After all, I wasn't the one handling the actual sale—this is a matter of trust.
"You've never handled this much money before, have you?"
"Of course not."
"So, is your heart racing? Are your hands shaking?"
As I visibly trembled like a leaf, Tanner shook his head in exasperation.
"Anyway, you set aside a few bottles of that fine wine from the shipment, right?"
"Five bottles. But a few days ago, I gave one to Big Tom Foley."
"Well done."
Château Latour, vintage 1855. The price alone is staggering, but after World War I, production dropped dramatically and its value soared. But there's more to it than that. The 1855 vintage, in particular, was one of the first to be classified as Premier Cru—making it both historically symbolic and of exceptional quality.
And for something like that, Tanner and I agreed: it was best used as tribute to grease the palms of the corrupt for the sake of our future.
For now, the man in question was Big Tom Foley—a powerful Tammany Hall politician who ran a salon in the Tenderloin district.
"I gave it to him under your name, and let me tell you—he was grinning from ear to ear.
He's been wracking his brain, wondering how he should repay us, you know?"
"Are you sure he wasn't just making empty promises?"
"Tom Foley's the type to give back exactly what he receives. He's got a bit of a need to show off, too. I'm different, of course—but he's someone who knows how to be generous, even beyond what he gets."
With that, Tanner suddenly handed me a small envelope.
"What's this?"
"I made a killing thanks to you. Set a little aside for you."
"The light glowing behind your head is blinding today. Never seen you look so radiant."
"Make sure you let me shine like this more often. If you keep this up, I'll land us even bigger scores, so let's stick with it."
Tanner stood up with a grin. As he was heading down the stairs, he suddenly turned as if he'd just remembered something.
"Oh, by the way, the old gunsmith wants to see you. He seems to know it was you who sniped those Italian gangsters on the Newtown River."
Well, since that incident happened just days after I bought a silencer and scope, it's not strange that he'd suspect me.
Might as well improve the silencer and get the gun modified while I'm at it.
I'll have to stop by when I get the chance.
After parting ways with Tanner, I came home and opened the yellow envelope. Inside was a wad of bills. It was a thousand dollars.
"Look at Tanner being so generous."
He didn't have to give me anything. And it was quite a sum, too.
"My assets just grew overnight."
Roughly $14,000 now.
Money even my mother doesn't know about.
What should I do with it?
Honestly, I'd love to move right away, but that could raise suspicions. People would automatically think it was money from Anne Morgan's investment.
After a brief moment of thought, I came to a conclusion.
"For now, we're having meat for dinner."
I hid the money away and headed down to the basement workshop.
In my mother's office, I saw a man and woman I'd never seen before looking over brassieres. The way they were dressed, they didn't look like street vendors or small shop owners.
Even the atmosphere in the workshop was unusually lively. The ajummas were whispering to each other or stealing glances toward the office.
"If you knew who they were, you'd be shocked."
Marcus sidled up beside me and spoke quietly.
"Who are they?"
"Gimbels Department Store."
One of the top department stores in Manhattan. Its outstanding marketing and sales strategies made it a competitor threatening Macy's, which boasted the best reputation in the world.
Up until now, our company had only ever done business with street vendors and small shops.
But now, staff from a department store had come in person and were showing interest in brassieres.
And in a product that had only been on the market for less than two weeks, even if it was a true masterpiece!
Heart pounding, I asked Marcus,
"Did one of the shops we supplied recently hit the jackpot?"
"If that was the case, we'd be swamped with orders. Just look at the inventory over there. It's exactly the same as after the first order."
He was right; it was still too soon for the market to react, and there weren't many stores selling it yet.
We had only two boutiques carrying the brassieres.
Wanting to avoid looking cheap, we had targeted boutiques that seemed a little more upscale than street vendors.
As soon as the customers left, I went into my mother's office.
"Those were Gimbels Department Store employees, right?"
"Yes, that's right."
My mother slumped into her chair, as if all her energy had drained away. But her eyes were red with emotion.
"You have no idea how flustered I was when they showed up out of the blue."
"Well, Manhattan is full of clothing factories and lingerie manufacturers."
"Yes, but this is the only place selling a brassiere like this. Even if we didn't land a contract."
She gave a soft, proud smile and continued.
"They said they'd discuss it at their company and come back. And they asked us not to supply any other department store while they make their decision."
"Sounds like they really liked the product."
"Of course—they know who made it, after all."
With renewed energy, my mother suddenly jumped up from her chair. It was as if meeting the customers had reinvigorated her, and she broke into a broad grin.
"Whether we get the contract or not, we have to share the good news!"
As soon as my mother stepped out of the office, everyone stopped what they were doing and listened intently.
Some of the women had tears in their eyes, a few even openly wept.
They'd lost their wages to a crooked boss, barely managed to return to their old workplace, and yet the company's sales hadn't bounced back as much as they had hoped. The employees still lived with a constant sense of anxiety.
Even without a contract, just having a department store show interest was enough to move them to tears.
But that late afternoon, another customer arrived and left everyone bewildered.
"Tada! This is Free Your Body. It's where Roa's Mother and Big Brother work!"
Roa, who had been playing near the entrance, led a woman looking for the company from the tenement house as if she were some kind of street promoter.
But then—
"I'm from Macy's."
"Huh?"
Macy's.
A place considered not just one of Manhattan's, but one of the world's largest department stores.
Macy's sits at the intersection of 6th Avenue and 34th Street.
Gimbels is right next door, on 6th Avenue between 33rd and 34th Street.
To put their relationship simply: they're like the Sicilian and Neapolitan gangs.
They might not be armed with guns and knives, but their marketing rivalry is just as fierce.
Recently, both department stores had set their sights on brassieres, using them as the latest front in their battle.
Strange, though.
For both stores to visit in a single day.
As everyone stared in disbelief, as if they were dreaming.
Chateau Laroore and Big Tom Foley of Tammany Hall came to mind.
This is how frightening bribery can be.