Chapter 46 - The Curriculum Has Changed
Protection money is a traditional source of income for gangs.
Irish immigrants, facing discrimination from the native-born residents, formed vigilante groups.
This was, in effect, the beginning of American gangs.
The vigilante groups grew their influence using the spare change collected from immigrants, which eventually became corrupted and turned into what is now called "protection money."
Those who refused to pay were met with violence, and once people realized how lucrative it could be, more and more Irish gangs sprang up seemingly overnight.
From the mid-19th century, gangs began to emerge in Manhattan, New York. Gangs like the Bowery Boys, Daybreak Boys, Dead Rabbits, Forty Thieves, and Gas House Gang were mostly Irish gangs.
But toward the end of the 19th century, things started to change.
With the influx of Jewish and Italian immigrants to America, the era of truly multinational gangs began.
They committed crimes within their own immigrant communities: demanding protection money, extorting, blackmailing, and racketeering.
In other words, even if they were collecting protection money, they rarely targeted members of other ethnic communities.
But now—
Italians, you said?
Yeah.
A lot of their people work here.
That was true of most of the garment factories in the area.
Most of the workers were Jewish or Italian.
But my mother is Irish.
If the head of the company is Irish, shouldn't they just let us be?
I was curious to see how the Italian gang would react when they came to collect protection money.
"Weren't they surprised to see them, Mom?"
"They were a bit taken aback, I guess. But, well."
My mother sighed and shook her head.
"They just said we should pay protection money while they're being nice about it. If we pay ten dollars a week, nothing will happen."
"Are they at least going to give you a lucky charm or something? That's an easy way to make money."
"I was angry at first too, but after a while, I thought maybe it's best not to make trouble. All the other factories and shops are paying."
So she handed over ten dollars and sent them away.
If I had to guess what Mom was thinking, it seems she chose to buy peace with money rather than have things escalate because of me.
She's definitely watching my reaction.
"You did the right thing."
"Huh?"
"If you'd refused, they would have kept coming around and hassling you until they got it."
"R-right? I did the right thing, didn't I?"
"Of course."
They can't be allowed to get away with this, Mom.
We need to smash their hideout completely so they never set foot in this neighborhood again.
Ten dollars a week is enough to hire another employee—and then some.
And you just gave it to them?
I told Marcus and Leo to find out where their base was and which gang they belonged to.
It could be the Street Unit, or maybe the larger Local Five Points Gang, or even, in the worst case, someone tied to Sicily or Naples.
The problem is, if you take down one crew, someone else just moves in to fill the gap.
Now, I need to be the one to fill that gap.
—I can't do this alone.
Just like the gunsmith said, I'm going to need people.
***
Two days later, Gavin came to see me to share information about our new training spot.
"There's an abandoned factory in Chelsea. I checked it out yesterday. It's big, and there's plenty of noise to cover us."
"Tell me exactly where it is. And one more thing."
I asked Gavin about the Italian gang operating around Hester Street.
He scratched his head and shook his head.
"There isn't just one unit. And even if we trace it up the line, there's no telling which gang we'll run into."
"But those bastards came looking for your mother's business?"
"They squeezed ten dollars in protection money out of us."
"That's about average. No, I mean it's similar to what other places are paying."
Gavin quickly explained:
Of course, the amount of protection money gangs extort varies by neighborhood. And apparently, they even have their own system for calculating it.
"For small shops, it's five to ten. For small- to medium-sized businesses, ten to twenty. Large operations have to pay at least twenty-five dollars."
"Do the Marginals take protection money too?"
"How else do you expect them to make a living if they didn't?"
He looked at me wide-eyed, as if to say, "How would they survive?"
Get a real job, you bastards.
But then again, for a gang, that is their job.
"Where's Tanner these days?"
"Down at the Chelsea dockside. The place he was at before had a strike that just ended, so now he's over there. He goes back and forth from Coney Island too."
The Marginals Gang operates mainly across Chelsea and Hell's Kitchen. That's why, three years ago, after Tanner Smith got out of prison, the first place he worked as a dock laborer was the Chelsea dockside.
Since then, whenever there's been a strike, Tanner's made his rounds through the east, west, and south sides of Manhattan, using his union connections to make money.
"I want to meet Tanner—can you get in touch with him for me?"
"There's no need. He said he'd come find you this evening."
We discussed the training schedule, and just as Gavin said, Tanner came to see me that night.
Tenement House Rooftop.
"Sicilian and Neapolitan guys are poking around everywhere in search of a sharpshooter."
"I nearly got into trouble myself when I went to see the Gunsmith."
"They showed up there too?"
When I nodded, Tanner clicked his tongue and continued.
"Honestly, back when we fought head-on, it was better than this. The thing is, they're not just after you right now."
"Sounds like they're tracking the goods too."
"That's why we're holding off on selling them. The White Hand Gang is doing the same."
Tanner told me he'd recently met Dinny Meehan in Brooklyn.
He admitted there was almost some trouble while loading some contraband, and he openly owned up to breaking their agreement on headcount—and even got an apology in return.
"Why do you think Dinny Meehan, who's usually cold and proud, did that?"
"I'm not sure."
"It's because of you. Looks like he wants to keep working with you in the future."
The White Hand Gang made a huge profit from raiding the Newtown Creek warehouse.
They didn't just get money—the rival Navy Street Gang's power was weakened, too.
"Their top guys all got arrested, and they lost everything in that warehouse. The Navy boys must be strapped for cash now. That's why they're shaking people down for protection money."
"Hm? Protection money?"
I wanted to hear more.
When I urged him with my eyes, Tanner continued.
"They're squeezing money from wherever they can—Brooklyn, and right here in the Lower East Side. They run a few casinos, but even that isn't enough for them."
The Navy Street Gang, though mostly based in Brooklyn, had also moved into the Lower East Side.
Just a year ago, it was the casino business in the Lower East Side that sparked conflict between the Sicilians and the Neapolitans.
What Tanner was explaining lined up with what I knew from my past life.
"The Italian casinos here used to be dominated by the Del Gaudio Brothers and Joe DeMarco."
But then the Sicilian boss, Morello, started eyeing the casino business in the area, and that's when things went south.
"The Sicilians killed Nicolo Del Gaudio first. The next target was Joe DeMarco—but they screwed it up twice, like idiots."
Joe DeMarco ran restaurants and several gambling establishments on Mulberry Street in Lower Manhattan. That meant he had money and men.
"Do you know who Sicilian Giuseppe Morello turned to after they failed to assassinate him?"
The Neapolitan gangs in Brooklyn.
The Sicilians were based in Uptown Manhattan and the Upper East Side. The Neapolitans were represented by the Navy Street and Coney Island Gangs in Brooklyn.
Even though both groups were far from the Lower East Side, they joined forces to take out Joe DeMarco.
"After two failed attempts, they finally managed to assassinate Joe DeMarco. But that's when the real problems began."
A territory without a king. The alliance quickly fell apart as the groups fought to seize control of the Lower East Side.
"The trouble came from the Sicilian side. They got greedy and tried to take everything for themselves. The Neapolitans caught on to that."
So, the Neapolitans hatched a plot to remove the Sicilian leadership.
"The Neapolitans were the first to propose a meeting to split up the casino business fairly. When the Sicilians agreed and showed up at the restaurant—bang, bang! But the Neapolitan idiots only managed to kill one guy and completely missed the boss."
You can probably guess how the Sicilian boss, Morello, reacted when he got back to his headquarters.
A furious revenge. They sent assassins, and Naples struck back, igniting a blood-soaked war.
This was the so-called Mafia-Camorra War, a turning point in the history of the Mafia.
During that time, a murder case—caused by an informant within the Neapolitan gang—ended up sending their top leaders to prison.
The trials are still ahead, but honestly, I know their fate better than the judge does.
"Anyway, the Navy Street Gang took over quite a few casinos in the Lower East Side during that chaos."
"Do they have one here on Hester Street, too?"
"Probably?"
It makes sense now why the Italian gang stormed into an Irish-owned business.
This is the butterfly effect.
"They robbed the warehouse, then came back to extort protection money."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
After I explained the situation to Tanner, he burst out laughing, shaking his shoulders.
"This is no laughing matter."
"How can I not laugh? Those bastards must really be desperate for cash. Did we clean them out that badly?"
Tanner finally stopped laughing and looked at me with a serious, meaningful expression.
"So, what are you going to do about it? The ones collecting protection money will just keep popping up, even if it's not them."
"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk about."
Gavin and Cory.
I asked to have some men assigned to me, ones who wouldn't be drafted into the military at any moment.
"You want to form a unit?"
"That's the only way to start."
"But it's still too small. I heard you're going to train in Chelsea—when is it?"
"In two days."
"They said more people signed up. Absorb them all, if you can."
Is that really okay?
That was my plan anyway, but apart from Gavin and a few others, I haven't even met most of them yet.
"You'll understand once you get there. And, if you want to take over a neighborhood, you need a base. Somewhere no one else can find."
"Is that why you settled things so quickly?"
"…Yeah."
Huh, I didn't know that. I did it without thinking.
Tanner answered brazenly, saying it didn't matter.
We were in perfect sync—a business partner who could scratch an itch without being asked.
Someone more trustworthy than anyone else.
"Now that I'm saying this, I've never once doubted you, Tanner." He shot back, "That's so random. Didn't you suspect me this whole time?"
"I told you, no. You are trust itself."
The Marginals are a local gang that rules over a neighborhood. You could see it as a collection of units—basically, street-level groups that band together.
Working with Tanner a few times so far basically made me one of those units.
Even if he handed over a few subordinates, it wouldn't affect the Marginals as a whole.
The only thing that changed for me was that now I was responsible for planning crimes to keep them all fed.
"Oh, by the way, I signed a contract for a bar in Coney Island yesterday. You'll be surprised when you see it. It's near the Harvard Inn."
Al Capone, whom I'd met at the Harvard Inn, briefly crossed my mind.
"When's the opening?"
"The previous owner left it a complete mess. If we renovate the interior and fix it up a bit, it'll take about a month."
"Does it have living quarters too?"
"Of course. I'll invite you to the opening, so bring your family as well."
Once the opening date is set, I'll have to let Roa know.
She ought to remember the awesome big brother who took her to Coney Island twice in one year, even when she grows up.
***
The training site for the conscripts turned out to be Chelsea—a neighborhood on Manhattan's west side, just east of the Hudson River.
Chelsea was packed with docks and warehouses along the waterfront and was home to a variety of immigrant communities.
Near 7th Avenue and West 20th Street.
As soon as I stepped into the abandoned factory, cheers erupted.
"The instructor's here!"
"Whoa, Dead Eye Nox!"
"Woo! Woo!"
There weren't any Marginals recruits in this batch—just Gavin, Cory, and ten new faces.
But every single one of them was part of the Marginals gang that had hit the Newtown Creek warehouse.
—You'll get it when you see for yourself.
Message received.
It seemed Tanner had this in mind from the beginning when he selected the crew for the warehouse job.
They were all between 20 and 22 years old.
Most importantly, each of them knew who Nox was.
In other words, Tanner's underlying intention was clear: keep them close and manage them well.
A total of twelve.
Among them, five were conscripts who could be drafted into the army at any time.
One of them had just finished his physical exam today, apparently.
"Want to hear something amazing, Instructor? Do you know who I ran into while I was there for the exam?"
Monk Eastman.
Once, he was the boss of the Jewish Eastman Gang, which used to split the Lower East Side with Five Points.
When he was released in 1909 after five years in prison, the gang had already broken apart and no one wanted him as their leader. After that, he took to thievery and, addicted to opium, bounced in and out of prison several more times.
"All of a sudden, he showed up saying he wanted to enlist. The crazy part is, he's forty-two. But get this—he stripped down for the physical, and…"
His body was covered in knife and bullet scars, so the examiners were shocked.
"So then one of them asked, 'Excuse me, sir, but what war did you fight in to get all those scars?' And do you know what Monk Eastman said?"
"Oh, there are always plenty of wars in New York," is what he answered.
A lonely image of a once-famous gang boss.
I promised myself I'd never end up like that.
Training began with a repetition of the very first process.
The only thing different now was that after the theory portion, we moved straight into practical drills.
"Everyone, search the area and grab yourself a weapon."
"…Anything at all?"
"Hey, Trainee Number Eight, do you already have one?"
"I've got one too."
Everyone started pulling out the weapons they'd been carrying—batons, knives, brass knuckles, iron pipes, and the like.
I looked on, satisfied, and raised my voice.
"From now on, we'll be focusing on survival skills for mass brawls—no, for close-quarters combat!"
"Ooh, looks like the curriculum's changed," someone commented.
It was our second time covering the theory, so Gavin and Cory—who had spent most of it yawning—suddenly perked up.
There's no time for basic physical training.
What these guys need right now are combat skills they can put to immediate use.
After the training ended, it was late in the afternoon when I finally returned to my mother's office.
"You must be really busy these days, huh, my son? Aren't you neglecting your company work?"
"I've just got some things to take care of. But, Mother."
I asked her to make thirteen thick Scarves.
When she seemed startled, I drew out the specific design for her.
The color: black.
"…You're not planning to hit the bank, are you?"
"What kind of person do you think I am?"
"Of course, I trust you, my son. So, when do you need them by?"
By next week, before the gang comes by to collect protection money.
That day will be the day the Gang is born, Mother.