Chapter 16 - Back From the Business Trip
Pier 17, East River Harbor.
After several hours, I arrived again at the warehouse where the sewing machines were stored.
There was no sign of the guards who had been stationed at the entrance.
Ridiculously enough, they had locked the door from early evening and were sleeping inside.
Should I just take them out quickly?
It'd be as easy as flipping my hand over, but getting rid of just those two wouldn't make much of a difference.
To blow up this situation, I needed a crowd, the kind of noisy numbers that draw attention.
I slipped in through the fire escape, using the entry route I'd scoped out in advance and slipped up to the second floor.
Aside from the sewing machines, the warehouse was filled with heaps of building materials blanketed in cobwebs. All the lumber was so rotten it would cost more to haul it away than it was worth.
I settled into the hiding spot I'd picked out earlier.
It was a place piled high with wood, letting me look right out the second-floor window at the outside.
If everything went according to plan, Leo and Marcus would have spread the rumors, and as soon as anyone from the Hudson Dusters gang heard them, they'd be swarming to the site.
The reason I set a specific time for tomorrow night was to make them anxious.
I wanted to lure in the greedy ones before they even had a chance to check if the rumors were true.
So whether it was the loan shark or anyone else—
I didn't care who showed up.
There's only one thing I wish for:
Just please, don't let them come swarming in like a pack of wild dogs—so many that I can't handle it.
Let's not exceed the number of bullets I've got.
A few days ago, I tested both my guns in the abandoned sewer tunnel.
Wasting the bullets was a pity, but better that than dying because I fired without sighting in properly.
Here's all the ammunition I have right now:
Two rounds of .38 caliber, loaded in my father's old M1892 Revolver.
Seven .45 caliber rounds in the magazine I took from the dead boss's M1911, plus five extra.
That makes fourteen in total.
I'd been holed up in the warehouse for quite some time now.
Of course, nothing in life goes according to plan.
It was past midnight and still absolutely quiet.
Nothing but the sound of someone snoring away, reeking of booze.
Good thing I thought to bring potatoes.
That kind of thoroughness—preparing even for uncertain hours like this.
I was munching on a potato, killing time.
"Yaaawn. Ugh, what time is it?"
Maybe they'd been asleep since sundown; the guys who'd been snoring so freely woke up not to the morning sun but the moonlight.
Then they opened the door and sat outside, starting on another round of drinking.
How much longer do I have to listen to their dirty jokes and pointless banter?
Now they've even started singing.
Before I realized it, I found myself quietly humming along.
<"The one and only chance
To make my name known has come.
I'll take down the Hudson Dusters
And earn my place in the Hall of Fame."
He lost his club and cannon,
And even had his shield taken away.
But in the end, he remembered…>
"Every dog has its day, that glorious time~."
Ciaran knows this song too.
Actually, it started out as a poem.
Gangs sometimes glorify or fabricate violence to boast about their feats or their defiance against the authorities.
This poem is one of those cases.
Based on everything I know about the Hudson Dusters—
The song tells the story of how attacking the police brought them fame and, though it led to their downfall, that was the brightest moment of their lives.
Back when the Hudson Dusters were at their peak, they would recklessly beat up any cop who came to arrest them.
The poem glorified those deeds.
What's interesting is that the poem's author was actually the boss of the Gopher gang, who had fought tooth and nail against the Hudson Dusters.
That poem made such an impression that gang members from all sides, regardless of affiliation, went wild for it.
Eager to spread it, they turned it into a song, printed thousands of copies, scattered them on the streets, and even distributed them to hospitals where injured police officers were recovering.
It became such a craze that just about every shoe-shine boy was singing it.
zThat's when the downfall of the Hudson Dusters began.
Top leaders were arrested and sent to prison one after another or died of drug overdoses. It all happened just three years ago.
After losing their leadership, the remaining members scattered—some turned to robbery, drug dealing, or became sluggers for newspapers and labor unions.
Some of those were the loan sharks who smashed my toolbox in collusion with the boss on Wall Street and took off with the sewing machines.
And now, A group of unidentified Hudson Dusters is on its way.
Clop, clop.
Four wagons are rolling down the well-paved road toward the warehouse.
My palms start to sweat thinking about how many guys might be packed into those wagons with their canvas covers.
Maybe I should've rigged up a homemade bomb.
Whinny—
At last, the wagons stop in front of the warehouse.
"These bastards! We tell them to guard the place and they're in there guzzling booze."
"Don't worry, Stumpy. Nobody's shown up anyway. But what brings you out so late? Did you finally find someone to buy the goods?"
"That's not the problem right now. I think Robert has his eyes on our stuff."
The man called Stumpy climbed down from the wagon.
Under the moonlight, I recognized him—he was the one who assaulted Mrs. Jane, our neighbor, the day they took the sewing machines.
"Robert's after our goods?"
"That bastard's lost his mind lately. He keeps talking about going after the Marginals and asking us to back him up. Not long ago, he even started spouting crap about getting rid of the sewing machines together—said it was his chance to rebuild the Hudson Dusters."
"Idiot. Does he think he's the boss or something? He hasn't done a damn thing, but he's greedy enough to go for our cut too!"
"My thoughts exactly. Now hurry up and open the door. We need to move the goods before Robert shows up."
While they worked to unlock the padlock bound by chains, I counted the men who'd climbed out of the wagons.
Eight in total.
The same number as the day they grabbed the sewing machines from my mother's workshop.
A sewing machine weighs about 20kg, so two adults can easily carry one.
Creeeak.
The heavy metal door opened, and I gripped my M1911 automatic pistol, waiting for the right moment.
As the door swung open, they entered the warehouse.
They began hauling the sewing machines in pairs.
The moment their hands were tied up with the machines—
Now's my chance… Hm?
Suddenly, I heard the sound of hooves.
Horses approached the warehouse at high speed.
Everyone's eyes shot toward the entrance.
"Damn it!"
"Did they follow us!?"
From Stumpy's reaction, I could tell exactly who they were.
There was no time to hesitate.
My gun was already aimed at the back of their heads as I pulled the trigger.
Bang!
Bang!
One shot for each target.
Seven bullets fired in quick succession.
Thud, thud.
When the M1911's magazine was emptied, Stumpy, who was closest to the warehouse door, hastily dropped the sewing machine and reached for his gun.
I was quicker—already holding the knife I'd kept ready, I hurled it at him.
Whirr—
The blade spun, flashing in the sliver of moonlight filtering through the window.
Its tip struck true, burying itself right in his chest.
Thud.
With my father's keepsake revolver clutched in my hand, I dived down from above.
I fired two more shots at the ones writhing on the ground, then snatched the gun from Stumpy's hand.
Running outside, I aimed at the group trying to approach the warehouse from behind a wagon and squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
Bang!
"You crazy bastard—how dare you point a gun at us?!"
"Stumpy! You're going to regret what you just did!"
If there was no reaction at all, that would have been strange.
So I raised my voice and shouted back,
"Eat shit, you morons!"
There were just five of them.
They hadn't even figured out what was happening in the warehouse, and they were desperately outnumbered.
Gunshots ringing out in the dead of night would soon draw people to the scene.
Take the risk of having a shootout, then try to make off with dozens of sewing machines?
Impossible.
As I expected, they quickly changed direction and moved away from the warehouse.
Click.
The gun I'd taken from Stumpy was the M1905, the predecessor of the M1911 I'd been using.
I removed the magazine and checked the remaining rounds.
Three bullets left.
To account for the specific angles of entry and to make it look like more people had been involved—disguising the ammunition type and turning this into a muddled fight—I pulled the trigger toward the corpses.
"When you take something by force, you should be prepared to lose it by force too."
Of course, that applies to me as well.
Bang!
Bang!
When the ammo ran out, I stabbed and slashed the bodies with my knife, leaving obvious wounds.
Most likely, the nearby harbor workers would be the first to rush to the scene.
And at this hour—plus knowing how sluggish the police were at this time of day—I had plenty of time.
From the bag I'd brought, I took out evidence that would expose the dead boss's fraud: his mail and ledgers.
I decided to hide one of the sewing machines—the one in the middle of the pile.
Without the machine sitting on top, a sewing machine looks a lot like an antique vanity.
The only difference was one side had a folding panel attached with a hinge.
When unfolded, it provided extra space for fabric, and when not in use, you could fold it back in to save room.
Hoping someone other than the police would find it first, I opened the sewing machine's drawer.
It was filled with random odds and ends like thread and scissors, but I didn't bother removing them.
I just stuffed the mail inside.
Next up were the items I'd taken from the dead boss.
The ring, necklace, and watch—these I slipped into the pockets of Stumpy's corpse.
Then, unexpectedly, I found a piece of paper tucked inside his coat.
It was the contract for the purchase of the sewing machines.
I'd better take this.
The dead tell no tales.
The police, eager to pad their arrest records, would surely conclude that Stumpy was the one who killed the boss.
After quickly searching the bodies, I left the warehouse.
Instead of heading home, I concealed myself a bit farther away.
If the men who fled came back for the sewing machines, I'd have to shoot again.
***
Southern Manhattan Harbor, Lower Manhattan. Workers on strike didn't have a reason to go to bed early.
Some of them would spend their nights holed up in bars near the docks, playing cards.
In a secluded corner, a man placed a cigarette in his mouth and narrowed his eyes, lifting two overlapping cards to check his hand. At that moment.
A series of sharp, but small gunshots rang out.
Everyone in the bar snapped their heads to the north. Manhattan was so small that you could sometimes hear gunfire from the city center, but this time...
"That sounded pretty close."
"Probably some drunk going nuts, howling at the moon."
"Or maybe it's another gang fight?"
At the mention of gangs, everyone's eyes landed on one man.
"What, you looking at me for?"
Tanner Smith shrugged.
Rumor had it the Hudson Dusters were gearing up for a showdown with the Marginals.
It wasn't a stretch to connect the gunfire to that.
But both gangs' headquarters were several kilometers away in the Lower West Side.
"They wouldn't come all the way out here just to fight. They're not idiots."
Tanner seemed pretty indifferent. But after the gunshots rang out more than ten times, his brow furrowed.
"That's not very far... Maybe we should check it out?"
"You could get killed by a stray bullet doing that."
"Who knows? Maybe it's just some Slugger punks out of their minds on drugs."
The Sluggers hired by the company were all trash—drugs were the norm, and they were always doing crazy things.
"If we catch them at something, they won't be able to utter a word of protest when we go on the offensive tomorrow, huh?"
Slugger or not, it was just an excuse. With a bit of alcohol in their systems and curiosity piqued, the striking workers found their steps drawn toward the scene.
Tanner also joined in, baton hanging at his waist.
When the group filed out of the bar, they found quite a few others with the same idea. Among those prowling around outside were some Sluggers and even police.
"They really can't stand to see anybody resting, can they?"
If it had just been a shot or two, none of this would be happening, but this felt almost like a low-level state of emergency.
Grumbling police, Sluggers, and dockworkers all moved together with the same purpose.
***
Under the dewy light of dawn, I settled in among heaps of debris and kept watch over the warehouse and its surroundings.
As expected, the ones who'd fled north had not given up; they circled back, lurking in the distance rather than approaching the warehouse directly.
If the warehouse was the center, they were at twelve o'clock. I watched them from the nine o'clock position, slipping rounds into my magazine as I waited.
Suddenly, it hit me how woefully under-equipped I was.
"A sniper rifle would be nice right about now."
Mosin-Nagant, Enfield, Springfield... The Browning automatic rifle wouldn't even make an appearance until next year.
If only I'd had at least a Mauser, things would have been much easier.
Even without a scope, at this distance, I could have taken out every one of those guys lurking about.
The men circling the area began drifting closer to the warehouse.
Seeing how much bolder they'd gotten, it seemed they'd sensed something was off.
No sewing machines were being loaded or unloaded, and the wagons didn't so much as budge. Above all, it was just too quiet.
Unable to hold back, they started inching their way toward the warehouse.
They tried to be sneaky, creeping forward at a snail's pace. But in the end, they couldn't accomplish their goal and had to turn back.
At six o'clock, from the direction of the southern harbor, a group emerged and revealed themselves at the edge of the warehouse.
The Hudson Dusters, who'd hesitated and missed their chance, had no choice but to abandon the sewing machines and leave the scene.
More and more people crowded around the warehouse. Among the workers, I could even spot uniformed police.
With that many eyes, there was no way to cover up what happened, and no one could claim otherwise.
Once I was sure I wouldn't be noticed, I slipped away while the area was still in chaos.
My haul: 24 rounds of .45 and .38 caliber ammunition looted from a corpse, and $37.75.
***
4 a.m.
I quietly opened the door as I returned to the tenement house.
Worried about her oldest son who'd left after spinning some ridiculous tale about a business trip, my mother had fallen asleep at the table with the lamp still burning.
I hid the gun and ammo on top of the cupboard and started taking off my clothes. That's when my mother stirred and sat up.
"Ciaran, is that you just getting home?"
"…Ah, come on, I got in earlier."
"That won't work on me anymore."
She raised her eyebrows theatrically and came over to me.
Then she pulled me into a tight hug.
"Do you have any idea how worried I was?"
"That's why I hurried back."
"For your mother's sake?"
"…You could say that."
"What kind of answer is that?"
She let go and gave me a gentle smile.
"I don't know what you've gotten yourself into this time… Just get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."
As she started to head to her room, I called out to her back.
"I've found the sewing machines. When you go to the site tomorrow, make sure you open every drawer."
"W-what site?"
"You know what I mean."
"..."
For a moment, my mother froze, not moving an inch.
Only after letting out a deep sigh did she quietly head to her room.
I hadn't brought back the sewing machines, but I'd given them a solid reason to search for them.
Now, all that was left was a legitimate demand from my mother and her fellow workers, and a fierce protest to go after them.