Chapter 67 - A New Beginning
NYPD 7th Precinct—responsible for covering the Lower East Side.
One wall was covered with clippings of major crime articles from the past several months.
[Beekman Street Alley Murder Case]
[Clothing Manufacturer Killed on the Lower East Side—Suspected Robbery]
[South River Warehouse Massacre—Gang Infighting Over Sale of Sewing Machines Blamed]
[Notorious Labor Slugger Johnny Spanish Found Murdered Alongside Associates]
[Queen of Prostitutes on the Lower East Side, Rosie Hertz, Dies Under Mysterious Circumstances]
[Fugitive Rosie Hertz Murder Suspect Jacob Reich—Whereabouts Unknown]
[Smoke Grenade in the City? Forsyth Street's Illegal Casino Massacre]
[Goods Vanish Without a Trace Overnight—An Orchard Street Garment Factory Left Completely Empty]
And now, a rookie officer was pinning up a brand-new article.
[Bunny Underwear Boss, Driven by Debt, Takes His Own Life]
"Rookie, which of these would you say is the most shocking?"
Michael, a senior officer, asked from behind as he stared at the wall. The rookie's eyes traced over the clippings until he paused.
"I think it's the smoke grenade massacre."
"Well, yeah, that's definitely enough to make your hair stand on end. But for me, it's that one."
"What shocked me more was how the entire factory was cleared out overnight."
The rookie's gaze followed his senior's to the article about the theft.
"They took around seventy sewing machines, and over four tons of fabric and finished goods—in just an hour or two. How many people do you think that took? What about the carriages?"
Since the late 19th century, gangs had been running wild in American cities.
It started with the Irish gangs, and recently it had spread to Jewish and Italian groups as well.
Up to now, they had only been small-time street thugs, shaking down businesses and running loan shark rackets within their own communities.
But the clothing factory theft was a departure from all that—a coordinated, organized operation.
It was the sort of crime they'd almost never seen before.
As the senior officer and rookie mulled over the details of the theft together, the officer handling the case returned.
"Any updates?"
"The building's been sold. I met the woman who took over—turns out she used to run the clothing factory in the basement of the Forsyth Tenement House."
"Mrs. Graves?"
"Oh, so you know her too."
Michael remembered knocking on Mrs. Graves's door twice before.
The memory of the adorable little girl he'd seen there brought a smile to his face.
Anyway, there was a reason Michael had stopped by Mrs. Graves's twice.
The Sewing Machine Warehouse Massacre.
And there was another time—when the Rosie Hertz case happened, he'd visited Mrs. Graves with the detective in charge of the Gramercy District, the one who later died.
Back then, the detective had asked how the impoverished Mrs. Graves could afford to buy a building. But then—
"Mrs. Graves bought another building?"
"She hurriedly unloaded her Allen Street property. The Orchard area is a better business district anyway."
"But wasn't there some issue with that—patent infringement or something?"
His colleague took off his hat and nightstick, hung them up, and continued as he settled into his chair.
"She'd kept sending Herman Kalman certified letters, but he must have ignored them. Then, right after he killed himself and the building went up for cheap, she snapped it right up."
"...Don't you think the timing's almost too perfect?"
"I get what you're hinting at. But from what I found, she'd been looking into buildings even before she sent those letters. I checked with the real estate agent too."
Still, Officer Michael couldn't shake one lingering question.
"She bought the building on Allen Street, so why was she searching for a place to rent?"
"Well, there's that overpass blocking the front of the building, and once the employees found out the basement had been used as a brothel, none of the women wanted to stay. They're all ajummas, you know."
Michael nodded in immediate understanding. But then, another question came to him.
"Who ended up buying the Allen Twin Buildings?"
"Damn, do I have to track that down too? Probably some rich guy. Anyway, let's focus on finding the stolen sewing machines first."
"If they haven't vanished into thin air or disappeared underground, we'll definitely pick up a trail."
Michael smacked his lips and shifted his gaze to the dozens of articles pinned to the wall.
All of them covered incidents that happened in the Lower East Side.
Many were connected in some way to Ciaran Graves, but the papers treated them as completely unrelated, isolated incidents.
***
Today was moving day for the basement garment factory at the Forsyth Tenement House.
Every member of the Union gang was on-site, helping the workers haul all their belongings to the entrance.
"Get the sewing machines up first!"
"The fabric and accessories will go last. Set them aside in the corner for now!"
The carts lined up on the street were loaded, and I climbed into the very first carriage, heading for Orchard Street.
Bunny Underwear was also a garment factory, so there was nothing that needed fixing up in the building. It had been cleaned out so thoroughly that we could move in right away.
As I climbed the stairs, I saw my mother standing by the second-floor window, beaming with a bright smile.
Sunlight poured through the wide-open window, bathing her in light.
"Are the things finally arriving?"
"Yes. Let's start by setting up the sewing machines."
As the sewing machines arrived, Mother held a sheet with a layout drawn on it, directing where each one should go.
Before we knew it, the second floor was filling up with stuff in a whirlwind of activity.
Just then, a group came up looking for Mother.
"Mrs. Graves?"
It was Jeffrey, who had helped lead the Bunny Underwear workers' protest.
Behind him stood three women, faces tense—they were the biggest victims of the recent ordeal.
I had already spoken to Mother about them. I suggested that, since some workers had suddenly lost their jobs, we could consider hiring them.
Anyway, I planned to hire more staff once we expanded the factory. Plus, these women were already experienced at making knockoff brassieres.
"Shall we go up to the third-floor office?"
Mother moved to the office with the three workers, and Jeffrey sidled up to me.
"Boss, did you see outside the window?"
"Is something going on?"
I walked over and looked outside.
In front of the building, dozens of women were gathered in small groups—the workers who had until recently been employed at Bunny Underwear.
"I've been through all sorts of things working as a slugger, but this is a first for me."
"What do you mean?"
"Actually helping workers for real."
He admitted that before, he picked up a metal pipe for money, not out of any particular concern for the workers' situation.
But this time, since we were even looking into jobs for the protesters, he'd lost count of how many times people had thanked him on the way here.
As Jeffrey stood by the window looking down, his face was filled with pride and satisfaction.
"Mother's going to hire all of them. By the way, you're handling the goods through the fence, right?"
A "fence" is a middleman who sells stolen goods—meaning the sewing machines.
All of a sudden, the staff had multiplied, and the sewing machines fit the bill perfectly?
Anyone would see that as suspicious.
Herman Kalman might be dead, but the police were still tracking down the stolen items.
To avoid that, we'd repainted and repaired the sewing machines to change their appearance, but that alone didn't feel like enough. If one of the newly hired workers realized they were using their old machine, that would be a whole new headache.
"To avoid suspicion, we'll use legitimate channels. Let's prepare thorough purchase documentation and bring them in gradually."
"Got it, Boss."
As I was talking with Jeffrey, Mother and the three women came down to the second floor.
Judging by their elated expressions, the conversation had gone well. One woman gazed at Jeffrey with tearful eyes, and someone else hurried down the stairs, eager to share the news.
Then, a moment later— Cheers erupted from outside the window.
Free Your Body offered better pay than Bunny Underwear, and the workers no longer had to endure verbal abuse or threats. Most importantly, no one locked the doors during working hours anymore.
All of these changes became pure joy, echoing through the cheers outside.
But just as the celebration was getting started, disaster struck. About a dozen men pushed through the workers and tried to force their way into the building without warning.
"Hey, aren't those the thugs who attacked us during the protest? Should we gather the crew?"
"The company and the gang are separate. Jeffrey, go hide."
Jeffrey understood what I meant and pretended to be just another employee, carrying boxes. I passed the same instructions to the other Union gang members.
Before long, a group of the men made their way up to the second floor, barking threats at everyone inside.
"Who's the boss here? Tell them to get out here!"
I noticed bruises still lingering on some of their faces from the fight that day.
"I'm the boss. What do you want?", my mother replied.
Their leader glanced at Mother and curled his lip. Once he realized the boss was a woman, he started acting even more brazen.
"Let's talk for a minute." "Let's do it right here." "Don't be difficult. Just come with us."
When I tried to follow, two or three of them closed in around me.
"Stay right here if you don't want a beating, punk."
When I mentioned I was her son, they started mouthing off about mixed blood again, even eyeing Mother up and down with open contempt.
Jeffrey and the Union members trembled with anger, but didn't step in.
But still, Herman Kalman was dead—so why were these guys showing up with no clue about what was going on?
Only after they finished some kind of negotiation with Mother and left did we finally figure out who they were. According to Mother:
"They claim to be the gang that controls Orchard Street. So, they're demanding fifty dollars a week for protection."
"You agreed to it, right?"
"Yes. You told me not to start any pointless fights."
Well done, Mother.
If they really do control this street, it won't be for much longer. They took fifty dollars today, but they'll end up paying a much bigger price.
That afternoon, we finished moving the heavy equipment. I left the remaining work to Mother and the staff, then headed to Allen Street with Jeffrey and the Union members in tow. It was only a block away, so it didn't even take five minutes
***
Allen Street Twin Buildings
Clang, clang!
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
Construction was in full swing on both the basement and the first floor.
With partitions set up, Gunsmith and Hazel were overseeing a secret renovation while Oliver and about twenty others were helping out.
"Hey, the boss is here!"
Oliver was the first to spot me and called out. Ever since Herman Kalman's suicide, his attitude toward me had changed noticeably.
— What, you want to hang him with a rope? From the ceiling?
— That's the only way it'll look like a suicide.
— ...Are you serious?
— Does this look like a joke to you?
I'll never forget the looks on the faces of Oliver, Cory, Leo, and Marcus at that moment.
It was beyond shock—pure fear and terror.
Even now, I can vividly remember the way they looked at me as if I were something different from them.
I may be human, but I'm well aware of the gravity of what I've done.
So, I demanded Omertà—our own 'Wall of Silence'—from my accomplices.
— No one is to say a word about what happened today. When the time comes, I'll decide what to say.
So, it was just me, Oliver, Cory, Leo, and Marcus.
Only the five of us knew the secret.
"Man, I'm starving. After all that work, I'm really hungry."
Brian blatantly glanced at me, clearly asking to be fed.
It was 4 p.m.—in Korea, this would be afternoon break time for construction workers, but isn't this guy American?
Oliver barked at him, "You crazy bastard, shut up," and Brian shot back, "Can't I even say that?" Just then—
"Grrrgle, grrrgle."
Someone's stomach rumbled in hunger.
When I traced the sound, it was Hazel.
Hazel, her face wrapped tightly in cloth and holding a huge hammer, oddly took Brian's side.
"The one who brought it up should go buy it."
I handed Brian two dollars, and Oliver shouted,
"If you pocket the change, you're dead."
"I'm going to spend every last cent!"
Brian took two people with him and started up the stairs.
"Oh, Patrick!"
"Huh, you're…!"
"What's with the fuss? Don't block the way—move."
Patrick had come to find me.
He was accompanied by a woman.
As soon as the other members saw her, they began to drop the tools they were holding, one by one.
Thud, thud.
"Wow, it's Ida."
"Ida!?"
A female gangster in her mid-twenties, with dark brown hair twisted up high.
"Nice to see you, Boss. I'm Ida."
She was a Lady Gopher, part of the gang that disbanded when the Gopher Gang broke up.
They said she was recruited by the Marginals because she was pretty, and even I could see why.
There was something regal about the way she carried herself, and even her voice sounded refined.
She definitely looked qualified to manage the first-floor underwear section.
Even at Macy's department store, her sophisticated look would appeal to upper-class customers.
There was no need for an interview. She was hired, plain and simple.
Just then, Ida, who had been looking at me, glanced away toward something else. It was Hazel.
She gave Hazel a curious look, then turned her gaze back to me.
It seemed like the two of them knew each other.
But I didn't really care.
"Let's take a look at the store and head upstairs."
I moved to the first-floor shop along with Patrick and Ida.