Chapter 94 - Where Should We Strike Back
A rival dance hall operation threatened and assaulted the band.
A group launched a broad daylight attack on our unit member and sent us a warning.
Since these incidents happened almost simultaneously, some are convinced there's a single mastermind behind them.
Of course, that could be true—or not.
This business is all about fighting tooth and nail over each street, so every attempt to expand our territory inevitably brings more opposition.
You could call it the growing pains of a gang.
Far worse is bound to happen from here on out, so getting worked up over something like this is pointless.
After all, monkeys get startled by swaying grass.
If we overreact to small things, they'll see us as weak and come after us even harder.
As scheduled, secure Ludlow and Essex Street.
Of course, that doesn't mean we shouldn't strike back. I was cooped up in the office, racking my brain for options, when Patrick walked in with a glum look on his face.
"It seems the new pianist has caught on. He says he's too scared to perform…"
Maybe he'd heard the rumors about a pianist from one of the bands who quit getting his fingers cut off.
The band that came with Durante, the pianist, was visibly shaken.
"So, what did you tell him?"
"We told him we'd cut off all his fingers. When we said that, he agreed to perform."
"Well done."
That's what I said, but it wasn't a real solution. If someone actually approached Durante's band, threatened them, and really cut off their fingers, would they be able to hold out?
To keep them from losing their nerve and to find out who's behind the enemy…
"Patrick, how's Anthony doing these days?"
"Well, he doesn't really get along with the other members, but he works hard and keeps to himself. He goes out on the floor and dances well, too."
Patrick gave a strained laugh. It was ridiculous, but I wasn't surprised. Working and dancing—that was probably why the self-proclaimed lone wolf wanted a job at the dance hall.
But honestly, who likes seeing the new guy just dancing around? Some of the members might resent it.
"I should give him something new to do."
A little while later, Anthony came into the office and looked at Patrick and me in turn.
"Boss, were you looking for me?"
"The situation isn't looking good. Even the band we barely managed to find could quit at any time."
"We can't have the music stop at the dance hall."
"That's why I need you to step in."
Anthony caught my gaze, and a slight smirk appeared on one side of his mouth.
"I can tell just by the look in your eyes. Leave it to me."
"…?"
"You want me to join the band and stick with them for a while, right? As bait?"
He really was sharp.
At this rate, the guy could open a fortune-telling booth.
"It might be dangerous."
"As long as you give me a gun, there's no problem."
"And you call yourself a fixer, but you don't even have a gun?"
"Of course… I don't."
He'd lost his gun when he got hurt in Chicago.
But he still had a license.
He'd been able to get it thanks to Chicago councilman John Powers.
Come to think of it, he was the only one among us who held a firearm license.
"What model do you want?"
"Anything will do, as long as it's a gun."
I took a Colt M1911 pistol, a spare magazine, and even a silencer out of the drawer.
Anthony whistled when he saw them.
"Perfect."
"I hope you handle the job just as perfectly."
"Leave it to me."
"Patrick, make sure the band and the members are clear on this. For the time being, Anthony is now a member of the band Harmonica."
"Okay."
After Patrick and Anthony left the office, I looked over the information Marcus and the others had gathered.
A few years ago, the gangs that used to divide and control the LES district fell apart, and now there's no clear dominant force.
Monk Eastman, the boss of the Eastman Gang, fought in World War I even in his forties, while Paul Kelly, boss of the Five Points Gang, was now serving as Vice President of the ILA.
Currently, what's left in the LES are the remnants of those gangs. Italian Sicilians and Neapolitans, and the Marginals were also operating in the underworld, creating a tangled web of power.
In truth, this was a transitional period, as the old gangs were giving way to the more organized crime groups of the Prohibition era.
Either way, this was the time to show unmistakable strength.
We went through the information collected and narrowed down the nearby dance hall suppliers, then drafted a message to send them.
The more we provoke them, the faster they'll show their next move.
***
Rose Dance Hall on Bowery Street
A letter arrived for Boss Chiropici.
"The boss of Pumpkin Dance Hall, huh... Now they're trying every trick in the book."
He skimmed over the letter with narrowed eyes.
[Dear Rose Dance Hall Boss,
Recently, an unfortunate incident occurred at our dance hall, creating a rather uneasy atmosphere.
We always place great importance on order and mutual prosperity. However, when the environment becomes unstable, we inevitably have to consider our own ways of responding.
Still, as colleagues in the same line of work, I believe cooperative relations between us are essential.
I trust that such issues can easily be resolved through smooth communication and consideration on both sides.
If you happen to know anything regarding these recent incidents, or if you have any advice on how to prevent such disturbances in our establishment in the future, I would greatly appreciate it.
After all, LES is smaller than you think, and everyone remembers each other.
Wishing you health and prosperity in your business, and hoping to meet and greet you in person very soon. I look forward to your reply.]
"This lunatic expects a reply after sending us a letter like this?"
The letter, which started out polite, was practically a threat by the end.
Sales were already down, and his patience was wearing thin.
Yet those losers, who had taken blow after blow without doing anything, were acting all high and mighty now.
"Maybe going out of business will wake them up."
Chiropici gave a sneering laugh and was about to tear up the letter, but quickly changed his mind.
"I should meet with the other bosses."
He figured the other places must have received similar letters, and he was curious to see how everyone would respond.
Besides, even though Chiropici wasn't involved in the trouble at Pumpkin Dance Hall, he had a pretty good idea who was behind it.
The next day, a few of the dance hall bosses from the LES area gathered for a meeting. During the gathering, someone remarked,
"Looks like they managed to find a band by pure luck. But if they lose even that, Pumpkin will be finished."
It might have sounded trivial, but the heart of any dance hall is its band.
But now, rumors were circulating: anyone who played at Pumpkin would inevitably face retaliation.
No matter how desperate you were for money or how few places would hire you, performing at Pumpkin Dance Hall meant risking your life. Who would possibly go that far?
***
"Anthony, if you play offbeat by yourself, the rest of us can't keep up."
Durante, the pianist, always full of bright and positive energy, couldn't keep quiet any longer.
"And really, just because you've got a harmonica in your mouth doesn't mean you have to blow into it every time. Please, at the very least, play the sections we practiced properly…"
Anthony's eyebrow twitched and he gripped his harmonica tightly. Sensing the tension, Durante let his words trail off.
The atmosphere in the waiting room was tense, and just as their break was about to end Anthony let out a long sigh.
"Okay. I get it."
"Oh, all right! Shall we give it another shot?"
The band returned to the stage. Reflecting on Durante's words, Anthony tried his best to keep time and restrain himself. But as the lively ragtime began, he just couldn't stay still. Letting his harmonica hang from his mouth felt almost like a crime.
In the end, he lost control and started playing the harmonica. The band shook their heads in disbelief but grudgingly kept up with the rhythm.
What made it even more frustrating was that the audience cheered for Anthony's wild, runaway-locomotive performance.
'I seriously want to quit.'
'Taking threats would be better than this.'
But as soon as their fingers moved over their instruments, they snapped back to reality.
Getting involved in this rotten world had been their first mistake.
At last, the long, exhausting day ended, and they packed up their instruments in the waiting room. With his harmonica tucked in his pocket, Anthony left the dance hall with the rest of the band.
"Whew, good job, everyone. So, should we grab a late-night snack before heading home?"
"Is Anthony treating us?"
"If he's buying, I'm in."
"The lone wolf doesn't have much money. But I can afford to buy you guys a snack."
Is this what love-hate feels like? Led by Anthony, Durante and the rest of the band followed him into one of the few All-Night Cafes.
As they sipped drinks and nibbled on snacks, Anthony asked,
"Except for Durante, you're all from New Orleans, right?"
Cornet player Frank Christian and trumpet player Jeff Roya Cano—both were seasoned musicians who'd been pretty well known back in New Orleans.
"The competition there was fierce, so we came to New York. Quite a few friends of ours made it big over in Manhattan."
"By making it big, do you mean money?"
"No. I mean finding patrons who can help get us recording sessions and release records."
"Ah, patrons."
As Anthony nodded, he spotted three men loitering outside the cafe. He recognized one from the dance hall earlier.
By the time they'd finished their drinks, snacks, and even a round of beer, it was past three in the morning. Anthony and the group left the cafe and headed toward the Eldridge Street boarding house where the band was staying.
As they walked under the streetlights, a group began to close in on them.
Sensing the suspicious movements, the musicians instinctively edged closer to Anthony.
Pianist Durante shoved his hands in his pockets, nervously shivering.
"What should we do, Anthony?"
"What do you mean, what should we do? If they start something, we finish it."
"Uh, finish it where?"
Anthony jerked his chin skyward in response.
The musicians shuddered, a chill running down their spines.
"Well then, let's get started."
Suddenly, Anthony changed direction, leading the group into an even darker alley.
"You guys, hide back there."
He gestured toward an area piled with trash bins and junk.
As Durante and the others quickly ducked behind the heap, the pursuers also veered into the alley.
The man at the front spotted Anthony standing alone and cocked his head mockingly.
"Did you lure us here on purpose?"
"Is this idiot letting us follow even though he knows what's up?"
"Punk."
Just as he tried to draw his gun, a cold muzzle jabbed up under his chin—out of nowhere.
Frozen in place, the man's hand, which had reached inside his jacket, dropped.
With that opening, Anthony seized him by the throat and yanked him forward.
At the same time, he turned the gun and fired at the guy who was reaching for his own weapon.
Bang!
The bullet struck the man in the head, snapping it back as blood sprayed.
Taking the gunshot as their cue, another one of them took off in a panic.
Without hesitation, Anthony pulled the trigger, aiming for the back of his fleeing head.
"Idiots. If you're coming into an alley, you should have had your guns out already."
Then again, who would've imagined the band guys would be carrying guns?
Still gripping the trembling man by the throat, Anthony rifled through his coat and took his gun.
"Got myself another gun."
Humming as if nothing had happened, Anthony pressed the barrel to the hostage's head and dragged him deeper into the alley.
The band members, who had been hiding behind the pile of trash, slowly stood up, staring at Anthony.
As he passed by, Anthony asked them,
"You didn't see anything tonight, did you?"
"No, we… we didn't see a thing."
"Good. Head back to your lodgings. Don't be late tomorrow."
"Ah, understood."
"And don't go that way. Take another route out."
There were already two bodies at the entrance to the alley he'd come in through.
People would be swarming the area soon, and running into them would be a problem.
With Durante and the musicians slipping away down another alley, Anthony dragged his hostage into an even more secluded spot.
***
Second floor office, Allen Street Twin Buildings.
Patrick frowned as he discussed Anthony's way of handling things.
"What good is skill if he kills without thinking? Jeez, how are we supposed to deal with the aftermath? If the band guys start running their mouths, we're really screwed..."
"Tell them to move out of the band's boarding house and come up to the third floor here. Patrick, keep checking the police situation."
There was no longer any need to use the band as bait. After all, Anthony had tortured the hostage and uncovered who was behind the attack.
"They pointed to Palm Garden Dance Hall. But since he knew he was as good as dead, he might've just said it to screw with me."
"Let's at least put it on the priority list for now."
Anthony decided to watch how the police investigation played out before making a move. Besides, even after taking out three guys, he was unfazed—right now he was in the waiting room, calmly polishing his harmonica and insisting he still wanted to perform tonight.
"Boss, do you think this will take some pressure off us?"
"This won't be nearly enough."
Three of the guys who tried to ambush the band are dead, but that's all. The real masterminds behind them haven't suffered any real consequences.
What's more, the entire point of attacking the band was a show of force. In other words, unless I break them completely, this sort of thing is just going to keep happening.
The dance hall bosses need a much bigger shock. But hitting all of them at once would be too risky.
Let's make an example out of just two places.
Over the past few days, I'd been making homemade bombs in a secret spot. I put a bit of TNT into ordinary cans of corned beef, then modified the seven-second fuse from a Mills Grenade that I'd had flown in from the gunsmith, extending it to fifteen seconds so it wouldn't go off right away.
The American-made MK1 grenade uses about 50 grams of TNT—which is just about right for blowing out a single floor of a building, without damaging the floors above or below.
With that amount, using a homemade bomb, I mapped things out based on blueprints my informants had dug up of competing dance hall buildings.
Early in the morning, on Mulberry Street. It was a time when the dance halls kept their doors firmly shut.
Our members fanned out to keep watch in all directions, while I, dressed in ragged clothes like a homeless man, strolled casually down the alley.
When there were people around, I poked through trash cans and kept up the act, waiting for just the right moment.
When the timing was perfect, I slipped onto the metal fire escape and tossed a homemade bomb in through the second-floor dance hall window.
I counted down in my head while heading back down the stairs, and by the time I was slipping out of the alley...
Boom!
With a deafening roar, the glass window shattered into pieces, and shards rained down, clattering against the building across the street.
I hurried out of the alley, panting. Who would care about a terrified homeless man, anyway?
Pushing my way through the crowds gathering for their morning commute, I quickly left the scene behind.
Two hours later, another explosion rocked the dance hall on Bowery Street.
With the chain of blasts complete, the next step—
"We'd better make sure we're not suspected. Let's get started on our end, too."
I had prepared homemade bombs with much less firepower—just enough that, if found, they'd look like duds that never went off.
I entered the dance hall and glanced around the interior.
"Where should we set this off?"
If they're planning to open for business today, I need to make sure damage is kept to a minimum.