Chapter 52 - You Still Don't Know My Name?
Unlike the $20,000 in cash from the safe, these were crisp bills wrapped in paper.
I took one out and examined it closely.
The texture of the paper felt a bit off, and the printing was less precise, with the ink slightly raised on the surface. Most telling of all, the serial numbers were identical.
These are definitely counterfeit bills.
Why did Rosie Hertz have these?
Maybe she was scammed by someone, or perhaps she was distributing them into circulation herself.
In a shady brothel, drunk customers wouldn't bother checking the feel of the bills or inspecting the print quality.
The US government had long ago set up a special task force called the Secret Service to stop the spread of counterfeit money.
It was only after the assassination of President William McKinley in 1901 that the Secret Service took on the duty of protecting the president, but its core mission was still cracking down on counterfeiting.
If you get caught by them, your life is over.
I'd better make sure to keep this hidden. Not even the Union gang can know.
Next was Rosie Hertz's ledger. A list of politicians and public officials who'd taken bribes. Every date, location, and amount was recorded in painstaking detail.
The only thing was, the most recent entry was from four years ago. In other words, the last record was when Rosie Hertz was arrested by the police in 1913.
Why didn't she ever expose this? If she had used the ledger to blackmail them, she might not have been found guilty.
Or, conversely, maybe she got a lighter sentence precisely because she never revealed it.
In fact, considering the crimes she actually committed, Rosie Hertz was only sentenced to one year in prison. It was more than reasonable to suspect she'd bargained her sentence down with this ledger.
"Well, that's not really what matters now."
The real question was how I could use this ledger going forward. Depending on the situation, it could serve as a kind of ultimate weapon, helping me compile a list of officials to buy off, or I could use it for blackmail.
"I'd better hide this too, for now."
The more options I had in my arsenal, the better.
In this already cramped house, I opened the wooden box that held the two Springfield pistols, the scope, and the suppressor, and slipped the ledger and the counterfeit bills inside.
Real estate and stock certificates don't just become mine by stealing them since their ownership is officially registered. But it would still be worthwhile to check out the buildings that Rosie Hertz owned either jointly or outright.
For now, I'd keep them stored away.
I closed the lid of the wooden box and hammered in some nails so no one could open it.
Once I finished, I started sorting the $34,000 on the table by denomination, but today my hands were shaking.
Counting the buildings too, it was roughly $50,000. Hard to believe it was just yesterday that I borrowed a single dollar from Leo to buy a tool bag. I guess in the end, making real money is all about taking what belongs to someone else, pulling off a big score...
No, that's not it.
Some say that spending money is more important than making it. So I have to spend it on something meaningful.
"I'll have to completely redo the interior of the building."
After all, this building will be used as the headquarters for the Union Gang.
Let's secretly redesign the layout so it can be used for all kinds of purposes.
I was busy sketching blueprints on paper when Tanner came looking for me.
***
Tenement House Rooftop.
The police investigation is still underway, but we're outside their net.
"It was a vicious but flawless plan."
"That's a compliment, right?"
"For gangsters, it's the highest praise."
"In that case, I should return the favor."
I pulled a bundle of cash from my bag and handed it to him.
"There was twenty thousand dollars in the safe. Here's three thousand from that."
"You didn't have to tell me it was twenty grand."
Even Cory, who actually cracked the safe, had no idea how much was in there. In other words, if I hadn't said anything, no one would have known.
"By the way, if you're giving me three thousand dollars, how much are you planning to give the others?"
"Well, I'm still thinking about it."
Tanner shook his head.
"Whatever you do, don't just hand out money left and right. The day you start giving them less than before, you'll see people turn on you. Didn't you see what happened with the Naples guys? They all got hauled in."
One of the underlings, neck-deep in gambling debt, asked the Boss for help and was ignored.
Later, when that underling was caught by the police, he spilled secrets that should have stayed buried.
That's how dangerous money can be.
This powerful weapon can create loyal followers—or turn them into betrayers.
As I tried to quietly pocket a thousand dollars, Tanner quickly grabbed my hand.
"I'm just saying, there's nothing like money to build trust."
"The thing is, it really is a tough decision. Splitting up profits isn't easy."
Tanner nodded as he tucked away the three thousand dollars.
"Profit-sharing. That's a really big deal Here's a tip: the Boss should always take half! If you set it in stone like that, there'll be no trouble down the line.
There's a reason no one complains when the Boss takes half.
"A big chunk of cash disappears taking care of bribes or cleaning up messes when things go wrong. Are you going to go around collecting small contributions from everyone each time? Just bringing that up would make you unfit to be a leader."
"That's good advice."
"And everyone knows it too. Keeping a gang running costs a lot. Trust me—no one's going to complain if you don't hand out cash."
It's not about the money. What gang members really want is for their own gang to thrive.
"If you crush a rival gang instead of just tossing around cash, the guys totally lose their minds. They go wild."
Tanner went on, getting more fired up.
Now that I was in deep myself, I didn't want to write them off as 'simple thugs.'
Let's just say they're gangsters brimming with romance, passion, and swagger.
"In any case, the Boss is the lifeblood of the gang. In that sense, Oweny Madden of the Gophers, Monk Eastman of the Eastmans, and Paul Kelly of Five Points handled things well."
But there is one fatal flaw.
A gang united by powerful leadership falls apart the moment the Boss goes down.
The three gangs that Tanner mentioned are the perfect examples.
In fact, over the past hundred years, countless gangs have risen and fallen in Manhattan.
They met their end together with their Boss. That's why even the most notorious gangs couldn't last more than twenty years.
So how can you make an organization strong and keep it going?
The answer was found by the Sicilian Mafia, a criminal group tightly bound together around the Family.
The systematic organization of a gang. Ranks, positions, the scope of each role, rules, rewards, and so on. It was the Mafia who first showed that even if people changed, the system would keep running.
Of course, there's still a long way to go.
The people who will one day perfect the Mafia—those who will truly lead the coming change—are still waiting in the wings, unknown to the world.
Like Johnny Torrio and Meyer Lansky, who were with Al Capone at the Coney Island bar.
And Charles "Lucky" Luciano.
The Capo dei Capi, the Godfather, who ruled the Prohibition era and built the Mafia Empire.
The man who became the inspiration for the film The Godfather.
He's probably wandering around the Lower East Side just like me. I just haven't met him yet.
Or maybe I have seen him but didn't recognize him. Maybe, just like Benjamin was later called Bugsy Siegel, he goes by a different name now.
It's strange—I just can't remember his real name. What's certain is that the nickname "Lucky" didn't appear until the end of the Prohibition era.
Charles "Lucky" Luciano.
Where are you?
***
After parting ways with Tanner, I went down to the Underground Workshop.
As usual, Leo and Marcus were hauling fabric.
On the day of the incident, the two of them had carried out their duties as Union gang members, just as planned. Especially—
"Whose idea was it to get Roa's Headband?"
"I had a bit of money left over from what you gave me, so I bought it. If I had a little sister like Roa, I'd probably buy her something like that at least once a month."
Leo grinned as he handed over the remaining 25 cents in change.
He could have easily kept that much for himself.
"You should've bought yourself something tasty."
"If I spent your money, I'd probably get a stomachache."
"As if you wouldn't gripe no matter what I spent it on."
Marcus chimed in, siding with Leo.
"So that's my reputation, huh."
I ostentatiously opened my bag and handed them two envelopes stuffed with cash.
Both of their eyes went wide as they peered inside.
"I put $300 in each. Leo, make sure your father doesn't find out, and hide it well."
"…I'm never letting anyone take this."
Leo's face was overwhelmed, his eyes brimming with tears.
Marcus, on the other hand, looked at me with a determined, almost solemn gaze.
"No matter what happens, I'm with you to the end."
"Same here. That's how it's always been, and that's how it'll stay."
It wasn't just about the money. Through this incident, as members involved in planning a crime, Leo and Marcus had tasted the rush—the thrill, the excitement. They, too, were beginning to become true gangsters, full of romance, passion, and bravado.
***
On the way to Allen Street. With Jacob now wanted across the entire US, the underground workshop was being shut down.
And Tanner was against my grand plan to turn the soon-to-be-empty basement into a shooting range.
"You want to build a shooting range in the middle of the city, and you don't even have a gun license? Wow, that's really amazing. Are you out of your mind? If you really want to shoot guns, go visit that old Gunsmith. We've got the capital—why don't we just run a bar and a casino, make some money. I've never done that before. All the more reason to try. Weren't you the one so sure Prohibition would pass? But how can you jump in with zero experience?
There's nothing to lose by listening to Tanner's advice.
Like he said, we knew how to kill people, sure, but we severely lacked real experience as a gang.
Every gang needs a cash cow.
A bar or casino that brings in steady profits is an absolute must.
Just look at how Sicily and Naples were at each other's throats over who would control the casinos of the Lower East Side—that tells you everything.
Just because you've seen a Ford Model T in a museum doesn't mean you can drive it, and memorizing the Mafia Genealogy won't suddenly make your organization complete either.
You need the right learning and experience for the times. Tanner wasn't wrong.
Let's do it—a bar, a casino!
Then get some work experience somewhere first.
Anyway, it'll take at least a month to clear out the current tenants, and at least two months if you want to do a full renovation.
Fine, then get me a job at a bar or casino you know. The Lower East Side is full of tiny hole-in-the-wall joints. If you're going to learn, you should do it at a big place. I'll talk to Tom Foley about it.
While still turning over my conversation with Tanner in my mind, I arrived at 137 and 138 Allen Street.
In front of the building, rows of police transport vehicles stood parked, and down below, the employees of the illegal brothel were being dragged out one by one by the police.
The prostitutes weren't faring much better. As the women, draped in blankets, emerged from the basement, a barrage of jeers and accusations rained down from the crowd.
What struck me most was the women's attitude. Regardless of the insults hurled their way, as soon as they reached the street, they looked up at the sky.
Even though the elevated railway blocked much of the view, they didn't seem to care.
Among them was the woman who had banged on the wall earlier. Her face was bloodless, her expression hollow as she gazed up at the sky.
And yet, the crowd mocked them, scoffing that they must have it easy to be acting like that.
What, I wondered, were they so angry about?
Was it that, in a nation founded by Puritans, they couldn't stand to see morality sink so low?
People like that were probably the same ones who had fervently supported that foolish Prohibition law.
As I surveyed the angry mob, a few men caught my eye—it was the Italian gangsters who'd extorted protection money.
In the aftermath of the Jacob incident, the police were on the lookout for whoever had raided the basement salon earlier that day.
Because of that, the Italian gangsters were now laying low, unable to collect their protection fees…
A shame.
I'd hoped the Italians would barge into the underground salon, but they were proving to be more cautious than I thought.
They weren't stupid.
Let's just be satisfied that I managed to hold them back for a while.
"Long time no see."
A familiar voice came from behind me.
It was Salvatore—the man who'd tried to collect ten cents in protection money from Meyer, and who'd gotten a punch from me when I pretended not to know what he was talking about.
I'd heard during the draft registration that he was working as a brothel pimp. Maybe he was here today scouting for more women.
"Hey, are you still hanging around with the Marginals these days?"
"I work at a clothing factory."
"The Tenement House underground workshop?"
There was a reason Salvatore seemed to know all about me, almost like a stalker.
"Meyer and Irving were talking about you. They said there's an opening at the Tenderloin store—if you're interested, you should come by."
"You working with them now? I heard you were doing pimp work."
"That was just for a bit. Call it gaining experience. Until recently, I was working as a bounty hunter, too."
So, you're getting some experience under your belt, just like me.
You sure are hustling.
Anyway.
"Who's got a bounty on their head?"
"The Rat Sniper of Newtown Creek. Ever heard of him?"
I instantly shook my head—vigorously.
"Well, I guess there's no way you'd know."
Salvatore's English still sounded rough.
He hadn't been in America long, and his Italian accent clung to every word.
Still, he was talkative today.
The fact that his interest in me had grown meant he'd probably gotten even closer with Meyer and Irving.
From the Mafia genealogy I'd read in my previous life, I remembered there were a few people who'd been close with Meyer since their teens.
One of them was Bugsy Siegel.
And another was Charles "Lucky" Luciano.
No way...
"What's your name?"
"What, you still don't know my name?"
Salvatore Luchania.
He was twenty years old.
That's... interesting.
"So, what kind of place is this?"
"It's a gambling house."
Irving had said he found a job in the Tenderloin, and sure enough, it wasn't anything ordinary.
Wait, a casino?
"What's it called?"
"The Big Bankroll. It's a favorite spot for local big shots."
And it's also the same casino that Big Tom Paul Lee from Tammany Hall used to visit every morning.
Maybe I should try working there part-time