Chapter 53 - There's Nothing You Can't Do
After the underground brothel was shut down and its facilities demolished, a large quantity of phenol—used for disinfecting toilets, bathrooms, and drains—was discovered.
The police, eager to close the case quickly, concluded that the phenol Jacob used in the crime came from the brothel.
And neither I nor the Union Gang were even mentioned in the police investigation.
Unless Jacob's body surfaced from the bottom of the river, there was little chance the investigation would be reopened.
Just as I had done for Leo and Marcus, I gave each Union Gang member a $300 reward.
Their reactions were exactly as Tanner had predicted. At first, their faces split into wide grins, but those were quickly replaced by uneasy expressions.
"We're grateful for the bonuses with every job, but even if you didn't give them, it's not like we'd blame you or talk behind your back."
"There's a lot of stuff coming up we'll need money for, right?"
In their eyes, I could see real passion.
There was also a touch of Don Quixote's stubborn idealism—the kind that chases after something even more valuable than money.
With men like these, what couldn't we accomplish?
That moving thought was just taking root in my chest when Gavin, looking glum, spoke up.
"My draft status came out. In three weeks, I have to report to Camp Upton for training."
I had briefly forgotten.
Five of our crew were eligible for the draft.
I turned to look at the other four in turn.
Of the five, all looked gloomy except for Cory.
"Is Cory exempt?"
"...My physical is top grade. But I got out because I have to support my family."
Just how poor must they have been?
Cory's family situation is similar to mine.
He has a sick mother at home and little siblings, all under ten.
He's basically the only breadwinner.
No wonder Cory got good at cracking safes from such a young age.
In any case, we're about to lose a third of our gang's manpower.
It feels like things are going downhill before we've even really begun...
But it's only for a year.
When the war's over, they'll come back.
All I can do is hope they make it back alive.
For that to happen—
"Let's all go for a run."
"I thought you were going to tell us to pray or something..."
"From now on, this is real survival training. The ones staying behind are no exception."
If you think about it, Manhattan is a battlefield too. Both those leaving and those staying need to have a solid foundation. And it's not just about physical strength; I'll have to teach them about firearms and shooting soon, too.
"I guess I won't get to see our headquarters finished."
"Yeah. I thought I'd get to eat and sleep here."
"Maybe I'll never get to come back..."
"What happens if you step on a big nail here? Do you still have to enlist?"
"Stop talking nonsense and get back to cleaning."
Under the pretense of physical training, the Union gang members were put to work demolishing and cleaning out the basement facilities.
The tenants on the first through third floors agreed to vacate their spaces within a month.
Before that happens, I need to find professionals to handle the renovations, preferably from other districts so we can keep the secret rooms and structures discreet.
– I don't know much about that kind of thing either.
Tanner said he'd look for an illegal construction crew in Hell's Kitchen. As for me, I'm on my way to deliver a shipment, just as my mother ordered.
The intersection of Hester and Allen Street.
"Back again, huh? Heading to Macy's?"
"Yes."
"How's work these days?"
"Oh, it's always the same."
I headed to the department store using the delivery wagon.
I traveled along Broadway and, as usual, unloaded the goods at the cargo bay behind the building.
When I tried to hand the goods over to the inspector using a store cart, he pointed upstairs.
"You'll need to take it up yourself today, too."
That made it the third time already.
At some point, the lingerie department manager started wanting me to personally bring up the deliveries.
It was to discuss the products, and ever since brassiere sales had been steadily rising, the manager's interest had only increased.
I could tell just by looking at her expression.
She greeted me with a bright smile.
"Welcome, Ciaran."
"I'll put the goods here."
"I was hoping you could help with the display today too. Do you have time?"
I have a lot to do.
I need to stop by Hell's Kitchen to find a suppressor, and I need to check out the Tenderloin casino.
Of course, managing business partners is important too.
"I have plenty of time."
"As you showed me before, I hung the products on the mannequin and laid them out below, and the response was great. Someone's got a good eye for these things."
"You flatter me."
"I mean it. Looks like we have a customer—could you unpack the goods?"
Although there are sales clerks, the manager herself is active with customers.
She has her reasons: by naturally chatting with customers, she was able to gauge their satisfaction with the products and find areas for improvement.
She really knows how to hire the right people.
I started unpacking the products I'd brought up on the cart.
While sorting them by item on the floor, I heard a voice that sounded familiar.
"The lace was a bit itchy against my skin. If you're going for design, maybe just put a little on the band or the edge instead. Still, it was definitely comfortable."
When it comes to women's voices, sadly, I only ever hear my mother's, the staff's, and Roa's.
So why does this woman's voice sound so familiar?
Big eyes, a small face, pale skin, brown hair.
A slightly expensive-looking velvet dress.
She was examining one of our company's brassieres and commenting on it, while the manager nodded along and jotted down her thoughts in a notebook.
That face.
And yet, I was certain I'd never seen her before. But it wasn't just the voice—her eyes looked familiar too.
Still crouched on the floor, I covertly covered my own nose and mouth with my palm, mimicking doing the same to her face. As I did, our eyes met.
She looked at me with a bewildered expression, as if thinking, "What kind of idiot is this?"
But then she tilted her head, seemed to think for a moment, and suddenly looked startled.
She copied my gesture, covering her own nose and mouth with her hand.
Her eyes grew wider and wider.
"Actually, the person who designed the brassiere is here right now,"
the manager chimed in.
"We're constantly improving the product, so I can pass along what you just suggested directly."
"The designer is…?"
When the manager pointed at me, the woman covered her mouth with her hand.
I could see she was smiling with her eyes.
Then she cleared her throat and stepped closer to me.
"You designed these brassieres?"
"Yes…"
She replied, almost in a whisper,
"There really isn't anything you can't do, is there?"
There was no doubt.
It was Hazel, the Gunsmith's granddaughter.
Unlike the Gunsmith, who suffered burns, Hazel's face was completely unscarred.
Why did she cover up in the workshop, then? No, more importantly, how did she recognize me? Was the scarf not enough?
Hazel picked up one of the brassieres I was about to display and brought it over to the manager.
"I'll take this one."
"Oh my, you do have an eye for these things! By the way, we'll be getting the full size range in stock next week."
"Full size range?"
"Ciaran, what sizes do we have again?"
Ugh, I really didn't want to answer.
"Bust size... It ranges from the smallest: A, B, C, to D cups."
"Oh, then I must be a D, right?" Hazel said with a grin.
The manager enthusiastically agreed.
"Wow, I'm so envious! You have the face, you have the figure. Honestly, when you walk by, men must always be staring. I'd even be worried someone might try to kidnap you!"
"In that case, I guess I'll just have to shoot them."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm joking."
Hazel, who used to spend her days hammering away in that gloomy workshop, was now laughing and getting along famously with the manager.
"Well, thank you."
After paying, Hazel didn't even glance in my direction and headed off elsewhere. I asked the manager,
"Is she a regular?"
"She comes by sometimes. Always dressed so nicely, like a proper lady, but when it comes to her underwear, she only buys practical stuff. She says corsets are too much trouble. That seems to be the trend these days. The younger women are usually much happier with bras."
Once she finished praising the products, she started giving me advice on possible improvements. Thanks to the manager, my head was now filled with bras instead of Hazel.
I'd just about finished setting up the display and was wheeling the cart toward the freight elevator when—
"Fancy running into you again."
Hazel suddenly appeared, pretending it was a coincidence.
"Yeah, imagine that."
"I was just about to take the elevator myself."
"The freight elevator?"
"Yeah."
The horizontal and vertical iron gates, which looked like prison bars, opened in sequence, and Hazel, insisting on following me, got into the freight elevator.
The employees who were already inside glanced at her. Why would she take this elevator when the one for customers is available? It was as if question marks had popped up over everyone's heads.
As soon as I returned the handcart and left the Macy's department store, she covered her face with a scarf.
When I came to a stop, Hazel naturally stood by my side.
"The silencer's all done."
"I was just about to come pick it up."
"Then let's take a carriage together."
"I didn't know you were rich."
"I bust my ass earning it, so I might as well spend it."
"······"
Hazel hailed a carriage.
We got into an expensive coupé carriage, the kind with separate seats for the coachman and the passengers.
As soon as we sat down, Hazel asked,
"Did you recognize me right away?"
"Your voice and eyes were familiar."
"You were looking at me funny, so I wondered if you were out of your mind. But as soon as I saw your eyes, I knew it was you. When I first saw you in the dark workshop, I wondered if you were Asian. Turns out, you really were."
Hazel admitted she'd debated for a long time whether or not to act like she knew me.
"Both of us are living double lives. I figured it might be better if we just pretended not to know each other."
"Then why did you say something?"
"I just wanted to. I was happy to see you, that's all."
Hazel nodded again to emphasize her point.
We arrived at the building in Hell's Kitchen where the Gunsmith's workshop was located.
After getting out of the carriage, Hazel pointed for me to head into the alley.
"You go in first. If I show you everything, that wouldn't feel right."
"Suit yourself."
Today, the alley was deserted.
There were no thugs in sight.
I knocked on the steel door set in the semi-basement, and the Gunsmith peeked out at me.
Clang.
As always, the Gunsmith climbed the steps and scanned the alley.
"Looks like the chicken-brains have finally come to their senses. Well, I'm sure new chickens will show up soon enough."
He closed the door again and led me into the workshop.
"Here for a silencer?"
"I'm a bit late."
"I was actually wondering when you'd come. But you picked the wrong day."
"Why's that?"
"My assistant is out—"
Right then, a dull mechanical noise sounded from somewhere inside. The Gunsmith paused mid-sentence and glanced toward Hazel's workshop door.
"Looks like she's here."
So there was a separate door connecting the basement workshop to the outside. Suddenly, I remembered what those thugs had said to Hazel before.
– Let's see how long you keep hiding down in that basement. If we catch you, you're dead!
– She's gotta be sick. It's obvious—she never comes out!
There was a reason the punks hanging around the alley hadn't run into Hazel.
Now I was dying to know the building's secret layout.
The last time I'd visited Hazel's workshop, there hadn't been any separate door.
The only thing there had been a steel cabinet taking up an entire wall.
Could that be a secret passage? I remembered Hazel warning me back then not to touch anything inside the cabinet.
Click.
The door opened and Hazel, her face bundled up tight, peeked out at me.
"Hi."
"Oh."
The old Gunsmith looked back and forth between the two of us, scratching at the jaw he'd hidden under his scarf.
"Looks like you two met outside. The timing of your arrivals, too."
"It was pure coincidence," I replied.
"Hmph. We'll talk about that later. Just hand over the silencer."
Hazel pushed the door open the rest of the way and came over with the silencer, as if she'd already prepared it.
"I stayed up several nights finishing this. If I'd known you were coming so late, I would've taken my time."
The silencer matched the blueprint I'd drawn. I wouldn't know how it actually performed until I fired it myself, but judging by the polishing work, the finish was smooth and glossy.
When I handed over the $20, Hazel nodded downward.
"While you're here, want to try shooting it?"
The Gunsmith flinched, and to me, her question sounded more like "Wanna come in for some ramen?" (in Korean it can be a flirtatious invitation).
"No, I have somewhere to go in a bit."
"What, you're not even going to test it?"
"I'm sure it's better than before. You tested it yourself, right?"
"I tried it out for you. It's definitely quieter than the last one."
The Gunsmith looked at me with newfound interest.
"If you have anything you want made, hand me the blueprints."
"Not today."
"That's disappointing."
"Yeah."
The Gunsmith and Hazel were both looking forward to my fresh, innovative blueprints.
Of course, I had brought a diagram for an improved Colt M1911. I was planning to commission it, but I'd just changed my mind.
"By any chance, could you introduce me to a reliable expert in illegal construction?"
"That came out of nowhere."
"I bought a building recently, but there's a lot that needs fixing. Ideally, I'd like the person who designed this place to handle it."
The Gunsmith glanced at Hazel, and she shot me a look. She seemed defensive, as if trying to cover up being exposed.
"This feels a bit like cheating, you know?"
"I'm being serious. I can't trust the construction companies in this district. If anything like a secret door or passage gets revealed, that's a problem, right?"
"We'd feel the same way. What if that person told you about this place's layout? Why should we take that risk?"
I pulled a blueprint out of my coat.
An upgraded version of the Colt M1911.
The Gunsmith and Hazel both fell silent and stared intently at the design.
"This… looks pretty complicated."
"I can't see it well—spread the paper out properly."
Annoyed, I folded the paper up and started explaining instead.
"First off, I improved the M1911's firing system. I've changed the firing pin spring, the one that strikes the primer, to use a double spring setup."
This boosts accuracy when firing and also helps extend the lifespan of the parts. It also reduces the weight when you pull the trigger.
"For the magazine, I improved the lips and the spring, and made the opening larger for faster reloading. Besides that, I adjusted the sensitivity of the safety, added a dovetail for the front sight on top of the slide, and... well, I'll stop there."
Hazel clenched her fist as if urging me to continue, while the Gunsmith clicked his tongue.
"Did you used to work at a firearms company?"
"No."
"Then how do you know such detailed parts and terminology... No, never mind. What's the point of asking."
The Gunsmith stroked his chin, lost deep in thought.
"I'm not interested in the layout of your building. And honestly, handing over an entire gun blueprint is a bigger loss for me."
Don't you agree, Hazel?
Instead of answering, she just stared intently at the blueprint in my hand.
At that moment, the Gunsmith sighed and spoke up.
"Fine. Tell me the building's location and I'll go take a look."
"Why would you do that yourself, sir?"
"Because I personally designed and built this place."
I said to the Gunsmith with admiration
"…Is there anything you can't do?"
"Look who's talking."
— Put a few trustworthy people on this. I'm too old to be pouring cement myself, you know?
When I said I'd give him the blueprints once construction started, the Gunsmith said he'd come visit Allen Street in person on a set date.
That was one issue solved.
Right after parting ways with the Gunsmith, I headed to the casino in the Tenderloin.
Instead of going through Big Tom Foley, I decided to accept Salvatore's offer.
This was not only to gain experience working at a casino, but also to maintain a relationship with Meyer Lansky of the Jewish mob.
When the fighting gets fierce later on, the closer you keep your enemies, the better prepared you'll be for any danger.
***
Late evening.
I arrived at the Tenderloin, New York City's largest entertainment district, after riding the Broadway streetcar.
The Big Bankroll Casino.
"You made it?"
Salvatore, who was guarding the entrance, greeted me.