Chapter 58 - Don't Make Small Talk with the Dealer Unless You Have To
Gavin, Drift, Teddy, and Davey.
These four would be heading off to Camp Upton on Long Island.
"Construction only started this summer, so the camp probably isn't finished yet. That means the conditions'll be pretty rough."
At Camp Upton, which wasn't even completed, immigrant draftees from New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut—representing more than 25 nationalities—were gathering.
"Training lasts sixteen weeks. To get through that and survive to the end, you'd better make good friends with the guys you're training with. There's a good chance you'll end up fighting in the same platoon and squad. Also, what do you learn during training—?"
Second basement level, at the shooting range. All eyes focused on the rifle I was holding.
"In boot camp—and even on the battlefield—the US Army will mainly use this Springfield 1903 bolt-action rifle."
He explained the weapon's specs and how it operated, how to supply ammunition and reload, then had us shoot.
We'd end up learning all this at camp anyway, but he focused on tips they'd never tell you there.
"If you line up your sights and aim perfectly in a firefight, that just means your head is out where the enemy can see it. When there's group combat, just stick out your muzzle and find a decent angle—then fire. You'll improve your chances of surviving by ten percent."
At boot camp, you'd also learn to use grenades and machine guns.
I'd heard that French and British officers had been dispatched to America. What they were teaching was training to prepare for what actually happened in the field—tanks, trench warfare, and gas attacks.
After we finished shooting, we attached bayonets and learned the basics of bayonet combat.
Of course, we'd probably learn other things at boot camp, but here, the focus was on practical techniques to improve your chances of survival in actual close-quarters combat.
"You'll pick up the rest at camp. What comes next is what really matters."
He kept repeating it—after finishing those sixteen weeks of training, once you were shipped to the European front, the real war would last less than a year.
"Germany won't make it past 1918, no matter what. Just remember that. Even if hell opens up before your eyes, hang in there. Don't stay on the sidelines—look after your fellow soldiers. That's how you'll improve your odds of survival and set yourself up for what comes next." "What comes next?" "I'm saying, bring capable comrades with you."
Gavin and the other members' eyes lit up.
"I guarantee you, when you return, the Union Gang will have grown much bigger than it is now. You won't need to worry about what you're going to do after you get back."
Veterans often felt anxious when they returned home to find everything had changed—family problems, their old jobs gone, or their gang falling apart.
"But don't be anxious. Be excited for what's to come. And Drift—"
From the medical exam on, Drift had listed driving as his primary skill. Not just someone who could get behind the wheel—he actually had a driver's license.
Since 1910, the State of New York had started issuing driver's licenses. The tests were simple and basic, but even so, there were countless unlicensed drivers on the road.
Just like Drift, I was certain he would end up as a driver in the army.
"When you get back, we're going to need a lot of people in logistics and transportation. So when you go, bring reliable comrades with you."
Let's control the distribution of bootleg liquor together during Prohibition—just make sure not to bring along any riffraff.
"If there are guys in your group I can't trust, I'll be the first to take them out myself. And you'll be responsible for that, too."
Today was the last time I would see these men. With no trace of a smile, I made my intentions clear in our final conversation. Gavin and the other members responded with a sense of resolve.
"We'll make it back alive from the battlefield."
"All I need is to work with you—that's enough for me."
"Boss, take care of yourself. Don't try to handle everything on your own."
"Union Gang Forever."
Before leaving, the members also said their goodbyes to the Gunsmith.
"See you when we get back, old man."
"I'll tell you all the wild stories from the war when I return. It'll be even more exciting than that US-Spain war you told us about, old man."
"I'll look forward to it."
After the members left, I stayed behind.
"I need a bit of help."
"You're not bringing me a job to do?"
As I took the items out of the envelope and placed them on the table, Hazel opened the door and came out.
"What's that?"
"It's not a gift, if that's what you're thinking."
"I didn't expect a gift. But I also didn't expect these medicine bottles, either."
I took out the chemicals I'd bought from the pharmacy and spread out a blueprint on the table. Seeing this, the Gunsmith and Hazel both tilted their heads in curiosity.
"Is that a grenade, by any chance?"
"Not at all. It's a smoke grenade—it's made to produce smoke."
Looking at the blueprint, the Gunsmith pointed to the potassium nitrate I'd bought.
"Looks like the type of smoke grenade used in war. But as far as I know, those are usually made with a chlorate base."
"Chlorate works better if you want a fast smoke effect, but it's more explosive and toxic, so it's trickier to handle."
On the other hand, potassium nitrate has a much lower risk of explosion, is simpler to make, and leaves behind less harmful residue after burning
In fact, after World War I, smoke grenades with a potassium nitrate base became more widely used than those with chlorate, due to safety and environmental concerns.
In the future, there would be all kinds of additives, compounds, and even colored smoke grenades, but for now, this was a very early stage.
"We'll know once we actually make it, right?"
At some point, Hazel was holding an empty canister that looked a lot like the smoke grenade I'd drawn in my blueprint.
"That looks like a real smoke grenade."
"I grabbed those casings when we hit that munitions factory—just the shells. They usually throw these in as extras when they're making weapons deals."
With the tools and materials in the workshop, and ready-made casings, we'd be able to save a lot of time.
I started mixing the smoke-producing chemicals, Hazel worked on the casings and pins, and the Gunsmith began making the detonators.
Over the course of three hours, we made five smoke grenades. I took three, and gave the remaining two to the Gunsmith as payment for the work.
"It's only fair if you share the mixing formula, too."
"That's a secret. Honestly, two smoke grenades is more than generous."
"What am I supposed to do with these anyway?"
"If there's ever an emergency and someone raids this place, you'll be glad you have them."
"In that situation, I'd rather just use a gun."
The Gunsmith snorted in amusement. Meanwhile, Hazel was deep in thought, twirling the smoke grenade pin around her finger.
"If you pull that, the fire department will come running It takes a while for the smoke to clear out in a basement."
"But I still kind of want to try it..."
"Don't. You know it hurts even if you don't actually get shot."
"True. I think I can hold back."
Hazel nodded, letting go of her lingering attachment to the smoke grenade, and asked,
"Anything else you need?"
"I need one more suppressor for the M1911."
"Another one of the ones you made?"
"You still have that?"
"Yeah. I usually make two at the same time. That way, the process sticks in my memory longer."
"You don't have to give away all your tricks, Hazel. You should keep some of that to yourself."
At the Gunsmith's comment, Hazel just shrugged.
"And what else?"
"Four magazines for the M1911. Not the extended ones, just the original ones. And fifty rounds of ammunition."
"Wow, you're going to make the news at this rate. Smoke and corpses everywhere. If I see a headline like that, I'll know it was you."
"······."
***
The day after meeting the Gunsmith.
I worked in the Tenderloin until dawn, and it was already 3 p.m. by the time I made it down to Mother's company.
"It seemed quiet for a while, but the Italian gangsters showed up again."
They extorted another ten dollars in protection money.
The suspect, Jacob, was still missing, and the investigation into the assailants who raided the basement brothel that day ended up fizzling out.
As soon as the investigation into the assailants—suspected to be members of the Italian gang—was closed, the once-quiet thugs started up their activities again.
"It'll calm down soon."
"Why? You're not going away on another business trip, are you?"
"...Of course not."
There's no need for another trip, Mother.
They're right under our noses.
Before heading to the Tenderloin casino that evening, I went alone to the casino where Marcello's friend Lenny worked.
This was already the third time.
Lenny was working as a poker dealer that day, and I took a seat to join the game.
After losing two hands in a row and being down a dollar, there was a brief lull while Lenny shuffled the deck.
As the guys beside me got up to use the bathroom, Lenny quietly spoke up, eyes still on the cards.
"Are you close with Marcello?"
"No."
"...I see."
So you were hoping for that, too.
Well, considering I'd mentioned Marcello and had been hanging around his circle for days, it would've been strange if you hadn't noticed.
I threw Lenny a subtle hint.
"I'm good at picking up 'no roll' dice. Marcello knows that, too. But damn, I just don't know where to hand off the dice."
"..."
Lenny started shuffling the cards again.
In craps, if the dice fly off the table, it's called 'no roll.'
So the dice that went off the table stand for Lenny himself, and I was saying I wanted to help him. 'Handing off the dice' meant finding a place to have a real conversation.
If he doesn't catch my drift, it'll be tough to work with him, I thought just then.
"Excuse me, I need to use the restroom for a moment."
"You should've gone before I started shuffling the cards."
"My stomach just started acting up."
After exchanging a few words with one of the staff, Lenny disappeared through the door that employees used.
An employee watching over the tables glanced at me.
"Try not to chat too much with the dealer. Say something weird and you might end up getting yourself hurt."
"That's a bit harsh for a customer, isn't it?"
"Well, not all customers are the same."
With a sneer and a mocking laugh, the employee looked away again.
A moment later, the customers took their seats once more, and Lenny returned.
There were five players in total. The poker game began, and I was dealt two cards.
The rules vary from casino to casino, but the most popular game here is 5-card stud poker. You get two cards to start, with one exposed.
Seven of Spades and Seven of Diamonds. A pair right from the start—suddenly the cards seemed to be on my side.
The Seven of Diamonds was face up, and the first round of betting began.
I started off light, with just twenty cents. Everyone hesitated before calling to match the bet.
As the betting escalated with a raise in the middle, someone folded—gave up on the game—leaving three players to receive their final, fifth card.
At this point, my hole card was the Seven of Spades. My up cards were the Seven of Diamonds, the Three of Clubs, and the Jack of Clubs. Then the dealer passed me my last card.
There was about ten dollars in bills piled on the table. Why do my hands get sweaty over something like this?
"In order, please reveal your cards."
One player had a pair of Kings, another had two pair—Aces and Tens. And then there was me.
"Damn, triple sevens!?"
"Ha."
Groans spilled out, and a couple of players slammed the table in frustration.
Their glares bored into me, burning and sharp.
The dealer took ten percent of the total bet as the rake—a commission—and pushed the rest of the money toward me.
As I started to gather my winnings, I noticed one bill was suspiciously crisp and neatly folded.
All the other bills on the table were crumpled, but had there been one folded this perfectly?
I tried to smooth it out before pocketing it, but the ends were stuck tight and wouldn't open. Someone did this on purpose.
Who am I to be getting triple sevens, anyway It looked like the dealer had written a secret message.
After folding in two consecutive rounds, I brushed myself off and got up from the table.
Ignoring the angry stares accusing me of running off after my big win, I left the casino.
On my way home, I peeled apart the folded bill and opened it up. The tiny scrawled message read:
[Tomorrow morning, 7 a.m., 86 Forsyth St. Tenement House Rooftop]
Lenny lives two buildings over from my own tenement house. I guess you could call us neighbors.
In other words, Lenny was living even deeper inside Italian gang territory and couldn't escape easily.
Even though I'd just left the casino, I had to move on soon to another gambling den in the Tenderloin. My life feels like it's covered in casinos.
Before heading to the Tenderloin, I started home first. When I arrived, Cory was loitering in front of the tenement house. But—
"What happened to your face? Who hit you?"
"…There's trouble with the Marginals."
A group had risen up against Tanner Smith from within the Marginals.
That explained why Tanner had been keeping so quiet these days.