Chapter 69 – Haven't Heard Anything the Past Few Days
If there's a group loitering in an alley or a mob taking over the sidewalk, those guys are our target.
Anyone coming out after collecting protection money is also a target.
We hit the ones who extort protection money.
"What the hell are you guys?"
"Get lost, you bastards...!"
Thud! Smack!
Clubs, metal pipes, knives, chains, sledgehammers, screwdrivers, saws, spanners, brass knuckles—you name it, we fought with every close-combat weapon you could think of.
This was a tug-of-war, a Chicken Game, fought back and forth.
What is a Chicken Game, anyway?
The term itself first appeared in mid-20th century America.
It's when two people each drive a car straight at each other—whoever swerves the wheel first is the chicken, the coward, and loses.
So the game doesn't end until one side gives up.
But I'd rather compare this situation to Korea's Pepero Game, which feels a bit more refined.
It's a fight to see who can "eat up" more of Allen and Orchard Streets—those long, slender stretches—and for the members, the final goal is the experience, like an erotic brush of skin at the end of the Pepero Game.
For us, practice is as real as the real thing.
When this long day was over, the members who'd brawled gathered on the second basement floor of the Allen Twin Buildings.
Blood had stained the scarves everyone wore around their necks. Some of them had heads cracked open or limbs broken.
There were mainly two kinds of reactions.
Some guys puffed out their chests, proud of how much they had fought.
Others blushed with embarrassment, ashamed at having taken a beating.
It's fine.
That can happen at first.
What matters is changing from here on out.
"If your team got beaten today, come forward and reenact exactly what happened."
In front of all the other members, we'd analyze why things went wrong—why they got pushed back so stupidly and got hurt—and find solutions.
That's how you improve.
"It's impossible to become a much better fighter overnight, so let's set a few ground rules."
First, figure out how many opponents you're facing.
Second, assess whether the terrain favors you.
Third, maximize our team's formation and weapon efficiency.
Fourth, always have a secret weapon ready for your escape route.
I spent a lot of time explaining these four points. Whenever we regrouped at the end of the day, this was how we wrapped things up.
Because of this, the current state of Orchard and Allen Streets felt like we'd gone back to the Stone Age, with violence everywhere.
The only relief was that no civilians were harmed.
The police didn't pay much attention either, since they chalked it up to street gang violence among small-time units.
***
NYPD 7th Precinct – in charge of the Lower East Side.
A police officer tracking down stolen goods from a clothing factory let out a long sigh.
"Is it fall or something, and they've all gone crazy at once?"
The gang fights never stop.
With the surge of broad daylight brawls over the past few days, there's no time to even sit in the office.
Higher-ups kept telling them to increase patrols, but with not enough manpower, all they could do was put on a bit of a show.
"Damn bastards, why can't they do this at night instead of making a mess during the day?"
"Just be glad we haven't had any murders. By the way, I've heard rumors there's a new gang in town. Did you check it out?"
"I looked into it—there's talk it might be those Hell's Kitchen guys."
"Maybe they're the ones who completely cleaned out the Bunny Underwear Factory on Orchard?"
Michael nodded, saying he suspected that too.
"It's pretty suspicious how they just popped up out of nowhere. Plus, rumor has it that a fence who runs a pawn shop on 11th Avenue in Hell's Kitchen suddenly went off the radar a few days ago. Word is, he moved dozens of sewing machines."
"So?"
"Cops from that precinct are chasing the lead."
"But if it really is those Hell's Kitchen guys, this is going to get interesting."
Maybe you could call it the fallout from the collapse of the gangs that used to divide up the territory.
The Gophers and the Hudson Dusters from Hell's Kitchen.
The Eastmans and Five Points from the Lower East Side.
Now that these powerful rulers have fallen and splintered, the leftovers are running wild, trying to seize their own turf. That's the reality these days.
But what's really worth noting is the changing landscape of crime. Hell's Kitchen—the West Side—had always been the territory of Irish gangs, while here in the Lower East Side, the Jewish and Italian communities held sway.
And now the Hell's Kitchen guys are setting their sights on this area?
Naturally, the Irish cops found that development pretty interesting.
The two talking—Michael and George—were also Irish immigrants.
Given that the IRA had just been organized for Irish independence, it was only natural that a sense of brotherhood and solidarity started to surface.
Better to look out for their own people and take kickbacks from them than from the Jewish or Italian criminals—it just seemed simpler.
Of course, if the conflict escalated, there would likely be pushback from non-Irish officers within the force. But that was getting ahead of things.
"They'll mess around for a few days and then give up. They haven't even taken control of Hell's Kitchen—what reason would they have to set their sights here?"
If they were strong enough, they'd unify Hell's Kitchen first.
But over there, it's still a madhouse with different groups tearing each other apart.
"If they're here because they got pushed out, they won't last long. I guarantee they'll be gone in less than a month."
"A month is generous. Two weeks."
"How about we bet a dollar on it?"
"Deal."
While Michael and George were chatting and laughing, the rookie came back with the Italian officer.
Michael quickly composed himself and asked,
"Rookie, how are things outside?"
"There was another brawl at 178 Allen Street. They were so fast—by the time we got there after the call, they'd already vanished."
"And the guys who got hit?"
"I got statements from three of them, but it was all the same. Guys wearing scarves suddenly rushed over and demanded to know why they were gathering, saying it was their turf, and started the fight."
"Ridiculous idiots. So if you're just standing around together, that makes you the enemy?"
What an absurdly easy way to tell friend from foe.
But then the cheeky rookie used that to come up with a brilliant suggestion.
Or rather, it was actually the Italian officer's idea.
"We dress in plain clothes and lure them out. What do you think, sirs?"
"..."
It was a good idea.
But I wasn't too keen on the idea.
Michael and George lowered their voices, their faces showing clear reluctance.
"Ambitious, I'll give you that—but just think it through first."
"And don't even think about telling the brass."
The rookie picked up on their mood and nodded, forcing an awkward smile.
Once they left the office for some fresh air, Michael and George whispered to each other.
"If Roberto's coming up with tricks like that, are those guys actually Irish?"
"I thought the same thing. He's usually so passive, but now he's talking about going undercover to catch gangs."
"Shit, maybe the Italians are getting their asses handed to them lately—that's gotta sting."
The two snickered quietly, cigarettes dangling from their lips, as they headed around to the back of the building.
***
Orchard Street Gang.
A unit of the Five Points Gang operating on the street of the same name.
Boss Chuck Ruger's voice was cold and heavy as he exploded in anger.
"Rat bastards. Who do they think they are, trying to take over our turf?"
Orchard Street—famous for its clothing district.
How much blood had been shed just to control this stretch of shops?
Some were picked up by the police, others became cold corpses—the alleys themselves their final resting place. Planting a flag in Orchard Street, the land of milk and honey, had been a brutal fight—one so harrowing it could move you to tears.
And now, after only six months, it looked like they'd have to give up the street.
To a bunch of nobodies, no less.
No, deep down, Chuck Ruger suspected it was the same punks who had cleaned out Herman Kalman's factory.
Swallowing his anger, Chuck gave orders to his subordinate.
"Fioji, get word to Lombardi. Tell him I want a sit-down—three bosses, face to face."
The two names mentioned were the bosses sharing control over Orchard and Allen Streets.
To find a solution, Chuck Ruger called for a meeting with them at a salon on Hester Street.
"If you look at their pattern, the target is Allen and Orchard. No matter how hard they try to snatch it, they won't last long."
"I agree. How long can you keep attacking, running, and hiding before it catches up to you?"
"So are you saying we should just give up the neighborhood for a while?"
Even for these short stretches, the money they collected from shops and companies on the street topped a thousand dollars a week.
All this savage fighting over turf happened for one reason—protection money.
"They'll definitely start collecting the protection payments first. That's when we grab their tail, follow it back to their base, and wipe them out."
"If we all join in, we can crush them together."
That day, the three gangs agreed to a temporary alliance—at least until the reckless upstarts were wiped out.
***
Allen Street Twin Buildings
"See? I told you we could do it."
Today, every one of us made it safely back to Basement Level 2.
It was our first success in fifteen days.
This was thanks to our hit-and-run tactics and newfound teamwork, which helped us get the hang of these group brawls.
Or maybe—
"Don't tell me you guys did nothing today?"
"There just weren't any punks hanging around, Boss."
"I think they must have gotten some kind of orders."
A sudden change like this probably meant our enemies had either come up with a countermeasure or were up to something else. It was a reasonable suspicion.
Not that I'd ever planned to do this job for long anyway, so it was time to take a different approach.
"Good work, everyone. If you keep sticking your neck out, you'll get caught eventually, so let's stop here. But starting tomorrow, if you run into any of the guys we've hit up until now, quietly tail them back to their main base."
If we wanted to plant our flag in this territory, we'd have to eliminate the rival gang boss—only then would it be over. As for making our presence, or even our gang's name, known—that could come later.
Separate from that, now that the gang fights were finished, we needed a new training regimen to keep improving our crew's skills. We need to push hard before we lose our sense for real combat.
"It's time to focus on our individual fighting ability."
You can never overemphasize the importance of physical training, but that's something we should do regularly anyway. Right now, I wanted to concentrate more on practical fighting techniques that could be applied in real situations.
Still, we didn't have enough time to teach things like Systema, Krav Maga, or Arnis. In times like this, isn't it more effective to teach only techniques that'll actually be useful in real fights, like a crash course?
"Oliver, come up here."
Oliver flinched and shuffled forward, looking uneasy.
"Hug me."
"…?"
"Wrap your arms around me, tight."
"No take-backs later, okay?"
When I smirked, the corners of Oliver's mouth turned up, too.
Seems like this guy's still holding a bit of a grudge.
"Just pretend to hold me, all right? Otherwise, you might end up dead."
Oliver, looking downcast, put his arms around me lifelessly.
"Okay, everyone see this? If someone grabs you like this, stomp hard on their foot and, at the same time, slam your crown up into their chin."
After breaking free from the hold, follow up with a knee to the groin.
"At this point, use the knife edge of your hand to strike upward at their jaw again. Once you hit this three-step combo, your opponent is pretty much finished."
"Whoa."
I paired everyone up and put them through the drills. Next, I demonstrated techniques for countering when your wrist has been grabbed, and what to do if someone chokes you from the side, showing the steps one by one.
They might look like self-defense moves you'd teach to women, but these are all real techniques found in military training manuals.
The author of the manual might be from a previous era, but since he spent his entire life researching attack and defense, his writings are packed with practical techniques.
Wait, come to think of it, the author who made this manual, William Fairbairn, is actually living in the same era as me right now.
Fairbairn, who was a British soldier, should currently be serving with the police in Shanghai, China. I bet he's in the Red Light District fighting for his life hundreds of times, constantly studying ways to attack and defend better.
While the members trained, Patrick and I spread out the organization chart in a corner of the second basement floor and discussed our plans.
There's a position called "soldier" in the Mafia ranks—it's basically the people who actually carry things out.
We haven't assigned any ranks within the Marginals yet, so everyone here is equivalent to a soldier.
I was planning to promote some of them to a higher rank and start structuring the organization.
There are nearly 70 other members who couldn't join us today. Since they all have different jobs, they can't afford to spend their time just training.
"There's no need for everyone to be on the front lines. The key is to help each person find a role that suits their abilities. Actually, we need someone to handle procurement anyway. Remember the fence who helped us unload the swag we dropped the other day and turned it into cash?"
Swag refers to stolen goods.
Drop is the place where the swag is hidden.
Unload means to quickly sell off the swag.
There are so many slang terms, and they differ from gang to gang and depending on where you're from.
Sometimes I get dizzy just talking with people, but I realized I need to get used to the slang, if only to keep outsiders in the dark.
Anyway, among the Marginals members, there was a fence. He was the one who had sold off items from the Neapolitan gang's warehouse on Newtown Creek that we hit a while ago, as well as the sewing machines and fabrics we recently cleared out from a factory.
But as soon as I brought up the fence, Patrick frowned.
"I haven't heard from him in days. I was actually planning to talk to the Boss about this."
There are still about fifty sewing machines left to unload.
It's hard to believe he'd run off just to pocket the money.
According to Patrick, this kind of thing happens from time to time.
"After all, the guys selling stolen goods are crooks just like us. If things go wrong, you end up being chased by three different parties."
The original owner, the thief, and the buyer.
"What are the chances our stolen goods got us into trouble?"
"I'm guessing he handled it. He should be used to dealing with situations like this."
Patrick also added this.
"Given the nature of fences, you can't really say they belong solely to the Marginals. They always keep things extremely secretive, so they don't tie themselves down to just one group. It's risky for them, too."
"So you're saying they tend to be pretty neutral?"
"There's a whole network of fences in every neighborhood. In reality, that's who they're truly connected to."
Maybe the fence had hidden himself within that network.
My question was answered two days later.
Isaac Rosenthal.
The fence from Hell's Kitchen came to me for help.
He'd been shot.