Chapter 70 - What Are You Hiding?
The news about the fence came from the Gunsmith.
He told me that when he dropped by his workshop in Hell's Kitchen for the first time in a while, he found Isaac Rosenthal, wounded by a gunshot, clinging to life in front of the workshop.
It wasn't surprising that there'd be a relationship between a Gunsmith, whose business is illegal firearms sales and modifications, and a fence.
"I've known Rosenthal for a long time. Right now, he's at my place getting treated."
"How is he?"
"He took a bullet in the shoulder, but he's shoveling down food just fine."
It didn't sound life-threatening.
Hazel, for her part, had ended up sticking close to nurse him.
"Anyway, as soon as he regained consciousness, he asked for you first. Apparently, a longtime associate betrayed him. Dominic Mileno, an Italian fence."
"So, you're telling me he came looking for me just because a colleague shot him?"
From what I've heard, being a fence isn't something you can do unless you're seriously tough. If anything, a fence is exposed to even more danger than a gunsmith trading illegal firearms.
If he's survived over a decade in that world, after weathering every possible hardship, there are only two possibilities.
He's either the cunning, quick-witted type with serious people skills, or a gutsy, courageous pro.
"Which is Rosenthal?"
"If I had to say, Rosenthal's a bit of both. Or maybe not. Perhaps the latter stands out a bit more."
That makes it even stranger. If I'd been shot, I'd want to take revenge myself, no matter what. Is it just me who thinks that way?
The Gunsmith coughed and asked,
"So, what are you planning to do?"
"I have to meet him. Let's go tomorrow."
Even if he's considered neutral, he's still part of the Marginals. Besides, having a trustworthy fence within the gang was a huge advantage. I felt uneasy, but I still needed to meet him first.
"Oh, right, the rest of the construction is in that secret space only you know about. What do you want to do?"
It had to be a space only I was aware of. Naturally, only the Gunsmith, Hazel, and I would be involved in the work.
"Then, in the meantime, we'll need to keep the other members out."
"They're not much use right now anyway."
There's a reason the gang commits countless crimes yet doesn't get caught by the police.
They don't go around with the gang's name plastered across their foreheads, nor do they dress in matching school uniforms. Even if they extort protection money openly, they still act somewhat like a decentralized organization.
Because of this, even if someone got caught at the scene of a crime, the investigation rarely reached all the way up the ladder—and even if it did, most of the time they were released for lack of evidence.
These past few days, Allen and Orchard found themselves caught up in a situation that resembled spy games from the Cold War.
Who would be the first to discover the other's base?
Now, members from four gangs—including the Marginals—had become informants stationed throughout the streets.
Ironically, however, the Marginals members who always operated only within Hell's Kitchen turned out to be useless as informants.
Worse, their presence often caused unnecessary trouble, or risked exposing the fact that they frequented the Allen Twin Buildings.
So instead, I left it to Leo and Marcus, who made use of the Shoe Shiner Network as before.
We kept only the bare minimum number of people necessary to guard Mother's company and the Twin Buildings.
As Patrick was heading back to Hell's Kitchen, I asked him about Dominic Mileno, the man who'd shot the fence, Rosenthal.
"What kind of person is he?"
"He used to move goods for the Eastman Gang, but as you know, that crew collapsed, right?"
Since his supplier had gone under, he started searching for a new source of goods—eventually linking up with one of the Italian gangs.
"So lately, I've heard he's been doing pretty well in that world. To fences, having a stable supplier matters a lot."
"So the size of the gang directly affects a fence's capability, in other words."
"As far as I know, yeah."
That evening, the Gunsmith and I worked on constructing the secret space.
And the following day, we stopped our work in the late afternoon and headed to Hell's Kitchen together.
The Gunsmith's appearance was a complete 180 depending on whether he was in the workshop or going out.
He wore a crisp suit with a hat and donned white gloves on both hands. In one hand, he held a slender cane. If it weren't for the scarf covering his face, he would have looked just like a distinguished elderly gentleman from a wealthy family.
I'd already seen him like this a few times, so his outfit didn't particularly impress me.
What actually caught my interest was where the Gunsmith lived. Instead of heading down the alley toward the Underground Workshop, he strode right through the main entrance of a four-story building.
"Another person who knows this place now," he remarked.
On the third floor, up the stairs, three doors lined the hallway.
The one closest to us was the Gunsmith's apartment.
The furnishings were sparse, with a kitchen, a small living room, and two bedrooms.
The interior looked ordinary.
Or so I thought—that is, until one wall of the living room slid open.
Click.
A secret passage leading next door. That space was an extension of the Underground Workshop.
There was a wide, long workbench in the center, and the drawers overflowed with tools and parts. The main difference was how tidy it was, and being on the second floor, sunlight streamed in.
"Hazel uses this place a lot. I prefer the basement myself," he said.
Then, when the Gunsmith pressed on another section of the wall, yet another passageway appeared. What kind of deadly sins did he commit to need so many secret passages?
Just then, Hazel, who had been drinking water at the dining table, jumped in surprise, her eyes blinking with curiosity. She tilted her head and looked at the Gunsmith.
"That's quite a brave decision—letting us in here."
"If I'm making secret passages for you, there shouldn't be any secrets between us."
"I agree."
Hazel winked at me with a smile.
I answered absentmindedly, running over the layout of the place in my head.
Judging from the way the entire second floor is connected by secret passages and in use, the Gunsmith must be the owner of this four-story building.
Honestly, I'd already guessed as much ever since I heard there was a secret passage in the basement. Otherwise, there's no way anyone could pull off these kinds of illegal modifications.
Hazel guided me to the room where the fence was staying.
The door opened, and Isaac Rosenthal, a man half sitting up on the bed and scribbling in a notebook, looked up at me with a faint smile.
"Hey, Boss. Sorry it took me so long to say hello."
He looked to be in his early thirties—about the same age as Tanner Smith and Patrick.
I pulled a chair up in front of the bed and took a seat
"Let's hear your story first."
Fences operate through their own network to move goods, and, just as Patrick said, they do business with various gangs, merchants, and businessmen from a so-called neutral position.
"But neutrality is just a word. There's no such thing for real traders. Even we have our main clients."
The main supplier of goods becomes their primary client, and those clients are usually gangs. The strength of a fence's reputation depends on the size and power of their main gang client.
In Rosenthal's case, since he'd handled almost all the Marginals' stolen goods from their early days, Tanner Smith had been his main client.
"You're taking too long with the prologue."
"I wanted to set the stage so it'd be easier to understand. Boss, you're not all that familiar with how things work in this field, are you?"
A young Asian boss.
Either that, or maybe he just wanted to emphasize that our relationship was purely as business partners, not as fellow Marginals.
Behind Rosenthal's slight smile was a hint of condescension.
For someone who claims to need my help, his attitude could use some work. But for now, I decided to let it slide and listen.
"So even if we say we're neutral, we all have our main clients. But sometimes, you get guys whose ambition gets the better of them."
A classic example would be Dominic Mileno, a fence who worked closely with Rosenthal for a long time.
"He used to do business with the Eastman Gang, but after they were completely wiped out, well, I felt sorry for the guy and helped him out for a bit. But then this bastard suddenly stabbed me in the back."
"He betrayed you out of nowhere?"
"Yeah. I'd been moving a lot of product lately, so I guess he couldn't resist the money!"
One night, while drinking together, a heated argument broke out between them—and things escalated until someone even pulled a gun and fired. As Rosenthal recalled the incident, his body trembled with anger.
"That son of a bitch, how dare he betray me? After everything I did for him!"
"So, you want me to take care of this Mileno guy for you, is that it?"
"Yeah. Boss, as long as that bastard's around, finishing the sewing machine job is going to be tough."
Of the seventy sewing machines taken from the late Herman Kalman, only a handful had been swapped for other products before being delivered to the company. There were still quite a few left.
Still, something about Rosenthal's story felt thin—full of holes, really.
Patrick had said this guy had been doing well making deals with Italian gangs, but suddenly he decides to attack his own partner over a pile of cash?
"Did you fire back at Mileno?"
"No. While the people at the bar were breaking up the fight, I just ran for it."
"Ah, so you ended up hiding in an abandoned building, asking me to deal with a traitor for you?"
This guy, who's been around for over ten years, gone through every kind of hell in the business—and just a minute ago, was looking down on the new boss of the Marginals?
There were more than a few things that didn't add up.
I moved closer to Rosenthal, fixed my eyes on him, and asked,
"Tell me. How many people are after you?"
"...Wh-What are you talking about?"
"Think carefully before you answer. You're saying he betrayed you just because he got greedy for money? You must think I'm an idiot."
Sure, maybe it really was about the money.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that Rosenthal was hiding something.
This wasn't just distrust because he looked down on me.
I trust my instincts.
If I pressed him, something was bound to come out.
"It's truth time. This won't take long, so spit it out in three seconds."
"The fuck, what are you suddenly—!"
"Three."
"!"
I grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out from the bed. I kicked his leg, forcing him to kneel, and grabbed him by the throat.
"Two."
Rosenthal, his face white as a sheet, rolled his eyes toward the door. With a pleading look, he silently begged Gunsmith and Hazel for help.
"If you interfere…"
Click.
Looks like his trust in Gunsmith isn't as deep as what he had with the fence.
The barrel of a sawed-off shotgun slowly swung in my direction.
"That's enough," Gunsmith warned.
Do I look like I'm playing around right now?
Enough of what?
Still holding Rosenthal by the neck, I hauled him to his feet.
Then, without hesitation, I used his body as a shield.
In Gunsmith's hands was a modified, antique Remington Model 1889 double-barrel shotgun.
At close range, it packs a mighty punch, but 12-gauge buckshot is just that—buckshot.
The first shot wouldn't punch clean through Rosenthal; it would tear him to pieces.
And with that kind of spread, landing an accurate shot on me wouldn't be easy.
"You'd better not miss. Because if you do, no one's walking out of here alive."
Guess that means this building becomes collateral too.
At the end of my words, I turned my gaze to Hazel as well When our eyes met, I saw a flicker in her gaze.
Through my forearm, I could feel Rosenthal's trembling just as clearly.
At that moment, Gunsmith let out a sigh. Then, with a shrug, he lowered the barrel of his gun.
"Rosenthal... If you were going to ask for help, you should've just told us the truth."
I loosened my grip a little, and Rosenthal shouted,
"J-just let me meet Tanner Smith instead."
"Nonsense."
Thud.
I kicked his knee again. Grabbing him by the hair, I pressed my palm over Rosenthal's face, then stared into his eyes through my splayed fingers.
"I'm the boss of the Marginals. Talk to me. Today, your fate will be decided."
Will you rule the network with me? Or will you wind up in a grave before long?
"R-rule the network?" he stammered.
"That's right. You're in it too, aren't you? A level of greed and ambition like that."
It's clear—he cares more about the network than the grave.
Rosenthal's eyes changed as he finally spoke.
"Three people are after me."
"For what?"
"The Engraving Plate…"
For a split second, I wasn't sure what he meant, so I glanced at Gunsmith and Hazel.
Both of them stared back at me, mouths agape in shock.
"Boss, you really don't know, do you…"
Here he goes again.
Just as I was about to grab his neck once more, Rosenthal blurted out,
"The Engraving Plate for Counterfeit Bills! It was among the goods stolen from Newtown Creek!"
Counterfeit bills—the main business of the Sicilian gang.
Without realizing it, Rosenthal had been hiding the stolen engraving plate from me.