Chapter 19 - What Do You Think Your Role Is?
Maybe seeing the money made him change his mind.
Tanner's face turned serious as he refused the cash.
"I heard Johnny Spanish got involved in this. That bastard—he's a dangerous guy."
"Is he scary?"
"I said he's dangerous, not scary."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
Clicking his tongue, Tanner instinctively wrapped the end of the rope tied to his waist around his palm.
"Johnny isn't the only problem. Do you know who he brought into this?"
"No, I don't."
"The Five Points Gang."
The most powerful gang in Manhattan, made up of immigrants from all over the world.
That probably explains why the Sluggers snatching our picket signs were Italian and Jewish.
"Is the Five Points really that scary?"
"I never said that. You sure have a way of getting under people's skin, don't you?"
"But even if Sluggers end up clashing, the gang itself probably won't get involved, right?"
Capitalists and workers never hire the entire gang itself.
There's no reason to pay that much, and there's also the risk of getting dragged into a gang war.
A classic example is from four years ago, when gangs fought a massive gun battle over control of strike territory. At least three different gangs were involved in that incident.
The bosses cleverly slipped away at the time, but many gang members and union leaders were arrested.
This was called the "Labor Slugger War."
Gopher, Eastman, Five Points, Hudson Dusters, and more.
People say that the new NYPD special crime squad weakened them, but the Labor Slugger War played a major role as well.
And ever since that incident, any slugger for hire is just working on his own—they don't represent the gang.
"So what's the problem, then"
How logical.
There's not much you can say to that.
Sure enough, after a long pause, Tanner clamped his mouth shut, thought for a while, and finally accepted the request.
"If my guys refuse, there's nothing I can do."
"Is there really anything in this world you can't do"
"Ha, you little punk. And what do you know about the world"
"It's a shitshow full of bastards like Johnny running wild."
"… Kid, you sure have seen it all."
Tanner pocketed the nine dollars and immediately called over one of his close associates to relay the details.
***
May 30, 1917.
The morning of the scheduled protest.
Nora came out holding the picket sign she'd made in her room.
Her youngest daughter, Roa, looked up at her with wide, shining eyes, clearly fascinated.
"Mom, who are you cheering for with that?"
"I'm cheering for myself. Sometimes you have to do that."
"Then I want to cheer for you too."
"I'm always hearing your cheers, Roa. And Liam's as well."
Nora glanced over at her younger son.
Liam, who'd grown up too fast, wore a worried look.
He seemed to understand what was going on, but he neither asked questions nor tried to stop her. Instead—
"Where did my brother go without even eating breakfast?"
"I'm not sure. He said he had to take care of something…"
"Hmph, he never thinks about working. I really don't get what he's running around doing these days. All I ever hear are strange rumors..."
"Roa knows."
Liam looked at Roa's lips with a bit of hope.
But of course.
"Big brother went to buy potatoes for Roa. He started rummaging through the potato box as soon as he woke up."
"Whatever. You get ready to go out, too."
"I'm serious!"
Nora smiled and patted her daughter's shoulder.
"My girl. Today I'll take you to stay at Aunt Rosetta's house, so you must not come home before I get back. The same goes for you, Liam. Try to come home as late as possible after work if you can."
You never knew what might happen to the children the moment you joined a protest.
Nora left Roa with a neighbor and Liam headed out, toolbox in hand.
Left alone, Nora looked inside the potato box.
There were still plenty of potatoes piled up.
The money and gun that had been in there, after discussing with Ciaran, had already been hidden somewhere else.
The only things missing now were two scary-looking knives.
'If you see me, just pretend you don't know me.'
That's what the eldest son said before disappearing early in the morning.
What was he planning this time…
Her mind was already in turmoil, now overflowing with even more worries.
Trying to shake off these tangled thoughts, she picked up the protest sign.
Knock, knock.
"Nora, it's time."
When she opened the door, three or four women stood there holding picket signs.
These were the brave women, undeterred by threats, who had decided to join the protest.
***
"Hey, rookie from the East. What's your role again?"
"Back up."
The main job was to support criminal activities from behind the scenes or get involved if gangs clashed.
For this protest, the backup's job was to help out if the Sluggers fighting on their side got into trouble.
"But listen. If you run away when the guys start fighting, you're dead. Even if you get pushed back, don't panic—your job is to stand your ground."
And if you guys run for it, I'll come after you myself.
"But seriously, what was Tanner Boss thinking, sticking this scrawny kid with us?"
"How would I know? The boss says he can fight a bit, but look at him—could he even lift a club with that build?"
"Anyway, just stick close behind us and trust us. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Good, at least you answer properly."
Just as promised, Tanner assigned nine men to the group. Maybe he'd considered my age, since most of them looked like they'd just turned twenty, only a couple of years older than me.
Of course, not all of them were like that. There was one man in his late twenties who seemed experienced. Patrick Mitchell was leading the group from the front.
This was only a small part of the Marginals gang, but through them, I was able to confirm a few things about Tanner.
First, they still called Tanner Smith their boss. It made me question whether he'd really left the criminal life behind.
Another thing: Tanner was rich. Hard to believe, but if the guys were telling the truth, he was wealthy enough to be called a millionaire.
Tanner had started amassing wealth from the age of fourteen, running guns and getting involved in all sorts of crimes. One story proving this: he once paid $15,000 in bail to get an associate out of jail.
And the person who'd benefited from that favor was none other than Patrick, now leading us at the front.
Eldridge Street.
As we neared the Tenement House, Patrick stopped walking. He looked back and jerked his chin at me.
"Hey, rookie from the East. Cover your face properly."
When we first met, he told me to cover my face with a scarf, and I went along with it. I didn't want my face out there, especially not with my mother involved in all this.
But then the guys next to me kindly explained:
— In a brawl with sluggers, the most important thing is showing you're not afraid. — But what do you think they'll do if they find out you're Chinese? — They'll take us for a joke, right? Those bastards will just say, 'Ha, they brought some chink over from Chinatown?' And just like that, the fight's already lost.
The more I understood, the angrier I got. Bastards.
I was planning to bundle up and hide my face anyway, so it worked out.
I reached for my scarf again and pulled it up as high as I could to cover my face.
Patrick smirked with satisfaction, then started moving forward again.
Whenever I saw those thug punks swaggering down the street in tight little packs, I always wanted to wade right in and knock their lights out.
Today, here I was doing just that.
Just by walking, we made people step aside and suddenly the blocked street opened up. Honestly, from my perspective, it looked like they avoided us the way you'd sidestep a steaming pile of crap.
Anyway, I spotted two familiar faces. It was Leo and Marcus, ever since the warehouse murder the other day, they'd been stuck together.
I'd told them to wait at the Tenement House, but here they were, sitting out on the street with their tool bag, just hanging around.
Those two were convinced I'd had something to do with the warehouse murder, one way or another. Even when I confessed I'd done it alone, they wouldn't believe me.
Leo and Marcus spotted us, craning their necks out like meerkats as they scanned our group. Then they quickly grabbed their tool bag and tagged along behind us.
At the same time, at the Tenement House, Nora stepped outside with her picket sign.
"Let's go."
A massive draft for the war was set to begin in a few days, but today, these women were heading to fight a different kind of battle, their very own war.
There were twenty-six of them.
But the enemy was more thorough than we'd expected.
The moment we stepped down to the first-floor stairs, we ran straight into the guys blocking the entrance.
The guy at the front, Namgaja, crooked his finger at us.
"Hand over your picket signs and go back upstairs before you get yourselves beaten."
We'd anticipated this, and we were ready.
With determined looks in their eyes, the women boldly stepped forward.
"We're not backing down!"
"You stupid bitches. You think any of this will change anything? Quit this nonsense and get inside before you get stabbed."
"Go ahead and try us if you dare!"
"If these picket signs end up bloodstained, more people will see them! Just try stabbing us!"
The women shouted, fueled by anger and resolve.
The Sluggers' answer was violence.
Each thug pulled out bats, brass knuckles, and clubs.
By the time we arrived at the Tenement House,
Gavin—the guy next to me—handed me a club
"Just swing it with your eyes closed or bash it against the wall—do whatever you want. But if you lose it, be ready to get a beating from me."
The club, called a blackjack, was different from the ones police used. It was shorter, about 30 centimeters, wrapped in leather, and had a lead weight at the tip to make it deadlier.
Obviously, the Sluggers didn't use guns unless things got really extreme.
Why take the risk of pulling a gun and losing your life, when you could just do the job you were paid for?
Besides, in 1911, New York State enacted the Sullivan Act, a firearms control law.
The law prohibited carrying handguns in public places. You needed a permit to possess or transport a gun.
Of course, in other states, gun regulations were still nonexistent. People saw it as a matter of individual rights.
But in New York, illegal possession was taken very seriously—Tanner had gone to jail for carrying a revolver without a permit.
I slipped the club into my pants and headed to the Tenement House.
The Sluggers had already seized control of the entrance on the first floor.
Right then, they were pushing inside to block the women trying to get out.
I heard curses and the sharp shouts of the women.
My mother's voice was among them.
As I pulled the club out from behind my back, Patrick strode out ahead and yelled,
"Johnny Spanish, you're back!"
Patrick's booming voice echoed through the hall.
All the opposing Sluggers spun around at once. There were seven of them. A short man with slicked-back hair stepped out in front.
He was the guy who had cursed at me and my mother a few days ago when they stole our pickets.
Spanish by descent, even his name was Johnny Spanish.
'For the record, Johnny's even crazier than you.'
That's what Tanner had said.
Apparently, during a past fight, Johnny's girlfriend abandoned him and ran away.
So for revenge, Johnny caught her, tied her to a tree, and shot her in the stomach. She was pregnant at the time.
Fortunately, she survived and gave birth. What a psycho. That's why he's so dangerous.
That dangerous lunatic looked us over, his face showing surprise.
"And who are you supposed to be?"
"What do you think? Did you only get hit in the eyes while you were in prison or something, Johnny the Nutjob? Can't you see this?"
Patrick brandished his club. He really did seem to have a knack for provoking people.
Johnny gave a cold smile, and the man next to him jumped in.
"Patrick, why are the Marginals suddenly getting involved in this business out of nowhere?"
"For the same reason as you."
"Who's paying you?"
Patrick glanced back at his comrades—asking silently with his eyes, "Who exactly did hire us?"
Everyone shook their heads, so Patrick raised his voice toward Johnny again.
"The President paid us. So, unless you want trouble, you should run while you can, right?"
"You idiot."
"Stop flapping your mouth and come at me. Or should I come to you?"
Patrick swung his club as he moved closer. Honestly, from behind, he looked pretty reckless.
"Last warning—get out of the way while I'm being nice."
The man hesitated, clearly torn.
"The world really changed while I was in prison," Johnny said.
Shk.
"How dare you not recognize Johnny here."
He pulled out a knife and lunged at Patrick. Without a moment's hesitation, he slashed and stabbed with the knife. Patrick swung his club wildly as he backed away.
That was the spark.
"Let's go!"
The people in front of me, armed with weapons, rushed forward. The opposing Sluggers did the same.
A chaotic brawl broke out.
I was the back up.
Clutching my club, I slipped to the rear and watched it all unfold.
Just then, I felt my mother's gaze from the entrance. Her eyes, wide behind the picket sign covering her mouth, were bigger than ever.
Even if my coworkers beside her couldn't recognize me, my mother saw through me instantly. As expected…
At that moment, a frantic voice called out. Someone was looking for me.
"Rookie! Help Gavin, help Gavin!"
It was Gavin, the one who'd given me the club. He'd already had his head split open.
Blood streamed from his scalp, running down his face in rivulets.
"Hhng, I'm fine! Come on, you bastards!"
Gavin kept swinging his club, refusing to back down. Brave and, honestly, a bit reckless.
Either way, it was my turn to join in.
Gripping my club tightly, I charged at the guy aiming for Gavin's head again.
They say if you want to be a boss, you have to win your people over.
"Gaviiiiin!"