Chapter 74 - Still No Sign of the Lucky Winner
The store name, Intima, comes from Latin, meaning "innermost" or "intimate."
It was suggested by one of my mother's company employees, and I immediately liked how short and catchy it sounded.
The word 'boutique,' meaning a shop selling women's lingerie or accessories, wouldn't come into common use until the 1960s.
In this era, shops specializing in underwear are called "corset shops." Other stores typically sell underwear along with various other clothing and goods as general merchandise stores. In that sense, the newly opened Intima stood out by focusing exclusively on underwear, and its elegant interior attracted plenty of attention.
And there was one more thing. With my own marketing strategy— the 'Lucky Box Event'—I managed to spark customers' curiosity and interest.
Only ten of these lucky boxes were made, each containing specially designed brassieres and panties, priced at $10 each.
Admittedly, it was expensive, but what was inside far exceeded the cost—each box was packed with value.
Besides the lingerie, there were pendants, necklaces, and earrings—jewelry I had reworked from gems stolen out of some safe (in the gang, we called the process 'melt it down').
That's how serious I was about the lucky box.
The trouble was, it didn't suit the poor Lower East Side at all.
Who would want to gamble away that much money for a shot at luck, not even knowing what was inside the box?
No one bought the Lucky Gold Box.
"It's been four days and six hours, and still, no sign of our lucky winner."
"Stop keeping track of the time so precisely,"
Manager Ida kept poking at my sore spot, her face expressionless as always.
"Welcome"
She greeted the customer who just walked in with a bright and cheerful "Welcome."
At first, I was worried because Ida always looked so detached and expressionless, almost soulless.
But when it came to customers, she was exceptionally friendly and polite.
When I asked her why, she answered in her usual monotone:
"If you want people to buy, they need to feel good. If you act cold, who's going to want to open their wallet?"
If that's not a pro attitude, I don't know what is.
Amazingly, Ida was giving her all to the job.
Part of me grew curious, too—how would she change if I put her in a different role?
She'd probably have made a great home shopping host if she'd been born in the right era.
I watched Ida help customers pick out lingerie for a moment, then headed to the back of the store.
Three employees sent over from my mother's company were sorting the merchandise, and among them was Leo.
"Director, I need to restock the Brassiere T101 Gray, size B cup."
"Make sure you get the right invoice."
"Okay."
The Boss is my mother; as Director, I'm in charge of overseeing the store. Leo serves as logistics manager, oscillating between my mother's company and the shop to restock inventory.
The office at the back is pretty simple. There's just a desk, a cabinet with a safe, and a meeting table.
On the desk were today's newspapers; as I passed, I glanced at the headline.
"The Shadow of Manhattan: Allen and Orchard's Night of Blood. Police Remain Silent
Jewish Organizations Actively Cooperating in the Investigation of the 'Demon Who Committed a Horrific Massacre'
Suspected Killer Believed to Be a Psychopath Who Sees Himself as Malakh Habbalah
Malakh what?
I skimmed through the article in detail.
Malakh Habbalah is the 'Angel of Death' who appears occasionally in the Hebrew Bible and the Talmud, executing God's judgment on evildoers.
The Orchard-Allen murderer left a verse from Kohelet, the Jewish book Ecclesiastes, as a symbolic clue at the crime scene.
This behavior can be interpreted in one of two ways.
First, it could be that the perpetrator is intentionally dropping unrelated symbols to erase his own identity and mislead investigators—an audacious and cold-hearted criminal capable of carrying out a meticulously planned and brutal act.
Second, it might be a mental illness described by New York psychoanalyst Dr. Abraham Brill.
Dr. Brill, who was the first to translate Sigmund Freud's "Selected Papers on Hysteria" into English, tried to find the motivation for the killer's actions in the "unconscious desires."
In other words, the murderer may be suffering from a delusion of grandeur, believing himself to be Malakh Habbalah, punishing greedy humans.
Usually, such delusions stem from an excessive need for compensation due to being ignored or repressed in childhood...
Do we really need all this complicated analysis?
The reason I left the Kohelet verse at the crime scene is simple.
I'd already milked the Italian angle for all it was worth and got no reaction, so I just used it as the next best thing.
Anyway, from the way the newspaper keeps mentioning Jews, it seems my plan worked.
That's all I needed.
I turned my attention to the next headline.
[BRAZIL DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY!]
[CATASTROPHE AT CAPORETTO IN ITALY, PAOLO BOSELLI GOVERNMENT IN CRISIS]
[BOLSHEVIK PARTY VOTES TO OVERTHROW THE RUSSIAN PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT! ARMED UPRISING DECLARED!]
Oh, Russia at last.
Rather than yet another article about World War I, which flood in daily, the sudden upheaval in Russia draws my eye.
The article explained that on October 23, 1917—just a week ago—the Russian Bolshevik Party had declared an armed uprising.
Right now, the Revolutionary Committee, led by Leon Trotsky, has seized the Winter Palace, seat of the provisional government. In other words, my first prophecy—the Russian October Revolution—was underway.
I'd shared that prophecy with two people: The future Director of the FBI, and a reporter from the New York World. I still don't know which of them will respond.
Setting the newspaper down, I opened the door hidden behind the wall.
Stairs connected both up and down, and I descended toward the basement.
The second basement floor of the Twin Buildings is a vast open space, with the wall in the middle knocked down. In that enormous room, there was a lone table with two men huddled close: Lenny Goldstein, the dealer, and Rosenthal, the fence.
"Did you make the list I asked for?"
"Almost done, Boss. I'm just finishing up checking the space for the High Roller."
Rosenthal replied with a slightly slurred accent. His face, still bruised and swollen from Tanner's beating, hadn't yet recovered.
Anyway, a High Roller is literally someone who bets big wads of cash—basically, a rich gambler.
This was a time before the term "VIP" was common.
So I decided to popularize it myself.
Besides, it'd be handy to use as our own slang.
"From now on, we'll call High Rollers 'VIPs.' Most of the customers who'll come here are workers, but we still need a special area for distinguished guests."
"Then let's go with mahogany or rosewood, Boss. They're solid but light, and look classy—casino tables are often made from them."
"The price?"
"If you buy them officially, it's $200 per table. But, of course, I can get them for $75."
We also had to consider camouflage in case of a surprise raid, but Rosenthal was unfazed.
"The guys making these tables are thinking about that from the start. You don't have to worry about it."
Lenny chimed in as well.
"The tables aren't the problem. The important thing is that when there's a raid, it's all about how quickly the dealers and staff can react."
Lenny had also been getting in touch with former colleagues who were forced to become dealers after being threatened by the late Pacifico. On top of that, I'd put him in charge of most tasks necessary for running the casino, from handling minor purchases to organizing staff—he tackled it all with passion as if it were his own business.
While Lenny worried over the casino floor plans, I took Rosenthal down to the first basement level.
Actually, setting up the dance hall here was even more urgent.
We needed a layout that would lead guests who came to dance naturally toward the casino.
Basement Level 1.
A man stood tall in the center, looking around and doodling with a pen as if he were sketching on the paper in his hand.
He was a specialist from Brooklyn in soundproofing, and in designing bars, salons, and dance halls.
This man, Archibald Blackburn, a friend of Tanner's, was overseeing the renovation of the bar at Coney Island.
He had one foot halfway in with the Marginals and was close with Rosenthal too.
"Rosenthal, you should cover your face too, like the Boss does. Maybe it's the gloomy basement, but every time I see your mug, my heart skips a beat."
"Shut up and focus on the interior."
Ignoring Rosenthal, who was clenching his fists, Blackburn turned his gaze to me.
"Boss, you should put the band opposite the entrance, keep the dance floor in the center, and arrange tables around it. And to be honest, the most important thing in a dance hall is the lighting. You have to adjust the brightness to fit the mood of the music."
The lighting had to change to match the energy of lively jazz, ragtime, or blues.
The brighter the lighting, the better it is for drawing attention-seekers to lively music, and the darker it is, the better for encouraging secretive, intimate moments with a partner.
"Lighting design is everything in a dance hall," Blackburn said.
Having experienced clubs and adult night venues in my past life, I couldn't help but feel that this wasn't quite enough, but there's a sense of mood unique to this era.
If I didn't want to ruin things right from the start, I'd have to set aside my experimental streak for now.
Honestly, my sudden caution was all because of the Lucky Box.
How could not a single one sell?
We finished the dance hall interior, table arrangement based on traffic flow, and even finalized the kitchen design and purchase list.
Just as we wrapped up the long meeting and were about to leave, Rosenthal hurried after me.
Then, as if it had just occurred to him, he brought up Kate's funeral.
"I heard from the old Gunsmith. Boss, you're the one who got her a spot at Green-Wood, right…"
Rosenthal's voice trembled, his eyes welling up with tears.
It was understandable: when a poor immigrant in Manhattan died, they were usually buried at Calvary Cemetery. Since it was inexpensive and had a lot of space, it was a resting place for workers.
On the other hand, the middle class and above used Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn.
Designed in the Victorian Era style, with winding paths, lakes and ponds, and lush trees, it was one of the most popular cemeteries in New York.
Naturally, getting a spot there required significant effort and money.
I managed this through Big Tom Foley of Tammany Hall.
Of course, the Gunsmith covered the expenses while I simply put in the request. In my own way, it was a sweet carrot for Rosenthal—a gesture telling him to stay loyal unto death.
Don't stab me in the back and be loyal for life
I gave Rosenthal a faint smile, patted him on the shoulder, and left the basement
Second Floor Office
Oliver, Kale, and Brian were waiting for me around a large table
For the past few days, the members have been sweeping through Orchard and Allen, focusing on consolidating our territory
"There are still a few remnants wandering around Orchard, but their morale is already broken. They're thinking about running away before the fight even starts." (Brian)
"What about Allen Street?" (Kale)
"Looks like someone's absorbed the gang, or some former officer has taken over. They were already out collecting protection fees again today." (Oliver)
"Any chance it's a gang from another district?" (I asked)
"…That, I couldn't confirm." (Kale)
Even though the murder investigation from a few days ago was in full swing, the gangs didn't care
The police knew it too—if there's a vacuum in a district, another group will move in
Either way, I don't plan to give up this place to anyone
To do that, I need to make this territory unmistakably mine
It's time to plant our flag
"Start collecting protection money from tomorrow."
"Oh, finally."
"So this is the real beginning."
A gang only truly becomes a gang when it does what gangs do.
While Oliver and Kale cheered, Brian looked a bit worried as he asked,
"Most of the shops are Italian or Jewish, so there's bound to be some resistance. Will we be alright?"
He had a point.
This area had been tough for the Irish to gain any ground for a while.
Starting a gangster rampage with scarves over our faces was one thing; collecting protection money was a completely different challenge.
"For now, just collect half the usual protection money."
"Half?"
"If they still refuse, make a separate list and give it to me."
"And what should we do after that?"
"We'll talk after you finish one full round."
The next day, the Marginals started making the rounds in Allen and Orchard to collect protection fees.
I wondered just how rough the guys would get when squeezing money.
Curious to see for myself, I secretly followed Oliver's crew—and it was just as I expected.
"Hey! From now on, we're protecting this place, so fork over five dollars! You wanna get hurt, huh?"
"How about I just set this whole place on fire? Huh?"
Ah, what a bunch of trash... We'll try other methods soon enough, but for now, we're just marking our territory. It's something that needs to be done.
Consoling myself with that thought, I headed back to the Twin Buildings.
That evening, there was a pile of crumpled bills on the table upstairs. They said they hit up about fifty places, and it totaled close to four hundred dollars.
"Good work."
"I'll try for seventy places tomorrow, Boss!"
"I think we could even manage a hundred."
The guys' eyes were sparkling with excitement.
After sending Oliver, Kale, and Brian on their way, I started gathering the bills on the table and bundling them with rubber bands.
I had just finished putting together two stacks of a hundred dollars each when Ida came upstairs.
She glanced over the money and, without any change in expression, spoke up.
"Boss, you have a visitor."
"Well, it's good to have customers coming to the shop."
"No, I mean there's someone here to see you, Boss. And he's a man."
A man came all the way to the lingerie shop looking for me? Something about this doesn't feel right.
I grabbed my gun and knife and put on my coat.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I checked my appearance.
"Looking good. No one would guess you're armed."
"All right, let's go."
Ida and I headed downstairs to the first floor. When we walked into the shop, a man was staring intently at a brassiere.
It was Edgar Hoover.