Prohibition

Chapter 11

"What do you want to talk about?"

"A lot," David replied. The two men had met at the most private, unmonitored place they could think of—Raymond's apartment—to discuss their woefully minimal progress in infiltrating the syndicate.

"We're making progress," Raymond protested after David had finished voicing his displeasure in their lack of progress. "Rome wasn't built in a day, and figuring shit out takes time."

"Has Mr. Matthews told you anything yet?" David demanded.

"Not really. Has Carl?"

"No. But Carl doesn't like me. Mr. Matthews likes you. So, he should be more willing to tell you things."

"I don't think he knows anything," Raymond sighed. "And neither Carl nor John will tell you a thing."

"We have no clue what Caílín means," David added. "Raymond, we haven't made any progress."

"We know Caílín is Irish."

"So, the syndicate leader is Irish. So, the syndicate is Irish. So what? Half the men in New York City are Irish. That tells us literally nothing!"

"We know Caílín means 'girl'."

"How very specific!" David snapped, rare sarcasm filling his voice—a sure sign that he was frustrated and furious. "That could be the boss's daughter, sister, wife, moll, whore, or a score of other women. Or the translation could be wrong! What if the syndicate just chose a random word?"

"Why don't we ask your housekeeper for a proper translation," Raymond suggested. "That might alleviate some of our problems."

"Fine," David agreed. "I'll ask her tonight. But that still won't be enough. Who does the syndicate sell to, other than the city's swells? Saloons? Speakeasies? Does it dabble in other illegal activities? Who supplies the brute force for their operations?"

"What makes you think the syndicate is violent?" Raymond asked. "From what we've seen so far, it's just a bunch of peaceful, hard-working, generally honest men."

"Three or four members of the syndicate is not a good representation of its masses."

"Backtrack," Raymond said. "What do we know about the syndicate? We're assuming Caílín is Irish and that the syndicate is mostly Irish too. So, it probably sells mainly to Irish people."

"Right!" David agreed, becoming more animated. "Track the customers, track the seller, track the source. We need visit Five Points."

                                                                                               ***

"God, I hate this place," Raymond muttered, trying not to gag on the rank smell of rotting food and too many unwashed bodies crowded too closely together.

"Agreed," David coughed, pulling his rough, dirty tweed cap further down over his conspicuously clean hair. "Come on."

Slouching down into his threadbare, second-hand coat, Raymond shuffled down the muddy street, doing his best to blend into the crowds of poorly-dressed, hollow-eyed Irishmen. Cigarette smoke hung hazy in the air, and, from the dingy, ramshackle buildings that teetered along both sides of the street, coarse, raucous laughter rang out.

"Where too?" Raymond mouthed. With a jerk of his head, David indicated to a tall, brightly-painted building at the end of the street. Raymond recognized it immediately: The Dancing Dame, a notorious saloon, gambling hall, whorehouse, and hotbed of criminal activity. Federal Agents had shut it down multiple times over the past five years, but it always reopened again within a month of closing its doors. Periodically, the New York Police Force was paid to ignore the establishment, though they always vehemently denied it.