New York Harbor, half the traffic going to and from across the Atlantic came through here. bringing not just passengers and freight, but contraband hidden in unlisted crates; like the ones that had just arrived from Portugal.
A group of dockworkers pulled these illicit crates and transferred in the back of an automobile, clearing any inspection by the authorities and found themselves in a local pub, named “Das Vaterland” in a district of the city occupied largely by immigrants from the German world.
“Das Vaterland” wasn’t just a name, it was a statement. And now, thanks to the latest cargo, it was also a war room.
Once dropped off at the back of the pub, via the entry point reserved for shipping, the crates were dragged inside by some local workers. And then handed off to a back room, a residence by the looks of its furnishings. One completely unlisted as far as Uncle Sam was concerned.
But there was not just one man, and maybe his squeeze sitting in this hidden apartment, no there were five men, dressed like union men. Wool shirts, suspenders, dungarees, and a flat brim cap were their style.
Their skin, fair, their eyes, a mixture of blue, green, and hazel depending on the man. These were clearly German men, and when they cracked open the crates to reveal what was inside, they spoke a local dialect of the German tongue.
“My god… Is that what I think it is?”
A chuckle, followed by a jovial comment.
“Take a look, boys! Christmas came early, and you better give a special thanks to our friends in the fatherland for our new toys!”
What he was referring to was several stacks of Mp-34s, refurbished after use during the Great War.
Magazines and spam cans filled with ammunition were also included in another crate.
The men racked the charging handles on an empty chamber and gazed down the iron sights as if they were truly celebrating Christmas.
“God bless the Reich! These ought to be more than enough to deal with that bastard Rothstein! What’s the play, boss?”
One man alone was not giggling like a schoolgirl. It was the boss of the gang composed of German-Americans, who by now were likely second or third-generation immigrants to the country.
Unlike his cronies, he was dressed in a lavishly tailored three-piece suit, and smoked a cigar silently while watching his goons break out into laughter and cheers over their new weaponry.
His eyes were cold, and he clearly was not like the rest of his men. His tone held a distinctive accent from the fatherland as he spoke to his soldiers.
“The plan is simple…. We know where the prick stays, and we know when he leaves his little club.”
His voice continued on, masking his malevolence with kind language and a compassionate tone.
“You lot are going to drive up to him, as he exits the building, where I want you to send him a friendly message, and a gift of lead.”
When the man lowered his cigar, breathing out the smoke captured in his mouths, he did so. It revealed a distinctive signet ring. One that belonged to a unique group of ex-convicts within German society. A group, Bruno, during the Great War, had weaponized the feldgendarmerie against.
This man was clearly a more recent immigrant, and if his appearance was anything to go by, he was a member of a German organized crime syndicate known as the ringvereine.
One that had been forced to flee the fatherland under Bruno’s ruthless pursuit of crime and degeneracy in the streets of the Reich.
As for his goons, they immediately knew what the man was thinking, and inserted their loaded magazines into their new submachine guns.
“We’ll take care of it boss, you just thank your friends in the fatherland on our behalf.”
With that said, the men grabbed some bandanas to conceal their faces and hopped in the nearest car, driving off into the night as they did so.
—
Arnold Rothstein was among the first bootleggers to make it big in the United States after prohibition was enacted.
But that wasn’t the only business of ill repute he ran. Whether it was running gambling rings, fixing sports events, or general protection rackets, he was known in Bruno’s past life as the first among America’s 20th century gangsters to treat crime like a legitimate business.
If given enough time, he would go on to become the mentor to several notable Italian-American Mafioso, including the infamous Charles “Lucky” Luciano.
Who himself would go on to found “the Comission” in 1931, transforming La Cosa Nostra from individual crime families localized to their own city blocks, to the United States’ first national crime syndicate.
But tonight was not that night. No… Arnold Rothstein would find himself walking out of his club, as he did most nights, and when he did, he found a carl full of masked men pointing military grade hardware at him and his bodyguards.
Nothing was said, no sound but the pitter patter of machine gun fire, which shredded Arnold Rothstein and his fellow mobsters apart in the streets. And then in the silence that followed the burning of rubber as the Model T drove off into the night. Not anyone the wiser of who had just pulled off the hit against one of New York’s most powerful gangsters.
President Hughes didn’t realize it. At least not at first. But when he called upon Bruno for help, Bruno answered in the most obvious way to him.
If there was a war being fought, the best way to win it without personally getting involved is to pick a side, and arm them to the teeth. And that was exactly what he had done to one of the local and small German-American gangs.
When the American President realized that his request opened the door for further violence. Instigated by the German Reich, he would feel like he had made the biggest mistake of his political career.
Of course, while the streets might have escalated in bloodshed, and would continue to do so for the foreseeable future. Now that military-grade firepower had been handed to a single gang, the chaotic war for dominance would burn hotter, but end far quicker, and bloodier, than anyone in Washington had ever intended.
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