Chapter 651: Private Detective

Wayne had now met quite a few gang leaders in the Dock Area.

Although they were all “gangs,” the temperament of each gang actually varied greatly.

In a sense, America in those days was a collection of small communities, with invisible walls of isolation between them. Some people could quickly be accepted anywhere or always find a way to make a living,

while others, if they left their familiar neighborhood, might immediately face problems even with eating.

Many foreign illegal laborers belonged to the group particularly restricted in this regard. They lacked proper identification, the universally loved American dollar, received little education, couldn't find a guarantor or introducer, and might even struggle with the language.

If they also lacked a special skill, leaving their “fellow villagers” was tantamount to seeking their own death. They might end up in the morgue with no one to report it. Furthermore, while it was easy for some to cross the ocean to America, returning often proved more difficult than coming.

—Some laborers also had relatives and family, perhaps having come together, or newly acquired after arriving, or some were even “second generation” or more, born and raised in the neighborhood. If this wasn't “home,” then they might have no home on the other side of the ocean.

Gangs actually profited from these “dividends” of people who couldn't control their own circumstances, but the specific methods of profiting differed, leading to variations in their inherent temperament.

For example, the Sailor Gang's main source of income was collecting “head taxes” and “apportioned fees” from laborers or vendors in their territory, and they were also somewhat involved with petty theft in the area.

Being honest and obedient didn't necessarily bring benefits, but if one offended them and couldn't leave, life would generally be miserable—this was the so-called “incapable of success, yet capable of spoiling everything,” a relatively narrow definition of a “gang,” the type that fights, kills, and seizes territory.

Some gangs, however, primarily relied on their own industries. The most famous in the Dock Area was the Rabbit Gang. There were also those who tried to monopolize certain goods in the Dock Area, and Jimmy James Damody, who helped collect usurious loans, might also fall into this category.

Their business was business, money was the goal, and violence was merely a means. Sometimes they were extremely aggressive, with murder being a minor matter, yet they generally wouldn't casually extort money from unrelated individuals.

As for groups like the Ireland Violent Group, they were almost like a small grassroots government.

During slightly better times, they could help maintain order and stability in the community, protecting residents from threats and predation by other gangs, and helping fellow countrymen find a livelihood. But once they started to go astray, they became the threat themselves, transforming from “shepherd dogs” protecting the flock into “evil wolves” caging food.

The leader of the Ireland Violent Group was O'Sullivan. Although he was certainly not as wealthy as the mayor, the decor of his stronghold was somewhat similar to the mayor's home.

It was clean, tidy, and unpretentious, spacious by Dock Area standards, and had a dedicated reception room. If not for the several taciturn men inside and outside the house who didn't greet anyone, it would almost seem like an ordinary, prosperous middle-class home with a thriving population and no worries about food and warmth.

In the reception room, Wayne sat on a short sofa, with the tall and burly Sanders standing behind him. Sellen Guide, with his shoulders hunched, back bowed, and head lowered, cowered against the wall near the door, as if afraid of dirtying the reception room floor.

Across the coffee table placed between the sofas, across a small indoor corridor, and across a simple but quite wide desk, sat Mr. O'Sullivan, the owner of the house, opposite Wayne.

Two expressionless men stood on either side of the desk and behind him. Their clothes were different styles but similar in color, unfortunately clearly mass-produced from a textile factory, and of slightly poorer quality than what city clerks would buy—oh, and there were actually two more outside the door, and people at the stairwell corner and the entrance when they came in.

“Mr. Wayne, I didn't expect you to visit, and you haven't brought more bodyguards. You're very brave. I've read about you in the newspapers; your Detective Agency should have quite a few people, I imagine.”

O'Sullivan leaned back in the large chair, his elbows resting on the armrests, his hands clasped loosely in mid-air. His tone revealed no emotion.

It was just that swivel chairs didn't exist in those days, otherwise Wayne suspected the fellow might slide back and put his feet on the desk.

“Two people are enough. When I was a Sheriff in the small town, I often acted alone.” Wayne said this, then realized he had missed one, and casually pointed towards Sellen Guide, “He helped during the plague investigation, so I called him here too, lest he accidentally encounter trouble in the middle of the night like me later on.”

The gang leader opposite could call him by name directly: “Sellen, you should be more cautious in your future interactions with people. Don't bring just anyone into the neighborhood.”

“Yes!” Sellen Guide instantly straightened up, his eyes shining slightly, as if he had been granted a great pardon.

Wayne brought the conversation back to business: “As you know, Mr. O'Sullivan, I am a private detective, and many things are not secrets to me. The attack I suffered that night was carried out by your people. Don't you owe me an explanation?”

“I have nothing to explain.” O'Sullivan's fingertips touched each other. “Weren't the assailants all killed on the spot? Mr. Wayne, perhaps you should go to the morgue and ask them.”

“I am a private detective.” Wayne repeated, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, and looked over. “The police and courts need evidence to convict a murderer. I don't necessarily.”

Sensing the atmosphere seemed off, the men standing on either side of the desk took a step forward, and Sanders also stood forward slightly, chest out.

The two men sitting face to face stared at each other. O'Sullivan's body was still leaning against the backrest. “I heard the Health Committee is considering revoking its authorization. Once the church's bounty for rat tails ends, your people with red armbands will no longer have the right to roam freely in the Dock Area.”

“Haven't you heard gunshots and explosions these past few nights? Those were made by my people. A week's time is actually enough for many things to happen.”

“Hmm, I heard. The Rabbit Gang is reportedly very annoyed. The unexpected noises disturbed many customers' interest, affecting their business that night. They dare not object to police actions, but others will probably have to watch their backs.”

Feeling that continuing to drag on like this wouldn't yield any information from this guy, Wayne stopped spewing trash talk:

“I'll be direct. If so many people attacked simultaneously, I alone couldn't possibly handle it.

“But you see, do I have any gunshot wounds? Your subordinates were actually killed by the other people involved in the attack—that night's attack wasn't truly aimed at me.”

Noticing O'Sullivan's expression finally changed, Wayne knew he hadn't guessed wrong.

Those from the Ireland Violent Group who participated in the attack had signs of execution on their bodies. Aside from the fatal wounds, some of their injuries were clearly not severe enough to warrant being “disposed of neatly,” and it wasn't a bank robbery that required sharing money. Even if it was to silence them, there was no reason for their own people to act on the spot, needlessly providing more evidence to the police.

This indicated that the guy probably wasn't clear about the specific situation at the time, making it worth a gamble.

“What exactly do you want to say?”

“Based on the scene, I don't doubt your malice towards me, Mr. O'Sullivan, but compared to a clear enemy, I hate being used as a disposable decoy. Perhaps we can settle our score later. How about we first deal with the person hiding behind us?”

“Why should I trust you?” O'Sullivan sat up slightly.

“I am a private detective. You can doubt my motives, but you shouldn't doubt my ability to investigate the truth. Furthermore, at least I myself have never read news in the newspapers about private detectives fighting gangs for territory—gangs that don't dare to avenge their subordinates are more common.”

After a moment of silence, O'Sullivan looked around the room. “You all go out first. Let Mr. Wayne and I talk alone.”

“Yes.” One of the subordinates, who seemed to be a leader, quickly responded, but his feet didn't move at all, his gaze fixed on Sanders behind Wayne.

Seeing Wayne nod, Sanders began to walk out of the reception room.

O'Sullivan's several subordinates followed him, pushing Sellen Guide twice during their exit.

Once the door was closed again, O'Sullivan spoke once more: “How do you plan to deal with the Sailor Gang?”

What the heck?!

The Sailor Gang?

Good heavens, you're always there for every vice raid, really holding grudges from dawn till dusk, huh?

This time, they truly brought it upon themselves, no injustice at all.