New Gods of North America.

Chapter 651 Private Detective
Wayne has now met with many of the gang leaders in the dock area.

Although they are all "gangs," their personalities are actually quite different.

In this day and age, America is, in a sense, a series of small societies with invisible walls separating them. Some people are quickly accepted wherever they go, or they always find a way to survive.

For some people, even getting a meal can become a problem if they leave their familiar neighborhood.

Many undocumented foreign workers fall into this particularly restricted group. They lack proper legal status, the universally appealing US dollar, and have limited education. They also struggle to find guarantors or introducers, and may not even speak the local language well.
If you don't have a skill, leaving your fellow countrymen is tantamount to courting death. You might end up in a morgue and no one will even report it. Moreover, it's easy for some people to cross the ocean to come to America, but it's often harder to go back than when they came.

—Some of the workers have relatives and family members. They may have come together with them, or they may have joined them after they arrived. Some of them are second-generation or even more generations of people who grew up in the neighborhood. If this is not their "home", then they may not have a home on the other side of the ocean.

What gangsters actually eat is this part of the "profits" that they have no control over, but the specific ways they eat it are different, and the resulting temperament is also different.

For example, groups like the sailors' gang mainly derive their income from "head taxes" and "levies" levied on laborers or merchants in their territory. They also have some connection to petty theft in their area.

Being honest and obedient doesn't necessarily bring benefits, but if you offend them and can't leave, you'll basically suffer no good consequences in life—that is, "more trouble than you're worth," which is a narrower definition of "gangsters," the kind that fights and kills to seize territory.

Some gangs rely primarily on their own businesses; the most notorious in the dock area is the "Rabbit Gang." Others attempt to monopolize certain goods in the dock area; James Damotic, the loan shark known as "Jimmy," might also fall into this category.

Their goal is business; money is the objective, and violence is merely a means. Sometimes they are extremely aggressive, and killing someone is a minor matter for them, but they are unlikely to plunder money from unrelated people.

As for groups like the Erlan rioters, they are practically small-scale local governments.
When things are a little better, they can help maintain order and stability in the community, protecting residents from threats and plunder by other gangs and allowing fellow villagers from outside the area to find a livelihood. But once they start to go astray, they become the threat itself, turning from "sheepdogs" protecting the flock into "wolves" penning up food.

The leader of the Erlan gang is named O'Sullivan. Although he's certainly not as rich as the mayor, the decor of his hideout is actually somewhat similar to the mayor's house.
Clean, tidy, and unassuming, the house is spacious by dock district standards and has a dedicated reception room. If it weren't for the many taciturn men inside and outside the house who don't greet people, it would almost look like an ordinary well-off family with a large and prosperous household.

In the meeting room, Wayne sat on a short sofa, with the tall, muscular Sanders standing behind him. The guide, Ciarán, hunched over with her head down, huddled against the wall near the door, as if afraid of dirtying the floor.
Separated from Wayne by a low coffee table placed between several sofas, a small indoor aisle, and a simple yet wide desk, sat Mr. O'Sullivan, the owner of the house.

Two expressionless men stood on either side of the desk and behind it. They wore different styles of clothes but similar colors, but unfortunately, they were obviously mass-produced garments from a textile factory, and the quality was even slightly worse than what urban office workers would buy. Oh right, there were actually two more outside the door, and there were also people at the corner of the stairs and at the door when I came in.

“Mr. Wayne, I didn’t expect you to actually come to visit. You didn’t bring any more bodyguards either, you’re quite bold. I’ve read about you in the newspaper, your detective agency should have quite a few people.”

O'Sullivan leaned back in his large chair, elbows resting on the armrests, hands clasped loosely in mid-air, his tone devoid of emotion.
It's just that there weren't any swivel chairs back then, otherwise Wayne suspects that this guy might slide back and put both feet on the desk.

“Two people are enough. When I was the sheriff in the town, I often acted alone.” Wayne said, then realized he had forgotten one and pointed to the guide, Seren. “He helped when we were investigating the plague. I called him here so he wouldn’t have to suffer an accident in the middle of the night like I did.”

The gang leader across the street could call him by name: "Ceren, you should be more careful about who you associate with in the future. Don't bring just anyone into the neighborhood."

"Yes!" Guide Seren instantly straightened up, her eyes gleaming slightly, as if she had been granted a pardon.

Wayne steered the conversation back to business: "As you know, Mr. O'Sullivan, I'm a private investigator, and many things aren't secrets to me. The attack I suffered that night was carried out by your men, don't you owe me an explanation?"

“I have nothing to explain.” O’Sullivan pointed his two fingers at each other. “Weren’t the perpetrators all shot dead on the spot? Mr. Wayne, perhaps you should go to the morgue and ask them.”

“I’m a private investigator,” Wayne repeated, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze sweeping across the room. “The police and courts need evidence to prosecute a murderer; I may not.” Sensing the tense atmosphere, the people standing on either side of the desk took a step forward, and Sanders also straightened his posture and stepped forward slightly.

The two men, sitting face to face, stared at each other. O'Sullivan remained leaning back in his chair. "I heard the Health Committee is considering revoking the authorization. Once the bounty on the church's acquisition of Rat's Tail is over, your men with red armbands won't be allowed to roam around the dock area anymore."

"Haven't you heard any gunshots or explosions these past few nights? Those were made by my men. A week is actually enough time for a lot to happen."

"Yes, I heard about it. The Rabbit Gang is reportedly furious. The unexpected noise disturbed many customers, affecting their business that night. They dare not object to the police's actions, but others should probably be careful."

Feeling that he wouldn't get any more information out of this guy by continuing like this, Wayne gave up on trash talk.

"Let me be frank. If so many people attack at the same time, I simply cannot handle it all by myself."

“But look, do I have any gunshot wounds? Your men were actually killed by other people involved in the attack—the attack that night wasn’t really targeting me.”

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

The bodies of those involved in the attack by the Erlan gang showed signs of execution. Apart from fatal wounds, some of their injuries were clearly not serious enough to warrant "dignity." It's not like they were robbing a bank and needed to split the money. Even if they were going to kill to cover their tracks, there's no reason for them to do it on the spot, unnecessarily giving the police more evidence.

This suggests that the guy may not be aware of the specific circumstances at the time, making it worth taking a gamble.

"what do you want to say in the end?"

"Judging from the situation on the ground, I don't doubt your malice towards me, Mr. O'Sullivan. But I hate being used as bait more than a clear enemy. Perhaps we can settle our score later and deal with the person behind us first, shall we?"

"Why should I believe you?" O'Sullivan straightened up slightly.

“I’m a private investigator. You can doubt my motives, but you shouldn’t doubt my ability to investigate the truth. To put it another way, I’ve never seen a news report about private investigators fighting with 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 and said, "You all go out first, let me speak with Mr. Wayne alone."

"Yes." One of the men, who looked like he could lead, responded quickly, but he didn't actually move his feet. Instead, he looked at Sanders behind Wayne.

Seeing that Wayne nodded, Sanders began to walk out of the meeting room.
O'Sullivan's men followed behind him, and shoved the guide, Seren, a couple of times as they went out.

Once the door was closed again, O'Sullivan spoke once more: "What are you planning to do about the Sailors' Gang?"

Damn it? !
Sailors' Gang?
Good grief, you're always involved in every crackdown on prostitution. Are you really taking revenge from morning till night?
They really brought this on themselves; they're not innocent at all.

(End of this chapter)