Chapter Text
Excerpt from the appendix of By Death or Dollar: Organized Crime in Prohibition New York, James Sutton, 1994:
Kellman, Baruch “Baird”. b. 1863, d. 1922. Years active: 1905-1922. Born to a Jewish family in Darmstadt, German Confederation, immigrated to America in 1879. Newspaperman and organized crime figure. Hired and directed criminal gangs on behalf of the Roy Corporation during New York's "circulation wars" of 1910–1911, and later jailed for tax evasion in 1919, released in 1920. Considered one of Logan Roy’s closest advisors until his death in 1922.
Selected content dated from the year 1917, preserved in the Roy Family Collection, New York State Archives:
- Passed physical examination certificate for Kendall Logan Roy
- Failed physical examination certificate for Connor Joseph Roy, indicating presence of permanent weakness of the patella tendon
- Failed physical examination certificate for Roman Ewen Roy, indicating pre-existing arrhythmia
- Enlistment paperwork for Kendall Logan Roy
- Discharge paperwork issued for Kendall Logan Roy
That afternoon in the parlor a decade ago, Ken with his papers and Rome with a silver dollar he kept flipping between his fingers. How distinctly he felt the weight of his wool suit and wished he’d worn something lighter. All of a sudden it was a new season. The air was too warm, the sun too bright. He’d sunk himself further into the furniture while his brother stood there in the center of the room, spine straight.
“It’s the right thing to do, you know.”
“What, get bayoneted by some Dutchman?” The coin was getting slick the longer he fidgeted with it; he put it between his teeth at one point, and on his tongue it held the taste of blood. “Last I checked they weren’t coming up the Hudson, nobody’s landed on Staten Island and planted a flag—”
Ken only shook his head, his smile slow and sad. “You’ve been listening to Dad too much.”
It was true, which Roman half-resented - he wanted to be brave in principle, the same way he wanted to be some tall strapping honorable man, something he’d never be and still always vaguely recognize as better - but he stuck to his guns regardless, knowing when the conversation was done he’d go back to Logan and Logan would hand over the flat stamp of his approval, rare and perfect, make it obvious and unshakeable. Worth suffering through the pain of this conversation. Worth traipsing along the edge of those dark pits in Ken’s eyes.
“This isn’t the way to do it.” Roman said it, but he didn’t know if he believed it. This was just the side of the bet he’d chosen to come down on. “He won’t respect you more for doing the honorable thing.”
“No more than he’ll respect you for following his orders.”
“Maybe I don't want to die for a cause that’s not mine.”
“People are suffering.”
“They suffer everywhere, Ken. Jesus, the whole fucking world's set up to prevent a monopoly on suffering. We’re all one big sorry suffering race, weeping our way to the miserable finish.”
“I don’t know,” Ken had said, and it was like they were kids again, back when Ken had a few inches on him. Before there was catching up to do. The inseparable days. “Maybe I just don’t want to do it without you.”
But he would. He did.
He did it alone.
In the end, Connor had his old knee injury from a hunting accident and Roman had his heart murmur that only the doctor they paid off could hear, and Kendall had a voyage across the Atlantic and four months in a trench bearing witness to the other side of god.
Logan refused to see his son off so Roman was the one who came with Ken to the pier, stood there like a sucker in a sea full of uniforms and let the better men go.
Roman has turned the regret over so many times in his mind that it’s eventually softened into shame. The love of his father had outweighed the love of his brother that day. And then Ken came home almost half a year later and took a month to say his first word.
Light , he’d choked out when the maid had opened the curtains; he’d lifted his hand to cover his eyes. It was the most he’d moved in weeks.
There was a daily nurse their father paid who’d clean the bandages where the shrapnel had made mince of Ken. She’d sit by his bed and read and more often keep him from feeling anything. That’s where it had started, the morphine.
Roman stopped by sometimes but mostly he didn’t. Mostly he kept his distance and called himself a coward, afraid to look his brother in the eye now that his eye seemed like little more than a keyhole into a dark room, a hollow place Roman could never enter. Ken doesn’t remember that now, how he spent so much of that time alone or with the nurse; it’s a fog, he says, on the rare occasions that he discusses that part of his life, except for you making me laugh, and Roman doesn’t correct him.
It was a miracle in its own twisted way. The shell that put his brother in a hospital in Vichy and then shipped him home was the only reason he was alive, Rome knows that. Just like he knows Ken would have stayed over there until he died. Whatever it was he’d be expecting from their father - a letter, a telegram, anything - would never have arrived.
“The fool made his own fucking bed,” Logan would say. “His own damn fault he’s daffy.” Other men would recognize the sympathetic value in a son who could be named as a hero - Logan traded in no such currency. But there were some instances when Roman had bent his father’s goodwill the wrong way and Logan called him a coward, and the way he said the word made it seem like the other side of that coin was the image of Ken in his uniform before it had been dirtied by the mud of the battlefield.
Roman remembers the ride back to his father's house after he’d seen Ken off to the ship: his brother’s face one among hundreds but still distinct, his expression oddly serene as he looked out at the crowd on the pier and then turned away, turned to the water, and Roman had wondered if it was destiny his brother saw, if all those men on the ship saw it and Roman was the only one who would never catch sight.
He’d come home to find the Widow Kellman in his father’s study as he’d passed before the door. Her gaze had fastened onto him when she saw his eyes, red from crying. Curiosity, maybe, or something else. The slightest tilt of her head. He felt her attention on the back of his neck; if he’d had his way, he would have let it close over his throat like a vice.
She didn’t approach him for a few years, but when she did, that was when it had all started. A small offer, minor business that could use his attendance. Keep an eye on a conversation for her, oversee deliveries. A test of trust. At first he’d thought it was pity, but over time it became clear that she saw him as an opportunity and it felt good, oh, Christ, it had felt so good to be seen that way.
Not everything requires a blood sacrifice, she’d said once, and nothing else on the matter of such things, but it had been enough.
He’d only known of her when he was off at school, and only in the sense that she was married to his father’s business partner and was an oddity unto herself: a shiksa convert, a woman with a law degree of all things, mother to two smirking daughters on the cusp of débutante. She was a widow by the time he’d graduated and wasn’t there some chin-wagging about that - ol’ Baird Kellman found dead in the bath by their maid, cause unknown but decidedly unbloody, autopsy unclear. The Pierces never took credit, nor did the Rothsteins that had put Kellman on the map only to be backstabbed by him and Logan at the last minute. Something internal, they said. A condition, a weak heart, but who could say? Roman paid attention only so far as he did to any of the deaths that surrounded their family in a relentless constellation. He can’t say he remembers the funeral or even if he attended it, but he does remember the way her gold hair looked against all that black she wore that year. It was the widow who was a regular in his father’s office, suddenly a constant at the dinners and the meetings and the places where Roman had started to linger on the periphery, looking for his way in. Logan spoke of his involvement in the business in vague terms in those days - there’s a safe distance and that’s the one I want you to take, he’d said, because time changes things, apparently - but then there’d been the war and Ken’s damn honor and when the widow had come to Roman with her advice, she’d told him that it was time to demonstrate his hunger.
He could certainly do that.
The Vault was a speakeasy active between the years 1925 to 1928. It ran out of the cellar of a laundromat on Canal Street in Manhattan, New York, which is today the location of a bar called No-Eyes Tiger. For most of its time of operation, it was owned and managed by Laurence Yee, who negotiated sale of the property to Kendall Roy in 1928 under the auspices that it would join the Roys’ holdings and accordingly buy Yee a piece of the shares.
It’s a few minutes after midnight and Roman’s at his brother’s heels like a stray, following him down the alley, the half moon casting the bricks in blue.
“Is it any good?”
“What?”
“The Vault,” he says, since that’s where he’s being led now, for better or worse - Kendall’s latest acquisition, some Canal Street speakeasy that Roman suspects is probably half an opium joint, too, or will be soon if his brother gets his way. Kendall hasn’t said what Logan thought of the purchase; of course they’ve got other places to keep the booze moving, because otherwise what’s the point, but none of those were bought out by a Roy son without the patriarch’s approval, and most of them fall under the purview of Karl, who runs that sleeve of the operation with two tight buttons.
“Good to have you with me tonight,” Kendall smiles over his shoulder, all enigmatic in a way that Roman can’t tell is put on or unintentionally daffy.
“Sure, right.” He tries not to sound skeptical, but fails. “Happy to be doing something of substance. Hitting the streets, wearing down the soles. So is this visit for business or pleasure?”
“Both.”
“Oh, joy. And what’s the strategy here, you know, between the two of us? Am I doing half the business or observing before diving in, or—”
“You’ll follow my lead.”
Roman makes a face, sucking air in through his teeth. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”
Kendall stops, turning in place to meet his brother’s eye just as Roman nearly runs into him. “Is it going to be a problem?”
“I was a big deal out west, you know that, right? Made some fucking movies if you haven’t heard. And I’ve been watching this side of the business as long as you have, I understand how the deals go. You’re not the only one who’s run a negotiation—”
“This isn’t a negotiation. Tonight, I mean. We’re not coming here to negotiate.”
“Right, because you’ve already bought the place. But none of this is a mystery to me, I’m as capable as you are—”
“It’s not about being capable, Rome,” and Kendall is suddenly very serious, the hollows of his face all dark. “Things are different now. I don’t know what else to tell you. You’ll just have to see. But I need to you to follow me on this, because if you start deviating, it’s going to fuck the whole thing, you understand? I need your trust.”
He wishes his brother wouldn’t stand there looking so fucking grave, those sad eyes of his larger and more nostalgic than usual, because Roman sighs and nods, heaves his shoulders up as he shrugs.
“You’ve always got my trust,” he says, which is not true, but there’s a version of himself that wants it to be true, that believes he must be capable.
It all goes to shit, of course. Just absolute fucking dogshit, hand-delivered in a basket.
He should have known when they’d rounded the corner of the alley and Frank Vernon of all people had been standing next to a delivery truck that happened to be full of guns. Should have had an inkling when an entire squadron of New York’s finest were there, too, chuckling and helping themselves to some free whiskey while they found their favored firearm. Roman had stared at Frank to gauge his reaction to any of this, but the man was impossible to read, in complete deference to Kendall and infuriatingly so. And then Kendall had handed Roman a pistol and asked him if he knew what to do with it.
“Point the long end at someone else,” he’d said, frowning when he’d checked and found it loaded. “What the fuck is this, Ken.”
“It’s the way we do business.” Kendall’s smile was pure anesthetic. Pure fucking zen and peace. It was unnerving. “You won’t have to use it, but it’s nice to have.”
“Sure, just like a handkerchief.” He’d made another face as he’d gingerly shoved it into his belt, expecting to shoot himself in the testicle and half-shocked when the gun didn’t go off. “The perfect fall accessory. And these cops are just along for fresh air, is that it?”
“Part of the plan.”
Roman had blinked at his brother, something occurring to him even in its utter absurdity. “Are you sicking the cops on your own joint? Jesus Christ, why the fuck would you do that?”
But Ken had only smiled, clapped him on the back. “Let’s go,” he’d said, and Roman, like a fool, had gone.
Which brings him to the Vault.
The girl who’d greeted them at the door must have gone and gotten Laurence Yee, because all of a sudden he was coming up the aisle between the tables and the patrons, not looking all too happy to see the Roy brothers.
“Roy—” he’d started, and Ken had cocked his fucking gun and lifted it, placing the barrel at Yee’s temple. “Okay,” Yee whispered, lifting his hands. To his credit, they did not tremble. “Let’s take it easy. What do you want?”
“The NYPD are about to storm this place.”
“We can clear it out before—”
“No, I want you and everyone who works for you to make yourselves apparent.”
Yee’s temple had twitched, and he’d glanced between Kendall and Roman like he was seeking an answer. “You’re working with them? You’re helping them raid us.”
“They’re doing me a favor, actually.”
“But this is your bar now, we’re part of the Roys—”
“That’s all true.”
Yee had swallowed, but he was defiant, his eyes were gleaming at Kendall, seething. “I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t.”
And Ken had pulled the trigger.
Roman’s ears are still ringing. He’d yelled some train of expletives in spite of himself when the man had dropped in a spray of blood - the air was pink for a moment, humid, and then Roman had realized that it was on his face, it was his face that was wet. Around him, policemen were running past in blue streaks, and more bullets were firing into bodies, more limbs were going limp as they collapsed to the ground.
He’s still standing there now, staring at the back of his brother as Kendall finishes off another of Yee’s men with the leg of a chair - he’s crouched down over the prone man, blood following the arc of the wood each time Ken swings and then brings it back down onto his face, the yelps turning to moans and then the moans going soggy until they’re finished, replaced by the sound of wet flesh.
Kendall stands, finally, wipes his face before he turns to Roman, runs a red hand through his hair.
Roman stares at his brother, finds his voice. “So this is what it is now. This is doing business.”
Kendall smiles. “You’re catching up.”
“What happened to keeping our hands clean?”
“The needs of the family have changed.”
“This is far gone and low down, though, Ken. This is something else.”
“Come here,” Kendall says, and of all the things in the world he could do at this moment, Ken hugs his brother. Roman lets him, stunned. Allows himself to be pulled into the embrace, held tight into the wet front of his brother’s shirt, staining his own cheek red.
Over Ken’s shoulder, movement on the ground - someone is staggering upright, a gun is lifting - and then Roman acts without thinking, shoots the man in the head.
“Fucking fuck ,” he hisses, shaking out his free hand.
But Kendall claps him on the back like he’s proud, like they’re brothers who have just won a game of ball and aren’t they a pair of charmers. “You’re a natural. Look at that aim.”
It feels good, that’s the worst part. It felt good to see the body hit the ground and to hear the sound it made when it did that, and it feels good to receive the praise now, to know that it was a hell of a shot and he’d made it, Roman Roy had been the one to do it. He wants to do it again. He wants to tell the widow about it. He wants her to see him do it next time, to know how good he is at it.
But he just flips his brother off. “Fuck you.”
As it turns out, there’s an entire undeclared vault hidden in Yee’s office that was never mentioned during initial negotiations. Not that this was the point of the whole thing - clearing house without tearing it down, as it turns out - but Kendall treats it like a bonus.
“Here,” he says, fills a lockbox with half the vault’s contents - piles of fucking cash, as it turns out - and hands it to Roman. “Deliver this to Dad.”
“He sanctioned this?”
“No,” Ken says. The blood’s dried on his face now; Christ, he looks ghoulish. “And he’s going to shit a brick when he finds out. But this will calm him down, I promise.”
“Great, and when he shoots the messenger, I am conveniently the messenger. I see how it is, you ass.”
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission, Rome. You can do it.”
The worst part is that he does as he’s told. Trots right up to his father’s office once he’s cleaned up a bit, drops the lockbox onto his father’s desk right before the old man’s had his breakfast.
Logan blinks. “What the fuck is that?”
“A present.”
The old man blinks at its contents, and then he grins. Laughs. The laughter fills the room, wraps all the way around Roman. “Romulus, you son of a bitch.”
“I’m getting to know the business.”
“You going to tell me how you got this?”
“I think Ken wants to share that story himself. Invite him over for tea today, he’ll tell you all about it.”