That night, three vampires were packed off to Stark Industries' secret laboratory.
After throwing up, Stark's mind was unusually clear. He already had several good ideas for weapons designed to take on vampires. He needed test subjects to see how well his weapons worked.
Chief George was extremely pleased with how things had turned out. Even his best-case scenario hadn't gone this smoothly. He went back in high spirits to prepare a team specifically for dealing with vampires. Of course, first he had to go to Washington for that meeting whose agenda he didn't know.
Alvin didn't take it easy over the next few days, either. He wasn't the Savior; he couldn't charge into the vampires' lair alone and wipe them all out.
But Alvin was a man of action. I can't get rid of all the vampires in New York, but I can keep all of Hell's Kitchen clean. I can keep my family, my children, and the students at my school safe from the vampires.
With actual specimens to go by, the Ghost Wolves could easily sniff out the vampires. During the day, he took them street by street, searching for vampires hiding in the shadows and dragging them out into the sunlight. It was no trouble for him at all.
When Alvin set foot on the first street beyond his own territory, accompanied by the three Ghost Wolves—Athens, Rome, and Sparta—the whole of Hell's Kitchen was like a pan of oil hit with water, bubbling and boiling over.
The gangs of all sizes in Hell's Kitchen spread the word and went on high alert. Everyone there knew that Alvin might be the boss of three blocks, but he hated gangs.
If Alvin decided to expand his territory, a lot of gangs might bleed and disappear, just like the ones from the 25th District. To this day, no one knew what had happened to the gangs that used to be there.
Alvin stood at the entrance to 27th Street and looked ahead. More than a dozen cars blocked the whole street. Around twenty men who looked more like workers than gangsters were armed with guns, peering nervously from behind the cars.
A call came in. Amused, Alvin looked at the men. It wasn't every day you saw gangsters this timid. He answered.
"This is Alvin. Who's this?"
"Yeah, I'm standing at the entrance to 27th Street. What's the problem, Kingpin?"
"Oh, yeah, we had an agreement. So what? Just because we had an agreement, I'm supposed to stand here and wait for your sorry ass to show up? Hm?"
"Mm, if you'd said earlier that you were calling as a school trustee, I wouldn't have been so rude. I'll wait a little while. You'd better call over everyone in Hell's Kitchen who has any say. I can put on a magic show for you."
"Okay, okay. I'm not a gangster, and I'm not interested in your so-called territory. Mr. School Trustee, today's business has nothing to do with territory. I promise."
After he hung up, a short, paunchy Irishman with a red nose and a bald head came jogging over.
Alvin knew him. He was the boss of this street, Clark Gable. A third of the counterfeit shoes sold in New York passed through his hands.
His looks did such a fine name no favors, but he was a decent guy. At the very least, Alvin had never heard of him doing anything particularly heinous.
Clark jogged up to Alvin, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and cautiously ushered him into an Irish Bar.
The bar wasn't open yet. Clark sent away the equally anxious Bar Owner, then personally brought Alvin a cup of coffee.
Alvin smiled at Clark, who was standing off to the side like a Waiter. "You don't need to be nervous, Mr. Gable. I'm not here to cause trouble today. Sit down. We've got time to talk, and maybe we can even do some business."
Clark paused, taken aback. He was actually a businessman. It was just that his counterfeit goods company wasn't legal in the United States, so he'd put down roots on 27th Street with a crew who were less like gangsters and more like factory Security Guards.
Clark didn't actually dislike Alvin. Sometimes, he wished a Giant Wolf would wander his street, too. It would save him a fortune in Thug expenses.
Driven by a businessman's instincts, Clark asked, "I wonder what kind of good business you've got for me, Boss Alvin?"
Alvin rubbed his nose and said a little sheepishly, "Clark, you know about the Community School, right?" When Clark nodded, he continued, "Our kids still don't have proper School Uniforms. It's not good for the school's image. You're in the clothing and footwear business, so you know this could be a pretty good deal."
How could he not understand? It was a fantastic deal. The school had over a thousand, nearly two thousand, kids. They'd need summer and winter uniforms, two sets each, replaced every year.
Everyone knew Boss Alvin was a fair man. This wasn't a business negotiation—it was a handout!
Clark excitedly wiped the sweat from his forehead. He didn't even ask what price Alvin would offer. Even if he took a small loss, he'd make sure to land the contract.
But the uniforms had to bear the Gable label. And if the teachers needed suits, he could make those, too. Besides, he'd never heard of Alvin shortchanging anyone in business. The people who supplied his Restaurant always got paid in cash.
"Tomorrow, Boss Alvin. I'll bring samples to your place tomorrow. If it's a style you can find on the market, I've got it.
"My second son is in seventh grade at the school. He's a defensive end on the school's Soccer team, and I sponsor the team's uniforms and shoes. Don't worry, I'll give you the best materials."
Alvin smiled and nodded. He already had a pretty solid idea of what the School Uniforms should look like, though he suspected the students wouldn't be too fond of them.
He said no more, calmly waiting for Kingpin to arrive. He had to kill a couple of vampires in front of them to put the local bumpkins' minds at ease, so they'd let him roam their territory with his big dogs.
Before long, the bar door swung open, and a noisy crowd came in. At their head was a Black Man standing two meters tall and weighing over 150 kilograms.
The last time all the gang bosses had gathered like this was for the Community School's "principal election."
Kingpin wore a gold suit with a green shirt underneath. His shiny bald head looked freshly waxed, reflecting the sunlight coming in through the door. Oddly enough, this New York crime lord looked remarkably honest: big eyes, a big nose, and thick lips. In Work Clothes, he would have looked more like a kindly farmer than a gang boss.
Kingpin held a cane topped with a large gemstone. He had quite a presence, and with a wave of his hand, he sent the men behind him off to find seats.
With heavy steps, he crossed the room, making the bar's Floorboards creak. The Giant Beast of a man ignored the poor chair's protests and plunked himself down. He watched Alvin in silence, waiting to hear what he had to say.
He was afraid of Alvin because he knew Alvin had strange abilities that could kill him at any moment. But he couldn't back down. He was the underground Boss of this city. If he did, other ambitious gangs would come swarming like Sharks drawn to the scent of blood and tear him apart.
Alvin actually admired Kingpin. He'd clawed his way up from Hell's Kitchen, climbing over his rivals' corpses and blood to become New York's underground kingpin. He'd always known what he had to do, whatever the consequences.
Just like now. Even though he knew crossing Alvin wouldn't end well for him, he still had to sit down across from him and negotiate. Losing his position was even more terrifying to him than losing his life!
Maybe that was what successful people from Hell's Kitchen were like. I may be a bad man, but I'm tough as nails!
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