North American Detective: I am Proficient in All Kinds of Gun Quick Draws

He quickly found stall number 76. It was a place selling counterfeit brand-name clothing and had a fair number of customers; among the stalls in this area, its business was quite thriving. What surprised Dean was that both the stall owner and his assistants were Chinese. The occasional curses that slipped out during haggling sounded like they were from China's coastal regions. Dean could only sigh at this; wherever there was money to be made, legal or not, there were always compatriots from back home.

Following the flow of people, Dean browsed and picked. By the time he emerged, he was wearing a set of high-quality counterfeit brand-name clothes that showed no obvious signs of being fake. The price was incredible—only one-tenth of the original. But in terms of quality, Dean felt it was much better than the clothes he had originally worn, which had cost thousands of US dollars. No wonder the business was so good.

The place looked daunting, but having wandered around for nearly half an hour, Dean had strangely not seen a single pickpocket. Instead, in some inconspicuous places, air-dried, braised chicken feet were hanging. Beneath these 'chicken feet,' sturdy men leaned in the shadows, unabashedly holding semi-automatic rifles and scanning the bustling streets. This was probably the reason for the 'night market's' orderly stability.

Stall number 81 was not far from stall number 76, and Dean spotted it instantly. This was because an old M2 heavy machine gun was displayed outside the stall, with two ammo boxes filled with brass-colored bullets beside it. On the boxes, an eye-catching fluorescent sign read: Daddy's Gun Shop: Guaranteed Quality Goods!

There was no shortage of customers here either, but it was different from the scene Dean had imagined. When he entered, he discovered that the small stall did not have a market-like array of firearms laid out. Each customer, in turn, would state vegetable names like 'potatoes' or 'corn kernels' to an old man. They paid, received a handwritten note from a woman beside the old man, then left from the other side. Seeing this, Dean frowned. This wasn't very friendly to new customers.

Fortunately, a skinny figure proactively approached. "New customer?"

The person looked to be only about fourteen or fifteen years old and resembled the woman beside the old man; Dean guessed they were three generations of family in business together.

Dean nodded. "Yes, I want two clean Glock 17s, one .45 caliber M1911, several concealed holsters, and one portable built-in bulletproof vest..."

He listed more than a dozen items in one go.

The youth nodded, jotted down some aliases on a piece of paper, and handed it to Dean. "We're just a vegetable wholesaler here," he said. "The 'vegetables' you ordered cost a hundred US dollars, but my service fee is twenty-one thousand US dollars. You can pay by card, check, or cash."

"Are you sure you work here?" Dean deliberately asked.

The youth shrugged and whistled towards the old man. After the old man gestured to him, he turned back to Dean and smiled. "This is Buiano Family territory; no one dares to mess around here. Not even the cops. They wouldn't dare show up in uniform after ten at night."

Hearing this, a thought flashed through Dean's mind. The Buiano Family, just like his maternal grandfather's Lucchese Family, was one of New York's five surviving major Italian Mafia families. He had originally thought that these families, after the turbulence of the 1950s, were on the decline. Now it seemed things were far from as simple as they appeared on the surface. Or rather, not every one of the five families had dwindled.

With this in mind, Dean took out a check, wrote down a series of numbers, and handed it to the youth along with several hundred US dollars in small bills. "Pal," he said, "I have to admit your business skills and memory are quite impressive. Could you also tip me off on what to look out for while operating in New York?"

The fourteen or fifteen-year-old youth clearly liked Dean's praise. He quickly ran his fingers along the edge of the banknotes, a smile creeping onto his lips. "My name is Yaso. Wait for me," he said.

After that, he handed the check to the woman, gestured for Dean to follow, and led him out the other side of the stall into a narrow alley.

As they walked, Yaso asked, "I've lived here for fifteen years, and my grandfather has been here for over sixty. So, what do you want to know?"

"The local powers in the underworld here."

"Local powers?" Yaso grinned. "There are no single 'local powers' here. You've got the Chinese Hong Gang, the Japanese Yakuza, the Ireland Mafia, the Italian Mafia, Black Gang, the Bear Gang... There are just too many gangs, big and small."

"Name a few that have lasted."

"This isn't the 20th century anymore. Basically, the gangs that can last here for a long time are all centered around ethnicity and operate in both legitimate and illegitimate ways. They also have fierce internal disputes, but there are some factions worth noting.

For example, among the Italians, there's the Buiano Family and the Colombo Family. One controls nearly fifty percent of New York's black market, and its influence is actually greater than before. The other not only owns many high-end entertainment venues but also has its own political supporters and numerous corrupt cops. They control many Hollywood stars, thereby wielding some media power, so not many dare to provoke them.

Then there's the Chinese Hong Gang and the Bear Gang from Bear Country. The former has many hitmen and Black Fist Fighters. The latter's members are resolute. Since their families are back in their home country, any betrayal means the death of their entire family. Hence, when they fight, they are fearlessly ferocious."