BIA Ch. 38

That day, after the failures of Thomas Dewey and Rudolph Giuliani^[1], the FBI realized one thing: completely eradicating organized crime in the United States was realistically and institutionally impossible^[2].

They chose coexistence. However, La Cosa Nostra was excluded. They would no longer tolerate the Italians devastating America.

Around this time, alongside New York, Eloy City emerged as a new hotbed of organized crime. Immediately after World War II, the Italian gang there formed the Eloi Five Families, mirroring New York’s Five Families. Unlike New York’s Five Families, who frequently warred amongst themselves, the Eloi Five Families fostered strong solidarity and expanded their power amicably.

The ultimate truth—united we stand, divided we fall—held true even in the world of organized crime. Meanwhile, the Kalisz family, styling themselves as an authentic Irish mob, maintained power within the Irish immigrant community. This was a small blessing for the FBI. While all gangsters were essentially the same, the Irish were preferable to the Italians. This preference stemmed from the fact that there had been more than ten Irish-American presidents but no Italian-American presidents, and that at least 20% of American police officers were of Irish descent. These factors played a significant role in their judgment.

However, such a momentous plan would not be executed based solely on statistics bordering on wordplay. The true reason the FBI chose the Kalisz family for this unprecedented and audacious project lay in their resources. Although unintentional, they had personnel readily available, specifically suited for this project.

“Bran Wiseman.”

Edgar Derby first approached me when I was fifteen.

“You’re Bennett Wiseman’s son, aren’t you? I am Edgar Derby.”

With that, Edgar Derby presented his FBI identification. My first thought was the opening line of a certain novel. “All of this actually happened.” Anger followed. I was taken aback by his carelessness, flashing his credentials in front of the school gate teeming with students heading home.

“This is in front of the school. And my father passed away last year.”

“I know. If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to speak with you for a moment.”

“I don’t mind but I have to be back by six. I had to get permission to leave…”

“Youth Protection Center Affiliated with the Monastery of Saint John Bosco.”

He interrupted me, stating the name of my residential care facility.

“I have already spoken with the investigator in charge. So, is it alright now?”

I had no recourse. I joined Edgar Derby in his car parked by the school gate.

“Your grades are excellent. You maintained a 4.0 GPA this semester as well. Your homeroom teacher said that if you focus, you could attend any university you choose. Is that true?”

Edgar Derby buckled his seatbelt as he settled into the driver’s seat, feigning familiarity. When I remained silent, he reversed the car aggressively, then swerved just as forcefully away from the school gate, saying,

“Your father was always proud. He would joke about how he couldn’t believe you were his son, that God must have made a mistake. I would always tell him it wasn’t a mistake but a well-deserved reward.”

“The FBI must be struggling. Going to such lengths, humoring a drunkard just to glean some drug information.”

So, did he find anything useful? Instead of answering my sarcasm, Edgar Derby retrieved a large envelope from the back seat and handed it to me.

“Take your time looking through it. I’ll be driving along the coastal road. It will take about two hours.”

The envelope was quite thick. Inside, the first document was my father’s handwritten FBI application, dated when he was twenty-four. Next were photocopies of FBI trainee Bennett Wiseman’s shooting test scores, followed by his physical fitness test results. All were black-and-white copies, not originals.

Following these was a thirteen-page report titled “On Albert Anastasia’s Murder, Inc.,” submitted by my father for an organized criminology course. I read only the introduction on the first page. Although typed, unlike the handwritten application, certain word choices and phrasing, particularly his distinctive use of adverbs, confirmed it was his work.

Finally, I could not endure it any longer and asked Edgar Derby,

“What is this?”

At my question, Edgar Derby glanced at me without removing his hands from the steering wheel.

“Are you familiar with Donnie Brasco?”

“Vaguely.”

When I said I had not seen the movie, Edgar Derby nodded and said, “It’s a bit brutal for children.”

“So, is my father Al Pacino?”

At my words, Edgar Derby chuckled.

“I’m certain you haven’t seen the movie. Your father is Johnny Depp.”

But unfortunately, he said, this was all the evidence available to prove that fact.

“After Donnie Brasco^[3], even the mafia became much more cautious. They’ve planted several informants within the FBI and police.”

Therefore, it had become impossible to create a new identity for an active FBI agent and infiltrate them as before. From the recruitment stage, suitable individuals were selected and trained separately specifically for undercover operations, with all records expunged immediately upon their appointment. Only a very small number of officials knew that he was FBI.

We talked in the car for about two hours that day. Edgar Derby drove along the coastal road as he had initially said, then went to the FBI branch office in Eloy City. Just before entering the building, he took a cap out of the car’s glove compartment and placed it on my head, saying,

“Never look up. There are CCTV cameras throughout the building.”

At the time, I thought he said that because I resembled my father so much.

We entered the FBI building together. Edgar Derby took me to his office on the third floor and locked the door to prevent anyone else from entering. His purpose in bringing me there was nothing other than this: he wanted me to believe that everything he said was true, and that my father was undoubtedly an FBI agent.

“I hope you are proud of your father.”

He said as he retrieved the materials about my father he had shown me, citing confidentiality reasons.

“That’s all.”

Of course, that could not be all.

After that, Edgar Derby would occasionally visit me and tell me stories about my father. They were mainly predictable stories about how great a decision my father had made and how much his noble sacrifice had helped the FBI.

They were predictable but they were enough to instill pride and self-esteem in a boy who had believed his entire life that his father was a low-ranking mafia member, a boy who had resented him and who, after losing him two years prior, had lived with constant regret and guilt.

A year later, Edgar Derby said that if I wished, he would arrange for a fictitious guardian, make him my legal cohabitant and facilitate my formal discharge from the orphanage. Then I could live freely on my own in the house in Liberty Harbor that had been abandoned since my father’s death. Tuition and living expenses were a bonus.

By this point, I thought I understood his purpose. Of course, it could have been simple kindness but that possibility was extremely slim. A loyal superior who took care of the surviving child of a subordinate who did not officially exist, both financially and emotionally? And using his own money? Well, I had learned enough during my two years in the orphanage that the world was not so generous.

Most of the children there had been abused and abandoned by their parents. Their only crime was daring to hope for unconditional love and affection, and that from their own parents.

So, there was no way I could believe in the pure kindness offered by a complete stranger. Even the orphanage that took us in provided only the bare minimum of comfort, relying on the child welfare funds allocated for each of us. It is best to be meticulous with calculations. That puts everyone at ease, both the giver and the receiver.

Sure enough, the following year, as I was finally a senior in high school and about to choose a university, Edgar Derby said,

“Bran, have you ever thought about joining the FBI?”

Just like your father. This sly old fox brought up his father again, just as expected.