Chapter 45: Shuffling Cards
Later that afternoon, the sun hang over the coal yards near the Hudson River docks. The air was thick with gritty black dust, the sharp screeching of iron shovels and the heavy thud of coal dumping into wooden pushcarts.
Standing near a towering black pile of anthracite coal, the eldest Morgan brother—Caleb Morgan—swung his iron shovel in a rhythmic arc. He was twenty-five, tall, broad-shouldered, and built like an oak beam. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, black soot clinging to his jaw and chest despite the cool river breeze. He had been shoveling since five in the morning without taking a single break.
Patrick and Sean Williams walked into the yard, their dark wool caps pulled low, stepping over a rusted iron rail line.
"Caleb!" Sean called out, stopping a few feet away from the coal pile.
Caleb Morgan didn’t stop swinging his shovel. He drove the iron blade into the black pile, lifted forty pounds of coal, and heaved it into a waiting cart with a hollow clatter.
"If you boys want something from me," Caleb grunted, his voice deep, raspy, and ice-cold, "you better have brought a jug of cold ale. Otherwise, stop bothering me."
Patrick Williams stepped forward, smoothing his vest. "We got a job offer you might be interested in, Caleb. Clean work, better pay, and of course free drinks at the end of the shift."
Caleb stopped mid-swing. He rested his heavy hands on the wooden shaft of his shovel, looking at Patrick and Sean with sharp, dark eyes through the soot on his face. "If it involves stealing off the piers, beating up old merchants for protection coin, or scaring people, you can turn right back where you came from."
Sean scoffed softly, shaking his head. "It’s the exact opposite, Caleb. Honest drayage work. Delivering flour, sugar, and hardware to shopkeepers across Greenwich Village and collecting the invoices. Though... yeah, we don’t bother the precinct coppers with shipping manifests."
Caleb’s sharp eyes narrowed. "Smuggled stock."
"Technically, yeah," Patrick admitted, rubbing his nose.
"And why would I take that deal?" Caleb asked, his posture unyielding. "Why risk getting locked up in the Tombs when I can earn honest money doing honest labor right here?"
Patrick and Sean froze, stuttering slightly as they tried to construct a persuasive pitch. They were used to recruiting reckless street hustlers, not a stubborn, law-abiding stone wall like Caleb Morgan.
Before Sean could answer, a wooden pushcart rolled up the dirt lane. Pushing the cart was Caleb’s younger brother, Eli Morgan. Eli was twenty-one year old man, also tall like Caleb, with a leaner frame and long brown hair tied back into a loose ponytail. His arms were corded with lean muscle, but his face looked thoroughly exhausted.
Eli wiped a streak of black coal dust from his forehead, looking at Patrick and Sean. "What’s this I hear about better pay?"
Sean brightened instantly, turning to Eli. "Two dollars base pay, Plus overtime pay, with clean wool clothes, weekly paid day offs and free drinks in a private lounge after the shift."
Eli’s eyes widened. "Really?" He looked at Caleb, his voice rising with immediate interest. "Caleb, that’s three times what we make breaking our backs in this dust hole!"
"Don’t listen to ’em," Caleb warned sternly, turning back to his shovel. "You mess around with smuggled cargo, and you’ll end up in Sing Sing before you hit twenty-five."
"It’s better than dying of coal lung at thirty!" Eli shot back, slamming his palms against the handles of his pushcart. "We aren’t beating people up or robbing widows! It’s just drayage!"
"The prison sentence for smuggling is three years minimum," Caleb said coldly, driving his shovel into the coal. "I promised Ma before she died that we’d live honest lives."
"Honest lives?" Eli scoffed, a bitter, angry laugh breaking from his chest. "Caleb, we’ve been working twelve-hour days in this coal yard for eight bloody years! Look at us! We’re broke, we’re filthy, and we’re starving while the precinct lieutenants drive past in high-wheeled carriages! I’m sick of your speeches about ’hard work’! Hard work hasn’t gotten us a single dime!"
Caleb dropped his shovel onto the coal pile with a heavy thud, stepping right into Eli’s space, his tall, muscular frame towering over his younger brother. "You watch your mouth, Eli."
"Not this time!" Eli yelled, shoving Caleb’s heavy chest. "I followed your advice since I was thirteen! You said things would get better if we kept our heads down and worked hard! Well, nothing’s changed! And you know what? I’m done with all this shit!"
Eli turned on his heel, glaring at Patrick and Sean. "Lead the way. I’m taking the job. He can rot in here however he likes."
As Eli began walking out of the coal yard, Caleb stared after his younger brother, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He took a long, heavy breath, picked up his coat from a wooden post, and strode briskly after them.
Caleb caught up to Patrick and Sean, grabbing Sean by the shoulder and spinning him around. Caleb’s soot-streaked face was dark with terrifying intensity, his jaw set like iron.
"I’ll take your boss’s deal," Caleb spat, his voice dropping into a dangerous, raspy growl. "Not because I want your smuggled silver, but because I’m not letting my little brother run with street rats alone."
He stepped closer to Sean, pointing a thick, calloused finger at his chest. "If anything happens to Eli—if the coppers grab him or a street gang lays a finger on him—I won’t just come for the coppers. I’ll break your boss’s neck first, and then I’ll come for the two of you. Am I clear?"
Sean Williams didn’t flinch. He looked at Caleb’s dangerous, protective glare, and a broad, approving grin broke across his face. "Crystal, Caleb."
Caleb turned and hurried down the lane to catch up with Eli, muttering angrily under his breath as the two brothers walked towards the main road.
Patrick Williams looked at Sean, shaking his head with a low chuckle. "Shit... he hasn’t changed a bit."
"Yeah, he may be stubborn sometimes but," Sean grinned. "he’s loyal as a bulldog."
Sean turned to Patrick. "Patrick, go find Danny and the orphan boys. They were already on Ricky’s payroll, so it’ll be easy bringing them in as permanent watchmen. I’ll guide them to the loft before they get lost."
"Got it," Patrick said, tipping his cap before jogging off toward Christopher Street.
Meanwhile, three blocks east, Arthur and Frank were navigating the narrow, crowded sidewalks near Sullivan and Thompson Streets.
The tenement buildings here were pressed tight together, their fire escapes crisscrossing overhead, blocking out the sun. Pedestrians, laundry women carrying wicker baskets, and street urchins darted through the narrow alleys.
Arthur stopped in front of a low brick alleyway, stepping up to a small, heavy iron door set into the basement wall of an old print shop.
Arthur raised his heavy fist and knocked three times.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Silence met them from inside.
Arthur knocked again, harder this time, the iron ringing against the stone frame. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
A small, rectangular iron peephole slid open with a sharp, metallic clack. A pair of dark, exhausted eyes surrounded by heavy black circles looked out through the narrow slit.
"What do you want, Art?" a tired voice rasped from inside.
Arthur leaned close to the iron slit, keeping his hands visible. "Open up, Phill. Better if we talk about this inside."
The eyes behind the slit narrowed suspiciously. "Are the coppers on your tail? Did you bring the precinct patrolmen to my alley?"
Arthur blinked, thoroughly confused. "What? No! What the fuck are you talking about?"
Arthur turned his head, looking back at Frank who was casually leaning against the alley wall smoking a paper cigarette. The eyes behind the iron slit shifted, locking onto Frank’s cigarette.
Arthur realized what the problem was. He reached over, snatched the leftover pack of cigarettes right out of Frank’s coat pocket, and held it up to the peephole.
"Hey!" Frank yelped, reaching for his coat. "What are you doing? Those are mine!"
"Shut up, Frank," Arthur muttered, thrusting the cigarettes through the narrow iron opening. "Happy now, Phill?"
A hand reached out through the slit, snatched the cigarette pack, and the peephole snapped shut. A second later, heavy iron bolts slid back with a series of loud, clanking thuds.
The iron door creaked open, and Arthur and Frank stepped quickly inside into the dark basement, the door slamming shut behind them and locking instantly.
Standing by the door was Phill McClain—the eldest McClain brother. He was twenty-two, slightly shorter than Arthur, with messy dark hair, pale skin, and deep black circles under his eyes from sleepless nights spent under oil lamps. He was clutching the cigarette pack like a prize.
Standing in the shadowed corner behind the door was his younger brother, James McClain, who was nineteen. James held a heavy, two-foot-long iron pipe across his chest, staring at Frank and Arthur with wide, nervous eyes.
Frank Murphy looked at James holding the iron pipe, then looked at Frank McClain. "What’s with the siege defense, boys? You expecting a war or somethin?"
Phill sparked a match, lighting a paper cigarette with a long, trembling breath. "Some punks were knocking on our iron door three nights ago," he muttered, blowing a cloud of gray smoke toward the high, dirt-streaked basement window. "And before that, two strange guys came around asking if we still did ’special printing work’ without using the right code. We thought it was some undercover inspectors or Duster scouts coming to smash our place."
He looked at Arthur, taking another drag. "So what are you two doing here? You haven’t bought forged papers off us in six months."
Arthur smiled, stepping forward into the wide basement room. The space was filled with stacks of old, dusty wooden furniture, broken printing plates, bottles of dark chemical ink, and a small, hand-operated wooden printing press sitting under a hanging oil lamp.
Arthur looked Phill dead in the eye, his broad face breaking into a sharp, confident smirk.
"How’d you two like to join a much larger venture than printing fake pawn receipts?" Arthur asked softly. "Real wages, real protection, and an office on Washington Street."