Chapter 51: Night Realization
The sun was just beginning to bleed a pale, watery orange over the rooftops of 10th Avenue when Peter leaned his shoulder against the damp brick wall outside the corner saloon.
He struck a wooden match against his boot heel, cupping his hands against the brisk river draft as he lit his paper cigarette. He took a long, heavy drag, blowing a stream of gray smoke into the chilling morning mist, his eyes dark with exhaustion.
It had been two straight days of walking the cobbles, and he hadn’t found a single trace of the commission boys.
Footsteps clattered hurriedly down the wet sidewalk. Mickey, one of Peter’s young collectors, came jogging up the alley, his wool cap pulled low, his face red from the cold. He stopped in front of Peter, breathing hard, his hands resting on his knees.
Peter took another slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose. "So? Give me the bad news, Mickey."
Mickey swallowed hard, his voice stuttering slightly as he tried to catch his breath. "We... we checked everywhere, Peter. Greenwich, Bleecker, Christopher, Morton, Washington... not a damn wheel. Nobody’s seen ’em. I even spotted a couple of Randall’s spotters from Soho walking the blocks looking for ’em too."
Peter let out a dry, humorless scoff, flicking an ash onto the cobblestones. "Well, that’s to be expected, ain’t it? If I was running an unmanifested supply route and my name was on every tongue from Bleecker to the docks, I’d pull my wagons into a hole and hide too."
Mickey wiped his nose on his sleeve, letting out a short, tired chuckle. "Hell, Peter... maybe the bastards are driving their routes at night while the whole city’s asleep."
Peter smirked, shaking his head. "Who in their right mind would be stupid enough to haul drayage in the dark when every shopkeeper’s got his key turned in the lock—"
Peter stopped dead mid-sentence.
His smirk froze. The cigarette hung loose between his lips as his eyes widened slightly.
The image clicked in his mind—the quiet streets after eight o’clock, the unlit back alleys, the complete lack of precinct patrolmen on the side blocks, and the shopkeepers who lived in the back rooms of their own storefronts.
Peter let out a low, breathless chuckle, shaking his head in utter disbelief. "How fucking smart..."
Mickey blinked, confused. "What? What’s smart?"
Peter dropped his cigarette butt into a puddle, crushing it beneath his boot as he turned on his heel and started walking briskly toward Bleecker Street.
"Hey! Peter, where are you going?" Mickey called out, taking two steps after him.
"I’m going to confirm a hunch," Peter called over his shoulder, waving a dismissive hand. "Get the rest of the boys and keep your eyes on the side lanes. Go on!"
Mickey stood in the middle of the sidewalk, scratching his cap in confusion, before turning back toward Christopher Street to gather the crew.
Ten minutes later, Peter pushed open the front door of Sullivan’s Grocery on Perry Street. The brass bell above the frame gave a light, metallic jingle.
Inside, the shop was quiet, smelling cleanly of roasted grain, cedar, and fresh produce. Behind the counter sat Mr. Sullivan—a sixty-two-year-old merchant with thick wire-rimmed spectacles, a wool cardigan, and a white apron. He looked up from his morning ledger, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as Peter stepped into the room.
Peter didn’t immediately state his business. He folded his hands behind his back and began casually strolling down the narrow aisle, inspecting the wooden shelves and crates.
His eyes took in the stock.
It was filled with dented tins, damp flour sacks that smelled faintly of kerosene, and wooden bins of soft, bruised vegetables. But Sullivan’s shelves looked like a window display on Fifth Avenue.
Peter stopped beside a burlap sack of whole coffee beans. He leaned down, taking a deep breath. It wasn’t the bitter, dusty scent of cheap chicory filler—it was pure, rich, aromatic roasted coffee.
Further down, he passed wooden crates packed with clean, bone-white flour sacks without a single oil stain. Beside them sat wooden crates of winter apples with smooth, unblemished red skins, clean yellow potatoes without a speck of rot, and neat glass jars of golden honey and refined white sugar. Even the tins of lard and cured salt pork looked pristine.
The wholesale houses in Brooklyn don’t deliver stock this clean, Peter thought, a cold realization settling into his chest. Not even the high-end markets uptown have consistency like this.
Peter reached into a crate, picked up two plump, firm red tomatoes, a small bag of coffee beans, and a small tin of lard, walking up to the wooden counter. He set them down cleanly in front of Sullivan.
Mr. Sullivan stared at the items, then looked up at Peter through his thick spectacles, his face carefully expressionless. He pulled out a stubby lead pencil and began tallying the numbers on a piece of brown paper.
"How come your stock is so clean, Mr. Sullivan?" Peter asked casually, leaning his hip against the counter. "Even the big grocery houses on 14th Street have soft apples and damp flour this time of month. But everything in your shop looks like it came straight out of a picture book."
Sullivan didn’t stop his pencil. "I just found a good supplier, son," the old man grunted softly. "Delivers good quality. Means I don’t have to throw half my crates into the gutter due to rot. Everyone benefits when the stock is clean."
Peter listened to the praise, nodding along in polite agreement. "Aye. That’s true enough. Even I get sick of buying potatoes that turn to black slush three days after I bring ’em home."
Sullivan finished his calculation, pointing his pencil at the paper. "That’ll be sixty-five cents."
Peter reached into his trousers, pulled out a silver half-dollar and two dimes, and slid them across the counter. Sullivan swept the coins into his wooden cash drawer and bagged the tomatoes and coffee in a square of brown butcher paper.
Peter picked up the paper bag, but he didn’t turn to leave.
He leaned closer to the wooden counter, his voice dropping into a quiet, conversational tone. "You know, Mr. Sullivan... people around the precinct say I’m too kind to be a Hudson Duster. Say I talk too polite for an enforcer."
Sullivan flinched. The old man’s hands froze on the counter, the color slowly draining from his face.
"And it’s true," Peter continued smoothly, taking a fresh, plump red tomato out of his bag and holding it in his palm. "I don’t like breaking windows. But some of the other lieutenants in this neighborhood... like Barney Knox? They aren’t so kind. They’re cruel bastards."
Sullivan swallowed hard, his throat making a dry, clicking sound. "I... I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister."
"Me and my boys are looking for a couple of young fellows," Peter said, taking a quiet step closer. "Commission boys. They’ve been running drayage through Greenwich Village, making thousands of dollars off our territory without paying a single nickel of protection tax to the Dusters."
Sullivan kept his lips pressed into a tight, pale line, looking down at his ledger.
"Now, I understand why you shopkeepers like ’em," Peter said, tossing the red tomato an inch into the air and catching it cleanly. "They sell you pristine stock at dirt-cheap prices. But business is business. Somebody’s gotta pay the toll."
Peter paused, leaning his elbows on the counter, his eyes locking onto the old man’s trembling hands.
"If Barney Knox comes down this street looking for answers," Peter whispered softly, "he isn’t going to ask you polite questions like I am. He’s going to start breaking fingers. And if taking your fingers doesn’t make you talk... he’ll go after your wife. Your daughter. Or that little grandson of yours who plays on the stoop after school."
Sullivan’s breath hitched in his chest, his eyes widening with sudden, visceral terror.
"It’d be a terrible shame," Peter said, turning on his heel and walking slowly toward the front door. "To see a nice family get ruined... just because a shopkeeper wanted to protect a couple of wagon drivers."
Peter reached out, his hand resting on the brass door handle.
"If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine," Peter added over his shoulder, his voice completely calm. "I’ll just let Barney handle Bleecker Street tomorrow."
Peter turned the handle. The brass bell above the door gave a light, shivering jingle. He pulled the door open three inches, taking a sharp, loud bite out of his fresh tomato.
"WAIT!" Sullivan shouted, his voice cracking with desperate, panicked terror.
Peter stopped in the open doorway.
A slow, victorious smirk spread across his face as he chewed the tomato, his eyes glinting in the pale morning light.
Works every time.