Chapter 174: Ironic Demise
Five hours after the intercept squads scattered across Queens, the heavy concrete holding cells beneath the abandoned Lawrence Point chemical plant remained dead silent. Thick, reinforced glass panes set into heavy oak doors allowed three armed guards in wool suits to keep silent watch over the captives locked inside separate rooms.
Ricky pushed open the heavy iron corridor gate, flanked by two squad men, and stopped outside Mandy Moore’s cell. He unlocked the bolt and stepped inside.
Mandy sat tied securely to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the bare concrete room, his tailored tuxedo wrinkled and stained with sweat. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot from hours of panicking in the dark. The moment he saw Ricky enter, he strained against the hemp ropes, shouting frantically.
"Where the hell are we?! Who are you people?!" Mandy yelled, his voice echoing off the bare walls. "Don’t you know who you’re messing with? I’m protected by the White Hand! Dinny’s gonna fucking kill every last one of you!"
Ricky didn’t flinch. He walked over to a stray wooden chair resting against the wall, turned it around, and sat down opposite Moore, resting his forearms casually across the wooden backrest. He looked at Mandy with a calm, almost pitying smile.
"Silent Charles wants to send his regards, Mr. Moore," Ricky said smoothly, his voice dropping into an easy, deceptive drawl. "Dinny Meehan isn’t going to be able to do a single thing for you right now."
Mandy froze, his tirade cutting off mid-sentence. His small eyes widened in instant panic as he absorbed the name. "Charles... Murphy? Tammany Hall?"
Ricky chuckled softly under his breath, letting Moore’s own assumptions trap him. "So, what I want to know is how a man like you got so deeply involved with John De George."
Mandy blinked, his forehead wrinkling in genuine confusion. "Who? Who the hell is John De George?"
"He goes by John Delane," Ricky replied calmly. "He sits on a minor ward committee out in Midtown. Now, Tammany didn’t particularly care how he ran his little vice trade... until he made one fatal mistake. He auctioned off one of Charles’s kin. And if we find out you had any hand in that, we’re going to drag your ex-wife and your little girl out onto the street and slaughter them right in front of your eyes."
Mandy turned paper-white, his jaw dropping in sheer horror. He began thrashing wildly against the ropes, tears welling in his eyes as he begged.
"Please! No! Jesus Christ, no!" Mandy sobbed, his voice squeaking in terror. "I don’t know anything about their business! I swear to God! I only know recently that Delane and Galnick were auctioning off young girls to rich folks uptown, but they never let me in on it! They kept that end completely private! I only handle a few brothels and the powder trade in Brooklyn and Astoria! Please... don’t hurt my family! Just kill me! Kill me, but leave them alone!"
Ricky let the silence stretch for several seconds, watching Moore break down completely before letting out a soft laugh.
"We know you didn’t do it, Mandy," Ricky said softly. "But here is what you’re going to do. You’re going to forget every face you saw tonight. You’re going to walk straight into the precinct tomorrow morning, confess everything to the police and the Midtown press, and hand over every shred of evidence connecting your business to John De George and Christopher Galnick."
"Look, I can’t do that. My reputation is on the line. If my family knew what I do, they’ll despise me." Mandy choked out, trembling uncontrollably.
"Then your ex-wife, your daughter, and that new husband she’s living with are going to wind up buried in the cemetery," Ricky said, his tone devoid of any warmth. "And don’t bother trying to hide them. My men will always be watching over your family, Mr. Moore. Even if you tell them to run away, you’ll never know if their cab driver, their maid, or their next-door neighbor is one of ours. We’re everywhere."
"No, no, no! I’ll do it! I’ll confess to everything, I promise!" Mandy wept, nodding his head frantically. "Just please don’t hurt them! I’ll do whatever you say!"
Ricky stood up, smoothing the front of his overcoat. "I expect you will."
He turned and walked out of the cell, the heavy door slamming shut behind him with a sharp clatter of iron bolts.
In the corridor, Floyd stepped up beside Ricky as they walked down the hall. "Was all that necessary, Boss?"
"Psychological pressure is far more effective than a lead sap," Ricky said quietly, keeping his pace steady. "It’s a gamble, but if he tries anything clever, we can still eliminate him."
Floyd shook his head softly. "I doubt he’ll try anything. Underneath that fancy tuxedo, Moore’s more of a terrified family man than a syndicate boss."
Ricky stopped outside the second holding cell down the hall, turning his head toward Floyd. "Galnick is a different story. He’s a wild card. Threats about family won’t work on him like they did on Moore. He only understands raw physical pain."
Ricky turned to one of the guards standing by the wall. "Find an iron bucket and fill it with cold water. Grab a pair of heavy pliers and some cotton rags."
The guard nodded promptly and hurried down the corridor toward the supply room.
Ricky signaled to the three guards posted along the wall, unlocking Galnick’s cell door and stepping inside.
Inside, Christopher Galnick was sitting on an overturned crate, his wrists bound behind his back. His lip was split, but his eyes were filled with venom as he glared up at the entering men.
"Hey! What the hell are you bastards doing?" Galnick barked, his voice coarse and raspy.
Ricky pointed coldly to a thick oak workbench tilted against the far concrete wall. "Tie him to that table."
One guard stepped forward, training an M1911 pistol directly at Galnick’s chest, while another moved behind him to cut his knee bindings. The moment the ropes slacked, Galnick lunged forward with a ferocious snarl, trying to tackle the nearest man.
THWACK!
The third guard stepped in instantly, slamming a brass-knuckled fist straight into Galnick’s ribs. Galnick let out a harsh groan, doubling over as the breath was knocked out of him. The two guards hauled him onto the heavy oak workbench, strapping his wrists, ankles, and chest flat against the timber with thick leather harness belts.
Galnick spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm onto the floor, sneering up at the ceiling lamps. "You think beatings are gonna make me talk? You’re wasting your time, dick-smiths! Torture don’t work on me. I ain’t answering a single goddamn question!"
Ricky pulled a wooden crate over and sat down beside the bench, looking down at Galnick. "To be honest, Galnick, we don’t really care about your answers. You’re just a plague. Ambitious, wild, completely unpredictable."
Galnick let out a raspy chuckle. "I don’t get why you’re complimenting me while I’m strapped to a bench."
The guard returned, carrying a galvanized iron bucket brimming with water, a pair of rusted mechanic’s pliers, and a roll of heavy cotton cloth. He set the items down on a small stool next to Ricky.
Galnick glanced at the bucket, trying to maintain his arrogant sneer. "I assume you’re here to give me a bath, but I don’t get the pliers."
Ricky ignored the comment entirely, leaning down close to Galnick’s face. "Who’s your real backer, Galnick? I know a minor Tammany parasite like De George isn’t the only partner you’ve got in Queens."
Galnick sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Ah... so you really are Tammany guys. What I don’t get is why high-and-mighty ward bosses give a damn about our business. We’re way too low in the world for you guys to be watching us."
"Silent Charles has a relative," Ricky said calmly. "A sixteen-year-old girl who went missing from your territory a year ago. Long dark hair, tall, snow-white skin, petite frame."
Galnick spat again, rolling his eyes. "Ah, shit. Look, I don’t know! There’s literally dozens of broads fitting that description that I’ve sold off! But I don’t deal with nobody high-up besides Delane!"
Ricky offered no reply. He simply looked at the guard and gave a subtle nod.
The guard took a heavy strip of cotton cloth, soaked it in the iron bucket, and laid it flat over Galnick’s mouth and nose. He took a tin dipper and began pouring cold water continuously over the cloth.
Galnick’s eyes bulged in instant panic. He thrashed violently against the leather straps, his chest heaving as he tried to draw breath, gurgling helplessly as the wet cotton sealed his lungs from the air.
After twenty seconds of agonizing suffocation, the guard snatched the rag away. Galnick coughed violently, spraying water and saliva as his lungs rasped frantically for oxygen.
Before he could catch his breath, the second guard stepped up, clamped the iron pliers onto the nail of Galnick’s big toe, and ripped it backward from the quick with a sickening crunch.
"AAAGGGHH! JESUS CHRIST!" Galnick screamed at the top of his lungs, his body arching off the bench in pure agony, sweat pouring down his face.
"WHO IS IT, GALNICK?!" Ricky demanded coldly.
"FUCK YOU!" Galnick spat through gritted teeth.
The guard slapped the soaked cotton cloth back over Galnick’s face, pouring the water down his nose while the second man clamped the pliers onto his second toe.
By the fifth toe, Galnick’s bravado was entirely destroyed. His screams had turned into ragged, desperate wails, tears and snot streaming down his bruised face as he shuddered violently against the bench straps.
As the guard gripped the sixth toenail with the iron pliers, Galnick broke down completely, sobbing uncontrollably.
"STOP! GODDAMN IT, STOP! I’LL TALK!" Galnick wept, his chest heaving in ragged gasps. "THEY’LL KILL ME IF I TELL YOU, BUT STOP! PLEASE!"
Ricky leaned over the bench, his voice dead flat. "You still have five more toes and ten fingernails, Galnick. Talk."
"It’s Curly Joe!" Galnick sobbed, his voice cracking in sheer agony. "Joseph Cassidy! He’s the main boss controlling the Queens vice rackets! If anybody knows where that girl went, it’s Cassidy! John Delane was just a side deal so I could get a footing in Midtown! Delane promised he was gonna introduce me to Big Tim Sullivan!"
Ricky scoffed, shaking his head. "Big Tim? You really were ambitious, weren’t you?"
Before Ricky could say another word, the cell door swung open. An agent stepped into the room, bowing his head slightly.
"Boss, John Caldwell just arrived with the trucks," the agent reported. "They unloaded the women in the staging bay. They’re safe."
Ricky gestured to the guards around the bench. "Stop the pliers, but keep him strapped down tight."
Ricky walked out of the cell and down the long corridor, emerging into the brightly lit main warehouse bay.
Parked inside the vast concrete floor were the three Mack delivery trucks. John Caldwell, Luther, and Clyde were guiding two dozen young immigrant women down from the truck beds. The women were wrapped in heavy wool blankets, weeping with relief as they held tin cups of warm broth provided by the squad men.
Ricky stepped forward to meet them. An older Italian woman and a young Polish girl stepped out from the group, taking Ricky’s hands in theirs, weeping softly as they whispered heartfelt thanks in broken English for rescuing them from the Corona cellar pens.
Ricky looked at them gently, his voice soft and reassuring. "We’re going to get all of you fed, clothed, and onto boats back home or to safehouses up north tonight. But before we send you off... I have a gift waiting for you inside."
Ricky turned and led the group of freed women down the concrete corridor toward Galnick’s holding room.
He pushed the heavy oak door open.
The older Italian woman stepped into the room first. The moment her eyes fell upon Christopher Galnick strapped to the wooden workbench—bloody, tear-streaked, and helpless—her face transformed from exhausted sorrow into pure, incandescent fury.
"You..." she whispered, her voice shaking with violent hatred.
She looked around the room, her eyes locking onto a two-foot heavy iron water pipe resting against the concrete wall. She stepped forward and scooped it up with both hands.
Behind her, the other women began grabbing whatever heavy objects lay scattered around the floor—iron wrenches, heavy oak slats, and rusted iron brackets.
Galnick’s eyes went wide with absolute terror as he looked up from the bench, realizing who was standing over him. "No... wait! Get these crazy broads away from me! GET THEM AWAY!"
The older woman stepped up to the bench, raising the iron pipe high above her head, her voice shrieking in rage. "WHERE IS MY SISTER?! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH MARIA?!"
"WHERE IS ANNA?!" another girl screamed, raising a wooden club.
"NO! HELP! GET THEM OFF ME! POLICE—!" Galnick shrieked, thrashing frantically against his leather bonds.
The heavy iron pipe came down with a sickening CRACK.
Ricky and John Caldwell stepped back out into the quiet corridor, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind them, leaving the freed women to exact their final, brutal justice upon their captor.