Chapter 44: Internal Cracks
The second-floor parlor of the Hudson Docks saloon smelled of damp sawdust, stale beer, and cheap pipe tobacco. Sunlight filtered through the grimy windowpanes, cutting through the thick layer of blue smoke that hovered near the ceiling.
Barney Knox sat in a worn leather armchair, staring down at the crowded taproom below through the wooden balustrade. He raised a heavy glass of whiskey to his lips, taking a long, unhurried drink before setting the glass down with a hollow thunk on the wooden table.
Across from him, Peter—one of Barney’s senior street captains—poured himself a glass from a half-filled bottle of rye before topping off Barney’s drink.
Barney rubbed his bloodshot eyes and looked over at Peter. "Have you found them yet, Peter?"
Peter set the bottle down, shaking his head with a quiet sigh. "Not yet, Barney. They vanished about a week ago. Not one of our boys has spotted their black wagons passing through Greenwich or Morton."
Barney slammed his glass lightly against the table, his blotchy face flushing with sudden, dark frustration. "Fuck that shit. I ain’t doing this commission hunt anymore. The wholesale merchants aren’t paying enough money for it anyway. I can collect more than that in our own area in a month."
Peter offered a faint, agreeable smile, leaning back against his chair. "That’s true enough. The shop owners on our beats have been paying their protection fees pretty faithfully lately. We’ve been bringing in at least a hundred dollars a week from the storefronts alone."
Barney grunted, picking up his glass again. "Yeah, but it’s still peanuts compared to what Rubber and Sullivan make on the cocaine packets uptown. Here I am, a proper precinct lieutenant, collecting nickels and dimes off grocers like a damn beggar."
Peter tapped his fingers against his knee, looking at Barney thoughtfully. "Just a suggestion, Barney... but why don’t you try taking those ’commission boys’ under your wing instead of hunting them down? Word on the street is they’re making a fortune."
Barney’s jaw set as he poured himself another finger of whiskey. "We can’t even find where they stage their wagons, Peter."
"Well, you said yourself you were gonna kill ’em if you caught ’em," Peter noted softly.
"That was just my temper speaking," Barney muttered, waving a hand dismissively. "I can’t stand those arrogant bastards at the Tenth Avenue parlor comparing me to my brother. They talk to me like I’m some greenhorn kid who needs babysitting. Thinking about it makes my blood boil."
Barney paused, taking another sip before looking back at Peter. "Anyway... what are the rumors saying about these commission boys?"
"I don’t know if it’s all true," Peter said, "but our collectors heard that those kids are clearing huge numbers. They’ve been supplying almost every shopkeeper in Greenwich Village lately with high-grade stock from God knows where. That’s the real reason the shopkeepers have been paying their protection fees on time—some of ’em even pay early because their supply costs dropped."
Barney leaned his chin on his fist, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. "When you think about it... maybe these kids aren’t so bad for us after all. Why don’t we increase the protection tax on the shopkeepers a bit and squeeze ’em for information about where the commission boys operate? The kids are making money off our turf without dropping a single cent into our hat. If you track ’em down, we tell ’em their weekly toll just went up tenfold."
Peter opened his mouth. "I know, but I got a better idea—"
"Just do it," Barney cut him off sharply, glaring across the table. "I don’t want to hear any of your lousy ideas. Go on, get moving."
Peter let out a quiet breath, slowly standing up from his chair. He kept his face polite, offering a small, agreeable smile. "Alright, alright, Barney. You’re the boss."
Peter turned and walked toward the wooden staircase leading down to the ground floor. The moment his back was turned to Barney, his warm smile vanished, replaced by a bitter, disgusted sneer.
Arrogant, dumb bastard, Peter thought to himself, his fingers clenching into fists inside his coat pockets. Can’t even take a hint. We could have made a fortune working with those new kids.
As Peter descended the dark wooden stairs, his mind turned to the young collectors and enforcers under his direct command. For two weeks, his boys had been complaining that they didn’t even have five cents to buy a bowl of hot cabbage soup at the wagon, all because Barney kept every single dollar of the protection money for himself, refusing to share even a dime of the weekly collections with the crew who actually did the walking.
Peter rubbed his forehead, feeling a deep, throbbing headache building behind his eyes.
I’d kill the bastard myself if it wasn’t for his brother Goo Goo, Peter swore mentally.
"This is stressing me the fuck out," Peter muttered out loud as he pushed through the heavy saloon doors into the cool afternoon air of the lower Hudson docks.
Outside in the shadowed alleyway behind the saloon, three young Duster collectors were leaning against a stack of empty fish crates, waiting for him. They wore scuffed flat caps, frayed wool vests, and worn leather boots.
The eldest of the three—a lean, hungry-looking eighteen-year-old named Mickey—stepped forward the moment Peter emerged.
"Did you get anything out of the boss, Peter?" Mickey asked eagerly. "Did you convince him to give us a cut of the collection? He pulled in a hundred bucks yesterday, and we haven’t seen a nickel since Tuesday. This can’t go on, man."
"Yeah," another collector grumbled, rubbing his stomach. "I haven’t made a cent all week. I had to scare a street vendor off Barrow Street an hour ago just to pinch a couple of hot buttered potatoes so I wouldn’t faint."
Peter stopped in the quiet alley, letting out a long, heavy sigh. He looked at their thin, tired faces, feeling a genuine pang of pity and anger in his chest.
"I tried," Peter admitted quietly. "I can’t even get a word in with him. He does whatever he wants, says whatever he wants, and shuts his ears the second anyone else talks."
"What are we supposed to do then?" Mickey asked, his fists clenching at his sides. "We’re out on the cobbles eight hours a day taking all the risk while he sits upstairs drinking whiskey!"
"Just endure it for a bit," Peter urged softly, keeping his voice low. "I’ll find another way."
"Why don’t we just rob a cargo cart on the docks and sell the crates ourselves?" the third boy suggested, looking toward the busy river slips.
"Are you crazy?" the second collector barked, shaking his head violently. "You remember what happened to Mull and his crew last month when they pinched those lard boxes without telling Barney? Barney found out, had ’em beaten half to death, and threw ’em off the precinct territory!"
"So what are we supposed to do then?" Mickey demanded, his voice rising in frustration. "We can’t keep starving while our own lieutenant takes everything!"
Peter looked up and down the quiet alley, making sure no other Duster spotters were within earshot. He stepped closer to his three boys, his voice dropping into a tight whisper.
"Listen," Peter said. "If you’re gonna rob a cart on the docks... go ahead and do it. Just make damn sure only the three of you know about it. Don’t tell another soul, or Barney’s ears will catch it."
The three young collectors let out long, relieved sighs, nodding eagerly.
"Understood, boss," Mickey whispered. "Tight lips."
"Now," Peter said, changing the subject to clear his hands of the matter, "here’s what Barney wants us to do. We go hit the shopkeepers on again. We squeeze ’em for higher protection fees and find out everything they know about those ’commission boys.’ Spread the word to the rest of the crew."
"Got it," Mickey said, tipping his flat cap.
The three boys turned and walked out of the alley toward Greenwich Village, while Peter stood alone in the shadow of the saloon, watching them go with a dark, troubled expression.
The cracks inside the Hudson Dusters were growing deeper by the day.