Chapter 40: The Middlemen
Meanwhile, Marek sat on a high wooden stool near the end of the long mahogany bar, his black wool three-piece suit looking crisp and sharp against the backdrop of stained barrels and brass beer taps. Across the bar stood Brian, a burly man in his mid-forties with a receding hairline, a thick dark apron tied around his waist, and a rag draped over his shoulder.
Brian held a stubby pencil over a piece of scrap paper, looking up at Marek through the yellow haze of gaslight.
"So," Marek said, adjusting his flat cap, "I assume it’s the same order as last week, Mr. O’Reilly?"
"Nope! That won’t do at all," Brian said, letting out a boisterous laugh as he slapped his hand on the damp wood. "My beer and whiskey bins are bone dry! These bastards are drinking them like water."
He gestured toward a table of off-duty longshoremen and dray drivers in the corner. One of the men raised his shot glass, grinning broadly. "Can’t help it if the whiskey doesn’t taste like kerosene for once, Brian!"
Another customer at the bar turned his head, smirking into his beer mug. "So this is your new liquor supplier, eh Brian? You sneaky little bastard. Kept him hidden in the back room for two weeks!"
"Aye, and I wasn’t planning on revealing him to any of you wolves anytime soon either," Brian shot back with a grin, winking at Marek. "If these commission boys hadn’t started dropping crates at the other saloons on Morton, I’d have had the whole Village drinking exclusively at my taps!"
Marek offered a small, polite chuckle, leaning his arm against the counter. "We aren’t under an exclusive contract, Mr. O’Reilly. Besides, we aren’t supplying every saloon on the West Side anyway."
A customer sitting two stools down—a man in a scuffed canvas jacket—leaned over. "Hey, lad... you don’t happen to have scotch or gin or vodka do you? I’d like to taste something different for a change."
"We’ve got plenty of gin, vodka, and scotch," Marek said smoothly. "In fact, it’s our beer and whiskey stock that’s running low right now."
Brian stopped wiping a glass, his eyes widening in sudden alarm. "Wait... running low? What do you mean running low?"
"Our main supply line is hitting a bit of a bottleneck," Marek lied seamlessly, keeping his voice entirely conversational as he recalled Ricky’s instructions to artificially limit stock rotations. "We’re holding back on the bulk spirits for a short while."
Brian’s face fell. "When’s the next shipment coming in then?"
"A week or two," Marek said, tapping his pencil against his notebook. "Depends on when the steamer clears customs."
Brian let out a disappointed grunt, slamming his rag onto the bar. "Well, damn it all! In that case, give me everything you can spare right now! Put me down for twelve crates of Irish whiskey, eight kegs of heavy beer, and three crates of whatever else you’ve got in the warehouse—vodka, gin, scotch, martini, champagne, wine—the whole lot!"
Marek’s lead pencil moved rapidly across his notebook page, listing the items in neat columns. "Twelve crates of whiskey, eight kegs of beer, three crates each of vodka, gin, scotch, martini, champagne, and wine. The total comes to—"
"I don’t care what it comes to!" Brian cut him off, waving a hand dismissively. "Just make sure it’s at my back door tonight! My regulars will tear the bar down if I run dry on Friday!"
As Marek finished writing the order, a man sitting at a nearby table stood up and walked over to the bar. He was in his early thirties, dressed in a surprisingly well-fitted tweed coat and a silk necktie, carrying a half-empty glass of dark ale. He sat on the stool right next to Marek, studying the Polish teenager’s clean black suit and leather order book with sharp, calculating eyes.
"You boys could make a fortune," the man said, his voice carrying a smooth, cultivated cadence. "If you supplied the popular establishments uptown—the grand hotels, the famous steak houses on Broadway, the high-end dining halls."
Marek turned his head, sizing the man up with a calm, steady look. "We could. But for now, our boss prefers to take things slow. We need to build our credibility before we engage new fronts. Besides, popular establishments require more than just a good price."
Brian grunted from behind the counter, setting down a clean mug. "Aye! I’d bet my saloon those fancy Broadway restaurants don’t want to risk their reputations on smuggled stock."
The man in the tweed coat let out a soft, amused laugh, shaking his head. "That’s where you’re dead wrong, my friend."
Marek tilted his head, his interest piqued. "Wrong?"
"Yes," the man said, leaning closer and taking a slow sip of his ale. "Admittedly, there are a few snobbish hotel managers who insist on clean books and stamped invoices. But there are more than enough high-class establishments in this city that deal directly with underground organizations. On paper, a restaurant is owned by some respectable German or French businessman. In reality? The real profit flows straight to the syndicates—the Morellos in Harlem, the Five Points downtown, the White Hand on the Brooklyn waterfront, the Eastmans."
He leaned back, a faint smile touching his lips. "And every single one of them deals in smuggled goods."
Marek frowned slightly, his street instincts raising an immediate flag. "That sounds like a quick way to get shot. If those gangs already have a grip on the popular establishments, why wouldn’t they just put a bullet in us the second we try to sell on their turf?"
The man smiled again, tapping his glass against the bar. "Wrong again, kid."
"How so?" Marek asked, keeping his tone relaxed.
"Gangs don’t manufacture or supply general commercial goods," the man explained smoothly. "Even when they steal a crate off a train, they don’t run an organized wholesale distribution network. They focus on illegal card rooms, brothels, cocaine, protection extortion, and the numbers game. They don’t have the patience or the logistics to supply restaurants with high-grade European liquor or pristine flour. To a supplier like you... Manhattan is a wide-open market."
Brian stopped wiping his glasses, squinting at the stranger. "Still sounds too risky. Those big mobs don’t like outsiders doing business in their neighborhoods."
Marek watched the man’s eyes carefully, catching the subtle, confident glint in his posture. Marek let out a quiet scoff, a knowing smirk touching his lips.
"And I’m guessing," Marek said, "that’s where you come in?"
The man’s smirk widened. "Spot on, kid. My name’s Vance. I’m a broker... a middleman, if you will. I have the personal connections to link your commission firm directly with the men who run those establishments. No friction, no misunderstandings."
"And what’s your cut?" Marek asked directly.
"Not much," Vance said softly. "A simple, one-time introduction fee. Say... two hundred dollars."
Marek’s eyebrows shot up. Two hundred dollars! That was nearly three months of hard factory wages in 1910. He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "$200? That’s steep, mister. We’ll have to consider your offer."
Brian chimed in from behind the bar, scowling at Vance. "What’s stopping the commission boys from just contacting those restaurant owners themselves in a couple of months? Once their reputation spreads across the West Side, they won’t need a middleman."
Vance paused, taking a long chug of his dark ale until the glass was empty. He set it down with a soft click, unbothered by Brian’s blunt question.
"That’s true enough," Vance admitted easily, wiping his mouth with his thumb. "I’m just offering an immediate option if you want to jump straight into the luxury market right now. Spirits like your Irish whiskey and European wine... they belong on Broadway, not just in neighborhood saloons."
Marek thought about the luxury goods Ricky had mentioned a week ago—fine cigars, raw silk, aged whiskey, and imported spirits. Connecting with high-end establishments across Manhattan was exactly where Ricky wanted to push the Founder’s Syndicate eventually.
Marek offered a sharp, polite smile. "I’ll send word to Ricky about your offer. I have a feeling he might actually be interested in talking to you. But I can’t promise anything."
Vance stood up from the bar stool, buttoning his tweed coat. "Fair enough, kid. Don’t take too long thinking about it." He tipped his hat to Marek and stepped out into the bright afternoon sun of Christopher Street.
Brian watched the door swing shut, then leaned over the bar toward Marek, his voice dropping into a low, warning whisper.
"I don’t trust that bastard, Marek," Brian grumbled. "He doesn’t look like a parish local. Sounds like a schemer who’d sell his own mother for a nickel."
Marek looked at the door where the broker had just vanished, his eyes thoughtful. "A schemer, huh?"
He closed his leather order book with a clean, solid snap, sliding it into his black suit coat pocket. He stood up from his stool, picking up his flat cap.
"Well," Marek said, "Ricky knows how to handle schemers. Thanks for the order, Mr. O’Reilly. We’ll see you tonight."
"Keep those whiskey crates coming, boy!" Brian called out as Marek pushed through the swinging wooden doors.
Outside, the afternoon air was crisp and lively. Tom Murphy and Jimmy Williams were waiting near the corner, having finished their own canvassing on Christopher Street.
Marek fell into step beside them as the three young men in black wool suits continued their route, seamlessly capturing the neighborhood one storefront at a time.