Chapter 102: Bones & Whiskey
Peter pushed open the heavy wooden door to the back office, the hinges grooving with a low, rusty creak.
He took one step into the room and froze. Barney was standing beside the crushed velvet sofa with Gresha bent over the armrest in front of him, her skirt hitched up around her waist while Barney worked aggressively from behind.
Peter instinctively averted his eyes, stepping back toward the doorway. "Sorry, Barney. Should I come back later?"
Barney stopped mid-thrust, letting out a sharp grunt of irritation. He pulled back, tucking himself away and buttoning his trousers with swift, angry jerks. "No, no, no, come on in! Get the fuck off me, bitch, you’re boring me!"
Gresha hastily smoothed down her crumpled skirt, her head bowed as she scurried past Peter without looking up, slipping out into the hallway.
Barney tucked his shirt into his waistband, adjusted his cardigan, and sank heavily onto the velvet sofa. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes before gesturing toward the armchair across from him. "Sit down, Peter. Sit."
Peter took a seat, crossing his hands in his lap. "What’s the situation, boss?"
"It’s Kid Yorke," Barney snapped, his jaw clenching as he leaned forward. "That old fossil actually had the balls to steal my liquor. He can play dumb all he wants, but I ain’t afraid to put bullets in his people. So here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna order another batch of Royal Spades from the Commission Boys—specifically for those three saloons down on Gansevoort: Mugs, Indy, and Paper Dagger."
Barney tapped his fingers against his knee in a rapid, agitated rhythm. "I want Reggie’s men waiting in ambush around those three spots. Day shift, night shift, I don’t give a damn. They sit there and wait. The second Kid’s boys show up to snatch the crates again, we jump ’em. Chop every last one of their bodies into pieces and deliver ’em back to Kid’s doorstep along with his damn whiskey."
Peter nodded slowly, keeping his expression neutral. "That’s a solid plan, boss. What do you need me to do?"
"Just—just let me finish speaking, goddamnit!" Barney barked, glaring at him.
Peter fell silent, locking his jaw.
Barney took a deep breath, his chest heaving under his cardigan. "Lately I’ve been hearing that your boys—Reggie’s, Henry’s, Alvin’s, Andy’s—are all sneaking off every morning to work wagon shifts for those fucking Commission Boys. They’re making me look like a damn fool in front of the whole neighborhood! Meanwhile, we’re supposed to be on high alert for Kid’s crew coming down from Chelsea. You’re all supposed to be guarding my saloons and my stashes! Nobody touches what’s mine!"
Barney wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, trying to steady his voice. "So here’s what you’re gonna do, Peter. If I go down to see Ricky right now, I’m gonna end up killing him for stealing my men without having the decency to ask my permission. You go to him instead. Warn him lightly. Tell him to stop his little charity act and send my men back to their stoops, or else I’ll ban his wagons from ever stepping foot in Greenwich again. He won’t make a single red cent."
Peter frowned, leaning forward slightly. "But boss, our boys are only taking those wagon shifts so their families can put food on the table. It’s just—"
"I don’t fucking care what happens to them!" Barney screamed, slamming his open palm onto the armrest so hard the wood cracked. "I don’t care what they need! They do what I say, or I’ll have their families chopped up right in front of ’em! Now get the fuck out of here, Peter, before I lose my mind!"
Peter stared at Barney for a long second, his eyes cold. Without saying another word, he stood up, turned on his heel, and walked out, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him.
"Hey!" Barney bellowed toward the guard standing near the hallway door. "Bring me a whore! Someone new! Someone young!"
The guard nodded quickly and hurried down the hall.
Barney turned to his desk, grabbed a silver straw, and snorted two fat lines of white powder off a glass tray. He slammed his back against the sofa cushions, throwing his head back with a ragged, euphoric gasp. "Wooooohhh..."
A minute later, the guard dragged a girl down the hallway by her wrist. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen, trembling in a plain cotton dress, her eyes wide with terror as she clutched a small handkerchief.
An older whore stepped out from a side room, grabbing the guard’s sleeve. "Please, not her! She’s brand new, she doesn’t know anything yet—"
SMACK.
The guard backhanded the older woman across the face, sending her crashing against the hallway wall. "Shut up, bitch! She’s what the boss asked for."
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Over on Hudson Street, the afternoon sun streamed through the wide glass windows of Ricky’s private office inside the new Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company building. Below, the steady rumble of heavy drayage wagons and the sharp whistles of harbor steamships echoed through the room.
Ricky sat behind his large mahogany desk, holding the brass earpiece of a candlestick telephone to his ear.
"I didn’t know you had direct telephone access, Madden," Ricky said, a subtle smirk on his face.
Across town in a private manager’s office uptown, Owney Madden sat back in a high-backed leather chair, his muddy boots propped casually on the polished desk surface.
"It’s surprisingly easy to get one installed when people know who you are," Madden chuckled over the staticky wire. "I take it this is going to be our primary way of talking from now on?"
"It saves us sending runners across gang territory," Ricky replied, tapping a pencil against his ledger. "What about the matter we discussed?"
Madden let out a sharp laugh over the phone. "You were right on the money. For a guy who was slaughtering my boys just a few weeks ago, Kid Yorke was surprisingly submissive the second I offered him access to a steady liquor supply. Charged him a heavy markup, of course."
Madden paused, clicking his tongue. "I’m still having fun thinking about how you orchestrated the whole thing. Making Barney and Kid fight each other, Duster against Duster, without you ever firing a single shot."
"There are plenty of ways to use your enemies," Ricky said calmly, leaning back in his swivel chair. "You can kill them the old-fashioned way, or you can do it in a subtle, fashionable way that leaves zero suspicion on you."
"First time I’ve ever seen it pulled off like this," Madden admitted with a chuckle. "I reckon I’ll be seeing a lot more of Mr. Yorke in private these days. I get to make a handsome profit off his desperation while stirring up the pot in Greenwich."
Madden shifted the phone receiver to his other ear. "By the way, I tried out your retail model with common household goods and followed your price caps. I see why you’re making so much money off them. It’s cheap, but it’s high quality, and people keep ordering every single day. It builds real respect among the locals and secures the business for the long haul. Plus, it gives me a reason to hire dozens of new boys."
Madden let out a dark laugh. "The local wholesalers and independent distributors uptown are furious with me, though."
Ricky smiled quietly into the receiver. "That’s standard. When your competitors get mad, it just means you’ve already won."
"Ain’t that the truth," Madden agreed. "Anyway, if you don’t want Frank barreling down on you, you need to cut off his wings—which means taking away his protection in the Police Department. And to do that, you have to cut his political ties with Tammany Hall."
Ricky raised an eyebrow, paying close attention. "Go on."
"It all comes down to tribute," Madden explained smoothly. "Like all the gangs, we usually pay tribute to Tammany Hall to keep the coppers off our backs. Some pay extra so Tammany introduces them to wealthy families and corporate figures—take the Morello outfit, for example. They’ve got deep connections with rich families in New York and Jersey. But if a gang chief stops paying tribute, Tammany drops him instantly. And the second Tammany drops him, the police snatch him up."
Madden tapped his boot against his desk. "Nothing gets a police captain promoted faster than locking up a notorious gang leader. It gives the cops great press, boosts public support, increases the mayor’s budget, and keeps the gang from talking about their past Tammany favors. If you cut off Frank’s source of income, he’s gonna fucking panic. Lately he’s been working overtime trying to curry favor with Tammany Hall—like a desperate dog begging his owner to throw him a bone."
Ricky nodded slowly to himself, taking note of every word. "Alright. Thanks for the breakdown, Madden. I’ll remember that."
"Not a problem, Stevenson," Madden said smoothly before hanging up the receiver. "Their downfall is my victory anyway."