Chapter 89: Backdoor Dealings
The shadowy figure on the deck of the approaching barge held his hands high in the air, stepping into the dim yellow glow of the dock lantern. He wore a heavy, water-logged wool overcoat and a flat cap pulled low over his forehead.
"Easy on the trigger there now," the man called out, his raspy voice carrying a sharp Northern English accent over the slap of the river against the pilings.
John didn’t lower the Winchester. The pump-action shotgun remained firmly pressed against his shoulder, the heavy barrel trained directly on the man’s chest. "Just say the word, boss."
Ricky kept his grip secure on the revolver inside his coat pocket, his eyes locking onto the stranger’s calm, steady posture. "How quick are you with that shotgun, John?"
"Very," John replied without a second of hesitation.
Ricky took a slow breath, letting the icy air fill his lungs. "Put the gun down. We don’t shoot unarmed men."
John hesitated for a fraction of a second before slowly lowering the barrel, though his finger stayed resting right beside the trigger guard.
The man on the barge let his hands drop slightly, stepping closer to the iron gunwale. "So you’re the boss. I never thought I’d run into you out here in the dark. I was heading up toward your Gansevoort storage shed, but I suppose this saves me a long walk."
Ricky squinted through the drift of river fog. "I’m sorry, but who the hell are you?"
Before the stranger could answer, Danny stepped out from the shadows near the warehouse wall, slipping silently beside Ricky. He leaned in close, his voice barely a whisper against the wind.
"That’s Madden, boss," Danny muttered, his jaw tight. "Owney Madden. The chief of the Gopher Gang."
Ricky’s eyes narrowed. Owney ’The Killer’ Madden—the most notorious gang commander in Hell’s Kitchen, currently locked in a brutal, bloody war against both the Hudson Dusters and the police department.
Ricky turned his head slightly toward Evelynn, who was holding her clipboard tightly against her skirt. "Leave us for a few minutes, Evelynn."
Evelynn’s brow furrowed with immediate concern. "Should I call the rest of the crew from the office, sir?"
"No need for an unnecessary alarm," Ricky said softly. "You’ll know if we need help."
Evelynn gave a reluctant nod and stepped back toward the safety of the warehouse entrance.
Ricky turned back to the dark barge. "So, is there going to be a fight out here tonight, Mr. Madden?"
Madden let out a dry, raspy laugh, turning his empty palms upward. "What’s a man gonna do all alone with no weapons and no army behind him?"
Ricky smiled faintly. "I’ve lived long enough in this city to know that an unarmed man in Hell’s Kitchen is rarely as helpless as he looks."
"Fair enough," Madden conceded, his dark eyes sharp under the brim of his cap. "But I didn’t come here to throw blows. I wanted to have a quiet talk with you specifically."
"We’re talking right now."
"Well, I happen to be the most wanted man in the borough at the moment," Madden said, throwing a quick glance down the black river. "So I’d prefer to invite you—and the fella next to you—onto the barge for a short ride. The big guy with the scattergun can come along just so you feel safe."
John scoffed sharply. "Boss, you cannot be serious. It’s a trap."
Ricky looked at Madden, reading the desperate, calculating look in the gang leader’s eyes. "I’ll take the risk. But John is coming with me."
John let out a defeated sigh, muttering under his breath as he adjusted the Winchester under his arm. "Madness. Absolute madness."
Ricky stepped off the catwalk, hopping lightly onto the barge’s wide wooden deck, with John right on his heels. Madden picked up a heavy wooden pole and shoved off against the pier pilings, pushing the barge slowly out into the dark, churning current of the Hudson.
As the dock lights faded into the thick fog, Ricky leaned against the low gunwale. "So... you’re Owney Madden."
Madden paused with the pole, a genuine smirk touching his lips. "You know, I’m actually impressed. You’re one of the few blokes in New York who actually speaks my name right. Everyone else calls me ’Owen’."
John sat down heavily on a wooden crate near the stern, his shotgun resting across his knees his gaze on Owney.
Madden glanced at him, his smirk widening. "Can you swim, mate?"
John’s eyes went cold. "I could put a hole in your chest right here and now before I even hit the water."
Madden chuckled dryly. "Maybe you could."
"Alright, cut it out," Ricky interrupted, stepping between them before the tension boiled over. "What do you actually want from me, Madden?"
Madden leaned against the tiller pole, his playful tone vanishing into grim reality. "As you may or may not know, my outfit is in pieces. I’ve lost my major sources of income. Most of my top boys are sitting in the Tombs, lying in Bellevue Hospital, or six feet under in a potter’s field."
He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat, striking a match against the wood. "As much as you might hate to admit it, kid, the Dusters—Frank, Barney, Jack, and Kid Dropper—they’re using you. The moment you aren’t useful anymore, they’re going to betray you."
Ricky’s expression remained completely unreadable.
Madden took a long drag, watching Ricky’s calm demeanor through the gray smoke. "I figure you already knew that. And I figure a sharp kid like you already has a contingency plan."
Ricky stayed silent, letting the quiet sloshing of the river fill the space between them.
"I want to be included in that plan," Madden stated plainly.
Ricky raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think I’d agree? That plan is just insurance in case everything goes to hell."
Madden smirked, leaning closer. "Do you really think I haven’t heard whispers about your grand plan against the Dusters? You’ve got a sharp blueprint, kid. It would work, too... except you missed one tiny detail."
Ricky narrowed his eyes slightly. "And what detail would that be?"
Madden grinned wide. "I’ll tell you... but on one condition."
"Let me hear it."
"I want to become your primary distributor in Hell’s Kitchen," Madden said.
Ricky and John exchanged a quick, bewildered look. John frowned, stunned by how modest the request was. It wasn’t a demand for territory or cash—it was a business proposal that would directly profit Ricky’s Syndicate.
"Why?" Ricky asked, searching Madden’s face. "I get that you need a new revenue stream now that your rackets are shattered. But you were running the biggest cocaine ring on the West Side. Why swap to liquor?"
Madden spat into the river. "Because it’s only a matter of time before the federal coppers make cocaine completely illegal. And frankly, I’ve seen what that white powder does to people. It’s addicting. People take it, they can’t stop, and after a while, they go completely stark raving mad if they don’t get another fix."
He paused, blowing a ring of smoke into the damp night air. "Look at Paul Kelly over in the Five Points. He ran thugs for years, but now he owns legitimate real estate and dance halls. Gangs, mobs, mafias—whatever you want to call us—eventually every boss wants a business where people actually respect what they do instead of expecting a bullet in the back."
"Then why sell cocaine in the first place?" Ricky countered.
"Because I was stupid back then," Madden admitted candidly. "Probably still stupid now. But I can see where the wind is blowing. There’s a massive new market opening up in my territory, and people respect a man who supplies good booze."
Ricky turned the offer over in his mind. It’s an incredible opportunity, he thought. If Madden rebuilds his foothold in Hell’s Kitchen as our distributor, we get massive profits without taking the risk of direct street turf wars. Plus, I don’t trust Barney Knox’s older brother for a second—he’s cautious and smart. Having Madden in our pocket gives us the ultimate insurance policy against the Duster leadership.
Ricky looked back at the gang leader. "Alright. Deal."
Madden blinked, caught off guard. "Wait... just like that? You agree? You trust me?"
"Not even a little bit," Ricky said flatly. "Consider this a trial run. You get access to our supply for one week. After that, we’ll see how far you go."
A broad grin spread across Madden’s face. "Don’t worry, kid. I won’t let you down."
"You’re paying cash upfront, of course," Ricky added.
Madden’s smile faltered. "What? Cash upfront? I thought I’d pay on consignment after I sell the crates!"
"We’re running a business, Madden," Ricky said coldly. "We don’t extend credit. Running a business requires capital."
Madden slumped his shoulders, letting out a defeated groan. "Alright, fine. What’s your price range?"
"For the trial week, you pay halfway between our distributor cost and retail price," Ricky explained. "If you prove you can move product cleanly, we’ll give you full distributor prices and a few tips on how to run your routes without drawing the coppers into your lap."
Madden waved his hand dismissively. "Okay, okay. I’m not exactly a high-society businessman, but I think I can manage."
John scoffed loudly from the stern. "No, you will not."
Madden turned, thoroughly irritated. "Who is this bloke anyway to judge my business skills?"
Ricky smirked. "He’s John Caldwell. One of my route Leaders and a very capable businessman."
Madden blinked, staring at John’s rough wool coat and loaded shotgun. "Wait... really? Then why the hell is he acting like a bodyguard?"
"A man can have more than one skill set," Ricky replied smoothly. "Anyway, we’re getting sidetracked. Do you want us to deliver the crates directly to your hideouts?"
"Hell no," Madden said immediately, shaking his head. "I wouldn’t recommend bringing wagons into Hell’s Kitchen right now. My remaining group is a bit loose and desperate. They might try to ambush your wagons, and looking at you two, my boys would end up with lead holes in their foreheads. I don’t need any more dead men than I can handle."
"How do you want to handle it then?"
"I still have eight barges left," Madden said. "I’ll pay a few rivermen to tow them here to your pier. I’ll send one of my lieutenants with the cash and a list of goods."
"Alright," Ricky said, extending his hand. "That’s a deal. I’m hoping for a successful venture."
Madden shook Ricky’s hand with a firm, rough grip. "To be honest, kid... I came out here tonight expecting to get gunned down or stabbed in an alley. Finding you parked at my usual docking spot feels like pure bloody fate."
"So it would seem," Ricky said.
Madden worked the tiller pole, maneuvering the heavy barge back toward the catwalk. As the wooden hull bumped gently against the dock pilings, Ricky looked up and stopped in his tracks.
Standing under the yellow dock lanterns was the entire core leadership of the Syndicate.
Arthur, Tom and Frank Murphy stood near the edge, flanked by Eli and Caleb Morgan. Jimmy Williams was there with his brothers, along with Danny’s dock crew, and even the McClain brothers—who almost never left their office desks—were standing together near the warehouse doors.
Madden stopped, his jaw dropping as he took in the crowd of heavy-set men. "Jesus Christ..." Madden muttered under his breath. "You sure are famous, aren’t ya, kid? Even back home, I didn’t get a welcoming party like this."
"I don’t even know why they’re here," Ricky sighed.
As the barge settled against the catwalk, Arthur Murphy stepped to the edge, extending a large, calloused hand down to Ricky. "This guy giving you trouble, boss?" Arthur asked, his eyes locked onto Madden.
Ricky reached up, taking Arthur’s grip. "It’s better than that, actually."
Arthur pulled Ricky effortlessly up onto the catwalk. Beside him, Frank reached down and hauled John up onto the planks.
Madden stood on the deck below, pulling his flat cap low over his eyes until his face was completely hidden in shadow. He gave a subtle, respectful tip of his cap toward Ricky as the barge’s small auxiliary engine sputtered to life, churning the dark water as he backed out into the river fog.