Chapter 57: Uno Reversed
Alvin was the first to groan, his hand gingerly touching his bruised, swollen jaw as he pushed himself up off the wet stones. His neck felt stiff as iron from Arthur’s throat chop, and his head throbbed where he hit him with his baseball bat.
Beside him in the dark lane, two of his companions lay sprawled on their backs, still out cold. Sitting nearby on an empty crate was Pollock, the iron-pipe thug, who was wiping a streak of red from his upper lip with his sleeve.
Alvin wiggled his jaw, letting out a harsh, rasping curse. "Jesus... my skull feels split. Where’s that cunning bastard?"
Pollock looked over at him, tossing a loose piece of gravel into the gutter. "Gone. The three of ’em drove off five minutes ago."
Alvin looked down at the two unconscious men lying in the damp dirt. Beside Alvin lay Coley—the broad-shouldered former prizefighter with the canvas-wrapped fists. "I can’t believe even Coley went down," Alvin muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
"It was the same guy who knocked you out," Pollock said flatly. "Hopper got caught by the same man too."
On the stones beside Coley, Hopper—the thug who had carried the broken glass bottle—suddenly jerked awake. He gasped, swinging a wild, blind fist into the air as he scrambled backward. "Ahh! Come here, you—"
Alvin and Pollock both jumped back, startled.
"Take it easy, Hopper!" Alvin barked, wincing as the sudden movement jarred his jaw. "They’re gone!"
Hopper blinked through the gloom, looking left and right down the quiet, empty street. His hand felt the wet stones where his glass bottle had shattered into useless shards. "Where are they? Where’d those bastards go?"
"I told you," Pollock said, leaning back against the brick wall. "They left five minutes ago. You were sleeping on the cobbles."
Hopper spat a mouthful of blood into the gutter, rubbing his sore chest where the thrown bat had struck him. "Fuck! We should’ve just broken into one of the dry-goods shops on Christopher! Why the hell did we even listen to that skinny guy?"
Pollock tilted his head. "You mean Jones? One of Peter’s collectors?"
"Yeah!" Hopper growled, sitting up. "He’s the one who told us these ’commission boys’ were driving around at night with wagonloads of goods. He made ’em sound like easy pickings! We didn’t know there were also a fighter among them."
A low, raspy voice grunted from the stones as Coley pushed himself up onto his elbows. The former prizefighter shook his head, spitting a red glob onto the cobblestones, surprising all three of them.
"Jesus, Coley," Alvin muttered. "Don’t jump up like a ghost."
Coley sat up slowly, testing his jaw with his wrapped knuckles. "Fighter my ass... that bastard fights dirty."
"We got caught off guard, Coley," Alvin argued defensively, checking his pockets. "If we had five more men—"
"We outnumbered ’em four to three, Alvin," Coley interrupted coldly, his voice low and serious. "And we had iron and glass. That tall one... he doesn’t fight like a street thug or a boxer. He shifts his stance like a dancer, feints big, and lands hard where you aren’t looking. I’m telling you, it was weird."
Pollock picked up his iron water pipe from the mud, looking at his bruised forearms. "Yeah, well, no shit. He knocked the three of you out while the two of those little shits played hyena on me. If I ever see those bastards again, I’m bringing a fucking crowbar."
Alvin looked down the street, shaking his head. "Who the hell are they anyway?"
Hopper rubbed his forehead, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall the encounter through his concussion. "No idea. I couldn’t see their faces clearly in the dark... except for that younger kid who Coley beat up before the tall one jumped in. I swear I recognize his face from somewhere near the docks... just can’t place where I’ve seen him."
Alvin stood up slowly, groaning as his stiff legs straightened. "Forget ’em. Let’s go find a grocery back-door to pop open. As long as Barney rules Greenwhich, we aren’t seeing a nickel of the protection money anyway. As long as nobody tells him we pinched some cash on our own, we’re fine."
Ten blocks south, near the shadowy mouth of an unlit alleyway on Bleecker Street, Peter sat huddled against a brick wall in the pitch-darkness. Beside him sat Billy and Mickey, their coats pulled tight against the cold.
They had been sitting in the dark alley for over two hours.
Mickey pulled his flat cap down, letting out a long, shivering breath. "Peter... do you think they’re even coming through this street tonight? We’ve been sitting on these bricks for two hours. My toes are numb."
Peter took a slow drag from his paper cigarette, keeping the red cherry hidden deep inside his wool sleeve. He didn’t answer immediately.
In his head, Peter was running the risk calculations. Maybe setting an ambush on the street was a mistake, he thought, staring at the dark cobbles. But stepping up to their storage shed on Gansevoort would have been even worse. If their watchmen saw us coming, they’d have pulled those Winchester shotguns out from under the canvas.
He was waiting for a miracle—waiting for the black wagon to roll down the street so he could secure a territory deal that would feed his starving crew without starting a war or whatever uptown syndicate was backing these kids.
Peter flicked his cigarette butt into a puddle, standing up with a quiet groan. "Come on. Let’s go find a cargo cart to pick near the piers instead—"
"Peter! Look!" Billy whispered sharply, grabbing Peter’s coat sleeve and pointing a trembling finger toward the corner of the avenue.
Peter and Mickey instantly dropped low, jogging up to the edge of the brick wall to peek around the corner.
Turning off Hudson Street into the dim yellow glow of a gas lamp was a single black-painted spring-wagon.
Sitting on the high bench were three men in tailored black three-piece wool suits and matching black flat caps. The streetlamp light caught their sharp, spotless silhouettes against the dark night—moving silently, orderly, and imposing through the empty street.
Billy swallowed hard, his voice dropping into a terrified whisper. "Jesus... they look like angels of death."
Peter pulled back behind the brick wall, taking a deep, steadying breath to calm his own racing heart.
"Alright, boys," Peter whispered, looking at Billy and Mickey. "This is it. Remember what I told you. Act like we haven’t seen a damn thing. We don’t know where their storage shed is, we don’t know they have guns. Act completely ignorant. Just three hungry street collectors doing a routine territory check."
Billy and Mickey nodded frantically, their hands trembling slightly inside their pockets.
"Follow my lead," Peter instructed. "Our only goal is collecting a protection fee and establishing a working relationship. Do not pull a knife, do not shout, and let me do all the talking."
"Got it." Mickey whispered.
Peter straightened his vest, slapped a confident, arrogant expression onto his face, and stepped out from the mouth of the alley straight into the middle of the street with Billy and Mickey trailing three paces behind him.
Twenty feet down the road, Jimmy—who was driving the wagon—saw the three figures step out into the light.
Jimmy didn’t panic. He pulled back smoothly on the leather reins. "Whoa, boy... whoa."
The black draft horse slowed to a halt ten feet away from Peter, its iron-shod hooves scraping lightly against the wet stones.
Before Peter could even speak, the two tall men sitting on the bench beside and behind Jimmy stepped down off the wagon onto the cobblestones. It was Caleb and his younger brother Eli.
Caleb stood six-foot-two, broad-shouldered and built like a brick wall, his face cold, impassive, and completely unbothered as he casually pulled a black weighted iron-core sap stick from his wool coat pocket. Eli stepped up beside his brother, holding a matching black stick, his long ponytail tucked neatly into his collar.
Jimmy stepped down last, stepping up between the Morgan brothers. His right hand remained tucked deep inside his dark wool jacket, resting directly over his holstered Colt .38 revolver. Their black flat caps cast deep shadows over their eyes, obscuring their faces against the passing streetlamp behind them.
Jimmy looked at Peter, a smooth, fearless smirk touching his lips. "What seems to be the problem here, lads?"
The sheer physical weight of the three men in black suits made Billy and Mickey take a half-step back in terror.
Peter felt a surge of cold adrenaline hit his chest. He knew with absolute certainty that Jimmy’s hand inside that coat was wrapped around the grip of a loaded revolver. But Peter held his ground, forcing his voice to remain steady, sharp, and authoritative.
"I’m here on behalf of the Hudson Dusters," Peter announced, holding his posture firm. "Our lookouts tell us your outfit’s been running shadow drayage through Greenwich Village for over a month. But our lieutenant has yet to see a single cent of operational territory fees."
Silence fell over the Street.
Caleb and Eli didn’t move a single muscle, standing like two immovable stone pillars beside Jimmy. Jimmy’s right hand stayed locked inside his coat.
Four seconds passed. Five. Six. Seven agonizing seconds of dead, heavy silence where the only sound was the draft horse huffing in the cold air. Mickey and Billy were practically vibrating with terror, ready to turn and sprint down the alley at any second.
Then, Jimmy Williams let out a short, quiet laugh.
Jimmy slowly pulled his left hand out of his trousers, reached into his right vest pocket with his left hand, and pulled out a leather coin pouch. He opened the drawstring, letting the heavy clink of silver coins echo in the quiet street.
"How much," Jimmy asked smoothly, counting out silver coins in his palm, "does your boss expect us to pay for our... operational fees?"
Peter, Billy, and Mickey all let out long, silent breaths of pure relief.
"Your group’s been dominating the commercial trade for weeks," Peter explained, keeping his tone businesslike. "You’ve driven off half the Soho and Brooklyn wholesale wagons that used to pay us toll fees. You’ve cut into our precinct income. We’re reasonable men... provided you pay ten times the standard toll. Thirty dollars a week."
Jimmy raised an eyebrow, pausing his coin counting. "Thirty dollars? How’d you come up with a steep number like that?"
Peter offered a faint, knowing smirk. "Even thirty bucks a week is generous, friend... considering what your commercial competitors in Soho offered us."
Jimmy’s eyes narrowed slightly in the dark. He caught the subtle hint instantly. The Soho wholesalers tried to hire the Dusters to wipe us out, but this guy decided to take our cash instead.
"Fair enough," Jimmy said, writing a quick mental note. "But before we hand over thirty dollars a week... we need your word that our wagons won’t be interrupted on these routes. We need your lieutenant’s explicit promise that his men won’t ambush our drayage."
Peter paused, shaking his head slightly. "I’m afraid I can’t promise that."
Jimmy stopped counting, his sharp eyes locking onto Peter. "And why is that? Tell me why paying thirty bucks a week wouldn’t be a complete waste of our silver."
Peter took a slow breath, being entirely honest about his gang’s chaotic internal politics. "I can’t promise absolute protection against every rogue collector in the Village. Our lieutenant doesn’t control every hungry kid. But I can promise you this: my crew won’t touch your business."
Jimmy considered the answer. He appreciated the street captain’s brutal honesty over a fake promise.
"Then before we pay," Jimmy stated firmly, his tone turning crisp and administrative, "we need that in writing. A formal protection contract."
Peter blinked, thoroughly stunned. "A contract?"
"A written agreement," Jimmy clarified, "signed by your lieutenant or a certified representative stating that your faction recognizes our distribution routes and agrees not to interfere with our operations. If your boss won’t come in person, he can appoint you as his official representative in writing."
Peter stared at Jimmy as if the young man in the black suit had suddenly spoken in Greek. In all his years on the West Side, Peter had never heard of a street gang demanding a written, signed contract for extortion money.
"May I ask," Peter stammered, genuinely bewildered, "why the hell you need a piece of paper for a protection deal?"
Jimmy offered a sharp, dangerous smirk, his hand shifting slightly inside his coat. "Because if one of your hungry enforcers breaks the contract and ambushes one of our wagons... a signed agreement justifies whatever we have to do to them in self-defense."
A cold shudder ran down Peter’s spine.
Jesus Christ, Peter thought, his mind racing. They aren’t just running drayage... they’re setting up lethal traps. If one of Barney’s desperate kids tries to rob their wagon, these guys will shoot him dead in the alley and use the contract to prove to the precinct and the uptown syndicate that they were within their rights.
"I understand," Peter said softly, nodding his head.
"Ten o’clock tomorrow morning," Jimmy instructed, stepping back toward the wagon wheel. "At our Gansevoort storage shed. Don’t be late. And bring your representative authority."
Jimmy reached into his coin pouch, pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill, and handed it directly to Peter. "And this is for your trouble tonight. We understand the struggles of running a crew."
Peter took the ten-dollar bill, looking down at the paper money in confusion. "For my trouble?"
Jimmy, Caleb, and Eli climbed back onto the high bench of the spring-wagon. Jimmy picked up the leather reins, looking down at Peter with a knowing, amused grin.
Peter tried one last bluff, keeping his face smooth. "I’m sorry... but I don’t know where your storage shed is located."
Jimmy gave the leather reins a light flick, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips as the draft horse stepped forward.
"Sure you do, Peter," Jimmy called out over his shoulder as the black wagon rumbled past. "We saw the three of you watching us from the third-floor window across the street earlier tonight."
The black spring-wagon rumbled down Morton Street, its iron rims grinding over the cobblestones until it vanished into the dark shadows of the Village.
Peter, Billy, and Mickey stood frozen in the middle of the empty street, staring after the wagon with wide, terrified eyes, the ten-dollar bill rustling softly in Peter’s hand.