Chapter 77: The Hunt Begins
"What?!"
Barney Knox slammed both of his heavy fists onto the scarred mahogany table, the impact rattling the half-empty whiskey bottle and spilling amber liquid across the wood.
Andy, a lean, nervous enforcer wearing a scuffed wool cap, took a cautious half-step back toward the parlor door. "It’s... it’s just the rumors floating around the docks, boss. But yeah. Both Boss Kid Yorke and Circular Jack have been asking questions. They’re definitely showing interest in this new merchant outfit. The commission boys."
Barney ran a trembling hand through his thinning hair, his face flushing a dangerous, blotchy red. "For fuck’s sake." He began pacing the small, smoke-filled room in tight, agitated circles, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. "Where the fuck is Peter? Someone fucking call Peter right now or I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind! Call Peter!"
Andy threw his hands up in immediate surrender. "I’ll find him, boss!" He turned on his heel and scrambled out the door, bolting down the wooden stairs toward the noisy taproom below.
Alvin stood near the unlit hearth, gently rubbing his jaw. It had been over a week since the brutal, humiliating ambush in the alley, and the bone still ached every time he chewed. He looked at Barney’s frantic pacing, genuinely confused.
"Is it really that serious, boss?" Alvin asked, keeping his voice careful.
Barney stopped pacing, glaring at Alvin as if he were a complete idiot. "Yes, it’s fucking serious! These commission boys... they offered me a deal to become their exclusive distributor in the entirety of Greenwich Village! They handed me a wooden crate of branded luxury liquors—stuff I’ve never even seen before—and it was phenomenal. Hell, I didn’t even drink the rest of that Royal... whatever the fuck it’s called. I locked it in my safe to drink only on special occasions!"
Alvin froze. The blood drained completely from his face, leaving him cold and hollow.
Commission boys. Branded liquor. Black wagons.
The memory of the dark street hit Alvin like a freight train. He remembered the tall guy in the black suit who fought like a dancer. The pump-action shotgun. The heavy sap sticks. Ahhh... shit. That was them. A cold sweat broke out across Alvin’s neck. If Barney ever found out that Alvin and his crew had gone rogue and tried to extort the very merchants Barney was trying to court... Barney would kill him. He wouldn’t even hesitate. He’d put a bullet in Alvin’s head and drop him in the Hudson.
Alvin swallowed hard, forcing his voice to stay level. "Do... do these commission boys want something heavy in exchange for the exclusive rights, boss?"
Barney let out a sharp, cynical laugh. "Hell no! Well, technically all they want is unrestricted access to the streets and protection against police patrols. All that stuff we already have in our pocket! The precinct coppers are on our payroll anyway, so we just tell the uniforms to look the other way when their wagons roll through."
"So..." Alvin muttered, trying to keep up. "Aren’t they basically just giving the liquor to you for free?"
"Not exactly for free, idiot," Barney snapped, walking back to the table to pour himself another drink. "I still have to pay their wholesale rate. But that ain’t a problem! If every saloon and gambling den in Greenwich is packed with men wanting a taste of that liquor, we charge twice the amount per glass. Not only is the profit margin amazing, but if you control where the top-shelf liquor flows... the entire Hudson Dusters organization ends up in the palm of my hand."
Barney tipped his head back and let out a loud, manic laugh, the sheer greed blinding him to his own previous stupidity.
Alvin nodded slowly, keeping his face entirely neutral. That’s a massive opportunity, Alvin thought to himself. No wonder Jack and Kid are sniffing around. If Barney doesn’t lock this down fast, the bosses are going to take the commission boys for themselves.
"I don’t know who the fuck leaked it," Barney growled, his laughter fading back into angry paranoia. "I was just trying not to rush the relationship with them! I was being cautious! But whatever happens on my territory is mine, and mine alone!"
Heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs, and Andy reappeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath. Right behind him was Peter, wearing his heavy wool coat, his face completely unreadable.
"Here’s Peter, boss," Andy announced.
Peter stepped into the smoky parlor, keeping his posture relaxed. "What’s the emergency, Barney?"
Barney marched straight up to Peter, his eyes wide and manic. "Are you the one who leaked the business proposal about the commission boys to the bosses?"
Peter blinked, genuinely taken aback by the sudden accusation. "What? No! Of course not, Barney. I haven’t said a word to anyone outside this room."
Barney stared hard into Peter’s eyes for two long seconds. Then, the volatile lieutenant’s demeanor flipped entirely. He threw a heavy, affectionate arm around Peter’s shoulders, offering a broad, yellow-toothed smile. He turned his head toward Alvin and Andy.
"Leave us alone," Barney ordered flatly.
Alvin and Andy exchanged a quick, silent glance, shrugged, and walked out of the parlor, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind them. The muffled noise of the piano and clinking glasses from the taproom below drifted up through the floorboards.
Peter didn’t say anything, his muscles tensing slightly under Barney’s heavy arm.
"Anyway, forget the leak," Barney said, his voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Here’s the plan. I want you to contact the commission boys immediately. Since you’re the designated representative on that little paper we signed, I want you to go find them and tell them we accept their offer."
Peter stared at him.
"Tell them I apologize for refusing their offer earlier," Barney continued, completely oblivious to the bitter irony of the situation. "Tell them I wish to extend the agreement and deepen our commercial relationship. Understand?"
Barney pulled back, looking at Peter closely.
Peter’s mind was boiling. He did everything he asked for, even telling him about the comission boys, hoping to get recognition and some share of the money they collected. And now, Barney wanted him to go crawl back to the Syndicate and beg for the liquor deal he had arrogantly thrown away.
One day, I will fucking kill you, you arrogant bastard, Peter swore in his mind.
But on the outside, Peter just offered a smooth, obedient nod. "Yes, boss."
Barney grinned, slapping Peter hard on the back. "Alright! Go! Take your minions or whatever you need. Work the streets, find their wagons, and lock this deal down before they get their greasy hands on them."
Barney turned his back, reaching for his whiskey glass.
Peter turned and walked out of the parlor, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ached. The moment he stepped out onto the second-floor landing, Andy fell into step beside him, throwing a casual arm over Peter’s shoulder.
"Say, Peter," Andy teased, a mocking smirk on his face. "Why don’t you intro—"
Peter violently swatted Andy’s arm away, his eyes flashing with raw, unfiltered fury. He didn’t say a single word, just kept walking down the stairs, his boots hitting the wood with heavy, angry thuds.
Andy stopped on the landing, chuckling as he leaned over the railing. "Looks like someone’s mad today."
Alvin stepped out from the shadows near the wall, a sly, dangerous smirk touching his bruised jaw. "Everybody’s fucking mad, Andy."
Alvin stepped closer, dropping his voice so only Andy could hear. "Anyway... tell me something. How much did you and your boys steal from that warehouse down on the commercial docks last night? If Boss Jack’s men catch you pinching cargo on their turf, you’re dead meat."
Andy’s amused smile vanished for a fraction of a second, but he quickly recovered, offering a casual, overly innocent shrug. "I’m standing right here, aren’t I? I don’t know what you’re talking about."
He turned to walk down the stairs.
"Hey," Alvin called out softly, leaning over the banister. "At least tell me how much you guys made."
"None of your business, asshole," Andy shot back without turning around. "I don’t need competition on my rackets."
Alvin watched Andy disappear into the crowded bar below. The smirk slowly returned to Alvin’s face, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent.
"Oh," Alvin muttered under his breath. "Two can play at this game, Andy boy."
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The air in the dark, narrow alley near the Hell’s Kitchen border smelled of rotting garbage, wet brick, and fresh blood.
Two men lay crumpled on the damp cobblestones. One was completely unconscious, his face a swollen, bloody mess. The other was slumped against the brick wall, coughing violently and clutching his ribs, his breath rattling in his chest.
Two unfamiliar men in sharp, tailored suits and gray flat caps stood over them, their knuckles bruised. But the beaten man didn’t care about them. He was staring with wide, terrified eyes at the third man—the one casually wiping a smear of blood off his expensive leather shoe.
"Why don’t you just tell me?" Owney Madden asked, his voice calm and terrifyingly polite. He was a lean, viciously ambitious young man, and the undisputed leader of the Gopher Gang. "Where do I find the commission boys?"
Madden stepped forward, driving a sharp, brutal punch across the man’s jaw.
The Duster thug groaned, spitting a mouthful of blood and a loose tooth onto the wet stones. "I don’t... I don’t know who the fuck that is," the man wheezed, his head lolling against the brick. "And even if I did... I wouldn’t tell you shit, Owen Madden."
Madden froze. The polite, calm demeanor vanished instantly. He slowly stood up straight, his face twitching with sheer, unadulterated annoyance. He looked back at his two subordinates.
"Why can’t these West Side donkeys ever pronounce my name right?" Madden sighed, shaking his head.
One of his men, a thick-necked enforcer holding an iron pipe, snorted. "Probably because ’Owen’ is a hell of a lot easier for a bleeding man to say than a shitty name like ’Owney.’"
Madden shot him a flat, unimpressed glare. "Hey. At least my name isn’t Returd. Like a turd rolling on the floor."
The second enforcer let out a loud, barking laugh at his partner’s real name.
Madden turned his attention back to the bleeding Duster slumped against the wall. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored jacket. "Just because you mispronounced my name..." Madden whispered softly. "Here’s a tip for your trouble."
Madden raised his polished leather boot and stomped down viciously, catching the man flush in the face.
The thug’s eyes widened in sudden terror—"Wait, no—!"
The heavy crack of bone echoed against the wet brick, and the man slumped sideways into the dirt, completely unconscious.
Madden adjusted his coat, pulling his gray flat cap a little lower over his eyes. He turned away from the bodies, gesturing for his two men to follow as he walked toward the distant lights of the river docks.
"Alright," Madden said casually, checking his knuckles. "Now where do we find someone who actually has answers?"
"This is deep Duster territory, boss," Returd warned, keeping his hand on his iron pipe as he scanned the dark street. "We just pick another one off the corner?"
"We’ve already beaten ten guys tonight asking questions they don’t know the answers to, Owney," the second enforcer pointed out, his voice laced with caution. "If we keep leaving bleeding bodies in the alleys, Goo Goo Knox and Circular Jack are gonna be onto us before midnight."
Owney Madden just smiled, a cold, predatory glint in his eyes. He reached inside his tailored coat, his fingers casually brushing the cold steel grip of a heavy revolver.
"Like the old saying goes," Madden chuckled softly into the damp night air. "Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight. We have guns. The second they see the steel... they’ll run. It’s really that simple."