Chapter 92: Vive La Révolution
At a round wooden table tucked deep in the back corner, Arthur Murphy sat nursing a lukewarm lager. Across from him, his brother Frank was absentmindedly shuffling a deck of worn playing cards.
Sitting with them were Alvin and Andy, two of the five street captains running Barney’s crew in Greenwich.
Alvin tossed a pair of copper pennies onto the sticky wood, folding his hand. "I think it’s safe to say," Alvin grumbled around the wet stub of a cigar, "that our esteemed boss is keeping every red cent of the new protection fees for himself."
Frank paused his shuffling. "What about the cocaine?" he asked casually, leaning back in his chair. "I assume you boys handle the distribution for that, right?"
Alvin let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "We divide the street labor amongst ourselves, sure. We make sure the corners are manned. But we don’t get a single penny from the white powder. That cash goes straight up to Barney."
"How do you guys earn a living, then?" Arthur asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.
Andy took a long pull from his beer mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "We run our own side rackets. Though Barney just made that ten times harder. He declared robbery and burglary strictly out of the window for now. Doesn’t want us spooking the new high-class customers coming down for your liquor."
Alvin scoffed, leaning in over the table. "That’s just you, Andy. If you’re afraid of stepping out of the local boundaries, you’re never going to make any real money for your boys."
"That’s because you keep your outside jobs entirely to yourself," Andy shot back, his face flushing slightly.
Alvin just smiled, a sly, arrogant grin. "Of course I do. Though you’re free to join my crew, if you can figure out where we do our thing."
Frank dealt the cards, expertly flicking them across the table. "There are five of you street captains, right? What about the others?"
"Hell if I know," Alvin said, picking up his new hand. "We don’t see Reggie and Henry Wells that often these days. I guess they’re doing their own thing on the east side."
"What about Peter?" Frank asked, organizing his cards. "He seems to be a lot closer to your boss. He was the one who represented your crew when we first started negotiating."
Alvin and Andy immediately burst into laughter.
"I wouldn’t say that," Andy snickered.
Arthur frowned in feigned confusion. "Why? I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the deputy to all of you, or at least Barney’s right-hand man."
"More like a deputy dog," Andy said, shaking his head in amusement. "I admire his sacrifice, though."
"Yeah, I’m just glad it isn’t me," Alvin agreed. He leaned closer, lowering his voice over the din of the saloon. "Peter has been Barney’s personal slave for years. He does all the dirty work, runs all the errands, and never asks for a dime in return. Not that Barney would give him one anyway. But hey, it keeps Barney off our backs. We just like to make the boss think we’re busy."
"I do admire his dedication," Alvin added with a shrug. "Without Peter doing the legwork, we wouldn’t have landed this liquor deal with you guys."
Arthur and Frank exchanged a brief, silent glance. Ricky’s assessment had been entirely correct. The Dusters’ foundation was rotting from the inside. There was zero loyalty here.
Alvin took a drag of his cigar and looked at Arthur. "How about you boys? Does your boss pay you well?"
"He pays more than enough, actually," Arthur said, purposely understating Ricky’s immense payouts. "Other than our daily room and board, we always have enough left over for a drink and a hot meal."
Alvin’s eyes gleamed with a sudden, desperate interest. "Lucky for you. Listen, does your boss accept temporary workers? Enforcers?"
Frank raised an eyebrow. "I don’t know. Even if he did, he’d have to ask your boss for permission first."
"I wouldn’t bet on him getting it," Alvin muttered, his tone darkening. "I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Barney hates it when something he considers ’his possession’ is used by someone else. And he definitely sees us as his property. So... I don’t know."
"Well, so much for being his possession," Andy grumbled, staring at the bottom of his empty mug. "We’re barely making enough to eat as it is."
Frank and Arthur stayed silent, letting the Dusters’ street captains dig their own graves.
Alvin’s expression turned serious, the humor completely draining from his face. "Look, I’m just going to ask you guys directly. If one of my starving men gets caught trying to mug one of your delivery boys... just let them go. I know they know you’re under Barney’s protection. But desperate, hungry men lack reason."
Frank stared at Alvin for a long moment. "I’ll tell our boss about it. We’ll see what he can do. He’s the type to fix the problems right in front of him, rather than running away from them."
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Meanwhile, on the eastern outskirts of Greenwich Village, the air inside the damp, unlit Greene Street basement was freezing.
Peter stood near a rotting wooden table, watching as the Wells brothers—Reggie and Henry—inspected a heavy burlap sack. Outside, the muffled rumble of a passing elevated train vibrated through the brick ceiling.
Reggie, a weary-looking twenty-eight-year-old family man, exhaled a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. He checked his pocket watch in the dim light. "Now that we’re all here, let’s make this quick. Mary’s going to wake up soon, and her mother won’t be able to get her back to sleep without me."
"Don’t worry, brother," Henry, the younger of the two at twenty-four, said quietly. "This won’t take long."
Peter stepped closer to the table, gesturing to the burlap sack. "My men and I managed to skim ninety pounds of cocaine from the stashes. If we’re careful with how we move it, that should make us over a hundred thousand dollars."
Henry swallowed hard, staring at the sack. "What about Barney or Frank? Won’t they be able to tell we took a massive chunk of their white powder?"
"It won’t make a difference," Peter said coldly. "Ninety pounds is a rounding error compared to two solid tons."
Reggie whistled softly, shaking his head. "So they really did take two whole tons from gophers huh? That should earn them anywhere from nine hundred thousand to nearly two million dollars on the street. Though, actually selling that much volume is a different matter."
Reggie took another drag of his cigarette. "If Frank shared it evenly, eleven hundred pounds each... the Knox brothers are sitting on an entire ton of cocaine."
"Won’t Kid Yorke complain?" Peter asked. "He and Jack only got a quarter of the pie, while the Knox brothers walked away with half."
"No, he won’t," Reggie said smoothly. "Frank and Barney pulled the actual heist themselves. All Kid and Jack did was provide a distraction across town. Besides, it was Frank’s master plan from the start. I bet Frank is going to use his share of the money to finance the Tammany Hall political campaigns."
Peter scoffed, his fists clenching at his sides. "You know we have to do something about Barney, right? Soon."
"Just be patient, kid," Reggie warned, eyeing Peter through the smoke. "Frank has his eyes locked on his little brother right now, especially since Barney is suddenly pulling in massive profits."
"And that’s mostly thanks to the Commission boys," Peter spat bitterly. "That kid, Ricky, did all the heavy lifting. He provided the business structure. Barney wouldn’t have the first clue how to run a legitimate operation."
Henry sighed, leaning against the cold brick wall. "I miss the old days. I miss the time when Frank was still the one ruling Greenwich. Back then, everyone got an equal share of the money. It didn’t matter if you were a lieutenant, a street captain, or a bottom feeder sweeping the floors. You had an equal share, and an equal responsibility. Now? We former lieutenants have been demoted to mere street captains. And worse, we get an equal share of absolutely nothing."
"Frank went into politics," Reggie said pragmatically. "Barney is the only person he trusts to hold down his home territory."
"He’s not even a top dog for the Tammany Hall party," Henry scoffed. "He’s just one of their bootlickers. Just like the rest of the gang leaders in Manhattan."
Peter stepped forward, bringing the conversation back to the present. "So, what’s our plan for this revolution of ours? Now that we have our own cocaine supply in the equation."
Reggie crushed his cigarette under his boot. "We have to make some changes to the board. There are already rumors that Barney and Kid Yorke are having friction over customers. We’re going to sabotage Kid’s business up in Chelsea, but we’ll do it under the disguise of a Gopher Gang revenge attack."
Peter’s eyes widened slightly as Reggie continued.
"When Kid gets hit, his terrified regulars will flee south into Greenwich to buy from Barney," Reggie explained. "Kid is a fiercely jealous man. He won’t let that stand. And given Barney’s greedy, selfish nature, he won’t give those customers back. They’ll go head-to-head. Not even Frank will be able to stop it. Frank will have to choose between stopping a gang civil war, or protecting his brother. We know he loves Barney... but how much? Enough to watch the entire Duster syndicate fall apart?"
"That should work," Henry nodded slowly, a dark excitement building in his voice. "We could accelerate it. If the business rivalry between Barney and Kid becomes strong enough, all rational thought will go out the window."
"But how do we force that?" Peter asked.
"Simple," Reggie said. "We also sabotage Barney’s cocaine business down here. Barney will instantly assume Kid is doing it as payback. They’ll be at each other’s throats. And to finally seal the deal... that’s when we eliminate Barney from the equation entirely."
Peter didn’t hesitate. "Don’t worry about that part. I’ll pull the trigger myself."
Reggie gave Peter a sharp, warning look. "I advise you to think about that very carefully, kid. You won’t survive five minutes after firing that first shot."
Peter didn’t say anything, his jaw set like stone.
"How do we actually take over Greenwich when everything goes to hell?" Henry asked, voicing the practical concern. "We can eliminate Barney’s remaining loyalists, sure. But we have to be incredibly fast with securing the remaining cocaine stashes before the police lock down the entire district. We need to make sure that when Frank inevitably comes back down from Tammany Hall, he has absolutely no business left to reclaim."
"What about the weapons?" Peter pressed. "Doesn’t Jack keep all the heavy guns locked up in his territory? We don’t stand a chance if Jack marches his forces down here to stabilize the situation."
Reggie hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "What about those Commission boys? Won’t they be able to smuggle guns into the city for us?"
"I’ll have to ask them," Peter said hesitantly. "But if I mention heavy weapons, they’re going to be extremely sensitive about it."
"Well, if they won’t help us, I’ll have to turn to the Bowery Boys in the East Village," Reggie said flatly. "And if we do that, we’ll use the Commission boys as our scapegoats."
"Let’s consider that a last resort, brother," Henry argued quickly. "We’re going to need the Commission boys when we take over. Their presence and reputation alone guarantee us a steady stream of wealthy customers. We need things to look stable and profitable after the dust settles."
Reggie looked at Peter. "Does money convince them? The Commission boys?"
"Other than selling overpriced goods, making deals is all they seem to care about," Peter answered. "If we make our revolution plan profitable for them, I think they’ll help us. Though that’s just my opinion."
Reggie paced the length of the short table, his mind racing. "Alright. If they support our cause, they’ll get much more than just a standard deal. Peter... the next time Barney orders you to make a liquor run, I need you to discreetly hand their boss a letter. We can’t have you seen talking to them privately without Barney’s explicit orders."
Peter gave a firm nod. "I’ll get it done."