Chapter 176: Explosion
Morning light was just beginning to break over the East River, turning the heavy river fog into a cold, grey haze. Inside the chemical plant, the twenty-one young women rescued from the Corona workshop were sitting on wooden crates near the staging bay, wrapped in dark wool blankets and holding tin cups of warm coffee.
Ricky walked over, stopping in front of the group with his hands resting in his coat pockets.
"The morning ferries are running now," Ricky said, his voice quiet and even. "If any of you want train fare and an escort back home to your families, we’ll get you on your way right now. But if you don’t feel safe returning, we have a camp up north in the countryside. You’ll have food, a roof over your head, and honest work once you’re rested."
The girls looked at one another, uncertain and hesitant to speak. Finally, the older Italian woman who had confronted Galnick stood up, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders.
"Going back to Corona is no good, sir," she said in halting, accented English, her face stern. "Galnick’s men live on those streets. They know our faces. If we go back to our tenements, they will grab us right off the stoop to find out what happened last night. They will threaten our families to get answers."
Several of the younger girls nodded in fearful agreement.
"North it is then," Ricky said without hesitation. He turned to Luther and two other field agents standing by the Mack trucks. "Luther, take six men and escort them. Take the trucks to the nearest train station to White Plains and have four escort them to pound ridge. Make sure they’re settled in."
"Consider it done, Boss," Luther replied, waving his hand to signal to the others and the drivers.
As the women were helped up into the covered truck beds, the rest of the squad began dividing into separate groups. Half of the men climbed into two black touring cars, heading back across the river to their Greenwich Village headquarters.
Near the main entrance, John Caldwell and Davis stood on either side of John De George. De George’s wrists were cuffed in front of him, his head bowed.
"We’re taking De George straight to Roosevelt Island," John Caldwell told Ricky, adjusting his flat cap. "I’ll make sure he doesn’t try anything funny."
"Keep him tucked between you," Ricky instructed. "If those papers are genuine, bring them straight to the Village. If he plays games, throw him in the river."
"Understood," John said, nudging De George toward the idling motorcar outside. "Move along."
With the trucks and cars pulling away, the vast, damp warehouse suddenly fell quiet. Only Ricky and three field agents remained, along with Mandy Moore, who was still locked inside the rear holding cell.
Ricky walked over to the three agents, leaning in close and whispering his instructions in a low voice. The three men listened attentively, nodding firmly without asking a single question.
"Fetch Moore," Ricky said aloud.
Two agents walked down the concrete hall, unlocked the heavy oak door, and hauled Mandy Moore out into the main bay. Mandy’s tuxedo was torn and filthy, his eyes wide with exhaustion and terror as he looked around at the empty warehouse. They shoved him into the back seat of the last remaining vehicle parked near the doorway.
Ricky stepped over to a small wooden desk near the central corridor, pulled a leather-bound notebook from his coat, and flipped to a blank page. He unscrewed his fountain pen and wrote several quick lines in a bold, deliberate hand. He tore the page clean out of the notebook, let it flutter down onto the damp concrete floor near the corridor entrance, and recapped his pen.
Without looking back, Ricky walked through the rear exit down to the timber catwalk jutting over the water. A small, diesel-powered barge was idling quietly against the pilings, an agent standing at the wheel. Ricky stepped onto the wooden deck, nodded once, and the barge pushed off into the misty river currents.
Not twenty minutes after the barge vanished into the fog, heavy bootsteps echoed outside the front gates of the chemical plant.
A heavy iron crowbar smashed the side door lock, and a dozen thick-necked Irish dockworkers and syndicate enforcers swarmed into the building, their drawn revolvers glinting in the dim morning light.
"Search the bloody place!" barked the leader, a burly man with a thick red mustache wearing a grease-stained flat cap. "Find Mandy and Galnick or whoever turned his Corona workshop upside down!"
The men scattered across the empty floorboards, kicking over barrels and searching the vacant holding cells.
"Place is cleared out!" one of the thugs yelled from the back hall. "Ain’t nobody here! Just blood on the floorboards in the cell!"
Marc cursed under his breath, turning toward the central aisle. As he walked, another enforcer stooped down and picked up the piece of paper Ricky had dropped on the floor.
"Hey, Marc." the thug said, smoothing out the crumpled page. "Found this sitting right by the hall."
Marc snatched the paper from his hand and squinted at the handwriting, reading it aloud in a loud, rasping growl:
To the Micks on the Brooklyn Docks,
You thought you could keep the Astoria and waterfront skirts for yourself and pocket all the coin? The East River doesn’t stop us anymore. The Manhattan Bridge belongs to the real bossmen, and we’re taking the vice trade all the way to Queens.
Your big earner bled out just like any other outer-borough chump. If you want your cut, come cross the bridge and try to collect it from the boys at Five Points. We’ll be waiting at the Chatham Square dives.
This is a Manhattan town now. Stay on your side of the water or you’re next.
– The East Side Crew.
Marc let out a harsh, barking laugh, shaking his head as he folded the paper and shoved it into his waistcoat pocket.
"Five Points scum think they can cross the river and take over Irishtown, do they?" Red sneered, turning toward the open doorway. "Rally the boys back to the pub. Dinny’s gonna want to read this himself."
Near the Manhattan approach of the Williamsburg Bridge, the black touring car carrying Mandy Moore pulled up alongside a quiet curb.
Ricky was waiting near the sidewalk, his collar turned up against the morning chill. The car slowed to a halt, and Ricky stepped up to the running board, looking through the open window at his three agents.
The lead agent nodded to him. Ricky offered a single, quiet nod in return. "Finish it clean."
"Yes, Boss," the driver replied, shifting the car into gear and rolling across the bridge toward Brooklyn.
Inside the rear seat, Mandy Moore sat shivering in his rumpled suit. As the car rolled through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Brooklyn Heights, a faint surge of relief washed over him. They’re really taking me back, he thought, wiping sweat from his forehead. They’re dropping me right on my home turf.
Yet, a dark wave of panic quickly replaced his relief. How am I going to confess to the Midtown press? What do I tell the police? If Dinny finds out I went to the law, the White Hand will skin me alive... but if I don’t, these bastards will kill my family.
The car rounded the corner onto the cobblestone street outside the Irishtown pub, pulling up smoothly right against the curb. Early morning pedestrians were walking along the sidewalk, and milk wagons rattled past in the pale sunlight.
The agent sitting in the front passenger seat stepped out, opening the rear door for Mandy.
"Out you get, Mr. Moore," the agent said calmly.
Mandy stepped out onto the cobblestone sidewalk, letting out a shaky breath as he turned back to face the agent. "Look... thank you for keeping your word about my family. I’ll do what your boss asked. I’ll go to the precinct first thing—"
Before Mandy could finish his sentence, the agent reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a heavy, cylindrical iron friction grenade, and struck the friction igniter sharply against his leather belt buckle. A bright spark sputtered, and grey smoke instantly hissed from the fuse.
With a lightning-fast thrust, the agent shoved the sputtering iron cylinder deep into the side pocket of Mandy’s heavy wool overcoat!
In the same split second, the agent leapt backward into the open touring car and slammed the door shut.
"FLOOR IT!" the agent yelled.
The driver slammed his foot onto the accelerator. The rear tires screeched against the cobblestones, kicking up sparks as the motorcar roared away down the street.
Mandy stood frozen on the sidewalk. He looked down at his bulging coat pocket, watching thick grey smoke billow from the fabric as the intense heat scorched his side. He slapped wildly at his pocket, trying to yank the heavy iron cylinder free, but the metal had caught on the inner lining.
Realization struck him with cold, terrifying finality.
"NO! WAIT—!" Mandy shrieked, his voice echoing down the street.
BOOM!
A blinding flash and a thunderous detonation tore through the quiet morning air outside the pub!
The blast wave shattered the front glass windows of the Irishtown pub, showering the sidewalk with sharp shards and brick dust. Onlookers screamed in horror, ducking for cover as thick black smoke rolled across the cobblestones, leaving Mandy Moore dead in front of their headquarters door.
Three blocks away, the getaway car screeched into a narrow, dim alleyway between two four-story brick tenement buildings. The car slammed to a stop in the center of the lane.
The three agents vaulted out of the doors instantly.
𝑓𝑟𝑒𝘦𝓌𝑒𝑏𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝘭.𝒸𝘰𝑚
In the open floorboards of the rear seat sat a wooden shipping crate packed with twenty sticks of industrial dynamite.
The lead agent pulled a second friction grenade from his coat, struck the igniter against the brick wall, and dropped the sputtering cylinder directly into the open crate of dynamite.
"RUN!" he barked.
The three men sprinted at top speed out the far end of the alley, blending seamlessly into the bustling crowd of morning commuters walking along the main avenue.
Five seconds later—
THUNDEROUS EXPLOSION!
A blast rocked the entire block. The shockwave blew a massive hole through the outer brick wall of an adjacent tenement hallway, sending a geyser of orange flame and iron splinters into the sky. The automobile was completely disintegrated in a pillar of thick black smoke, leaving behind nothing but a scorched, unidentifiable heap of metal as alarms blared across the waking city.