Chapter 37: Trouble At The West Side
The low-ceilinged back room of the Tenth Avenue saloon was thick with the greasy stench of stale beer, coal smoke, and cheap floral perfume.
Tucked into a plush, wine-red velvet booth near the unlit hearth, Sullivan—a sharp-eyed Hudson Duster lieutenant with slicked-back dark hair and a gold ring on his pinky—slouched against the cushions. A young woman in a ruffled petticoat leaned against his arm, giggling as he poured a splash of amber whiskey into her glass.
Across the low mahogany table sat two younger Dusters, each flanked by a woman, idly shuffling a greasy deck of playing cards.
"The boys on 22nd Street cleared forty dollars on the cocaine packets alone last week," the younger Duster on the left said, taking a drag from his paper cigarette. "The Gophers don’t even run proper narcotics on the lower piers. They’re too busy throwing bricks at coal trains. If we push our runners two blocks north into their territory, we double our earnings by the weekend."
"Rubber knows about the turf line," the second one muttered, leaning back. "If we step over 14th Street without his nod, Madden’s shooters will start dumping our boys in the river."
Sullivan took a slow sip of his whiskey, a cold, arrogant smirk touching his lips. "Leave Rubber to me. I’ll bring him the business proposition tonight. If the Gophers are too stupid to organize a distribution line, we might as well take the profit."
"Problem is," the second Duster noted, "our own runners are sniffing half the product before it even reaches the saloons. We’ll have less inventory to sell if they keep dipping into the tins."
"Then we buy more," Sullivan said simply, waving a dismissive hand. "Cocaine’s cheap enough out of the pharmaceutical houses in Jersey. As long as the cash comes back—"
The heavy oak door of the back parlor swung open with a violent, rattling slam.
Barney Knox—lieutenant of the Greenwich Village precinct and younger brother to Duster boss Goo Goo Knox—strode into the parlor. His face was blotchy and flushed, his wool coat unbuttoned, his collar stiff with dried sweat. He looked thoroughly rattled and exhausted.
Without saying a word to the women or Sullivan, Barney stomped over to the side sideboard, grabbed an unsealed bottle of rye whiskey, and poured himself a heavy glass. He downed it in two long, desperate gulps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Sullivan leaned his head back against the velvet cushion, an amused, lazy grin spreading across his face. "Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence. What’s the matter, Barney? You look like you just got run over by a drayage wagon."
Barney slammed the empty glass onto the sideboard with a sharp, wooden crack. "I’m bloody stressed, that’s what’s wrong."
"Stressed?" Sullivan chuckled, patting the girl beside him. "What’s a lieutenant got to be stressed about on a Thursday afternoon?"
"The suppliers from Brooklyn and Soho," Barney spat, turning around to glare at the table. "Half of them refused to pay their weekly protection and toll fees this week. When my collectors went, they told ’em their profit dipped too low to spare a nickel."
The two younger Dusters stopped shuffling their cards, looking up in surprise.
"Refused?" the second one asked. "Since when does a regular refuse a Duster collector?"
"Since a new rival competitor started running drayage through the Village," Barney growled, walking over to the table and leaning his hands heavily on the wood. "They’re calling ’em ’commission boys or something’ Selling all sorts of dirt goods for dirt-cheap. They’re using them as an excuse to not pay when my boys come around."
Sullivan’s smirk faded slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing. "How much did you lose?"
"Half," Barney admitted, his voice raspy with anger and humiliation. "I lost half my usual weekly collection. And Rubber found out about it this morning."
The room went quiet for a second. The two women sitting with the younger Dusters shifted uncomfortably.
"Rubber called you in?" Sullivan asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Reprimanded me in front of the whole parlor," Barney muttered, his teeth clenching. "Told me my performance was garbage. Said if my numbers don’t recover by next Tuesday, he’s taking the Greenwich precinct away from me and putting someone else on the area."
The second Duster shook his head. "Shit, Barney. Rubber doesn’t make empty threats. You better find a way to fix your area fast."
"I already got a way," Barney said, a sharp, ugly grin breaking through his flushed face. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a heavy, dark steel .38 revolver, snapping the cylinder open with a loud, metallic click. He began inspecting the brass cartridges loaded inside, one by one.
"The regulars offered me a deal," Barney continued, his voice dropping into a low, vicious register. "They’re terrified of losing their regular accounts, but they’re even more terrified of losing their entire market to an unknown competitor. They told me if I force out these new commission boys and clear ’em off for good... they’ll pay double their weekly protection fee, plus a cash bonus."
Sullivan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. A mocking, condescending smile returned to his face as he looked at Barney’s nervous hands.
"If you need help in that particular field, Barney," Sullivan offered smoothly, "I can lend you ten of my men. Proper enforcers who actually know what they’re doing."
Barney snapped the cylinder of his revolver shut with a sharp, furious clack, his eyes blazing as he glared at Sullivan. "Shut up, Sullivan! I don’t need your charity!"
"Just offering, mate," Sullivan chuckled, waving his hands innocently. "Your collectors in the Village are a bunch of greenhorns and teenagers. My boys have actually put men in the river."
"My enforcers can handle a wagon!" Barney snarled, shoving the revolver back into his coat pocket. "I don’t need wanted criminals poking around my territory! And I ain’t sharing a single cent with you."
The two younger Dusters chuckled quietly into their glasses, watching Barney fume. "Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Barney," one of them said. "Sullivan’s just saying your kids could use the practice."
"I’ll do it myself if I have to!" Barney shouted, his face turning dark purple. "I’ll split their heads, and leave ’em in the gutter! Then we’ll see who Rubber replaces!"
He spat into the unlit hearth, turned on his heel, and slammed out of the back parlor, his heavy boots stomping down the hallway toward Tenth Avenue.
Once the door clicked shut, Sullivan let out a loud, mocking laugh, shaking his head as he poured himself another glass of whiskey.
"What an absolute idiot," Sullivan muttered, taking a drink.
"Unlike his brother Goo Goo," the younger Duster sneered, tossing a card onto the felt, "He spends most of his time lazing around in saloons drinking dirt cheap gin. He hasn’t worked a real beat in three years."
"I don’t know why Rubber even keeps him on as a lieutenant," Sullivan scoffed, taking a slow sip.
"You know why," the other Duster smirked, taking a drag from his cigarette. "If he wasn’t Goo Goo Knox’s little brother, someone would’ve dumped him off the pier two years ago."
Sullivan chuckled softly, leaning back into the plush velvet cushions as he pulled his girl closer. "Well... let the fool go play hero. If he gets his head broken, it just leaves more territory for us."