Chapter 94: Jack Of Diamonds
The night air off the Hudson River was bitter, carrying the heavy scent of burning coal and cold iron.
Ricky and John Caldwell walked side-by-side down the quiet, industrial stretch of the West Side docks. It was just shy of nine o’clock. Ahead of them loomed a massive, ten-story brick and steel monolith. Faint, yellow electric light spilled from a few of its grated windows. A large painted sign above the heavy loading bays read: Western Electric Company.
"A telephone engineering factory," John murmured, his breath pluming white in the chill air. He pulled the collar of his black wool coat tight, his right hand resting casually near the hidden Winchester slung beneath his coat. "Not exactly a typical gang hideout, is it?"
"It’s the perfect hideout," Ricky replied softly, adjusting his flat cap. "It’s completely legitimate."
They stepped up to a heavy iron side door. John knocked three times, the sound echoing sharply down the empty alley.
A moment later, the heavy iron bolt slid back with a loud clack. The door creaked open, revealing a short, thin man in his thirties wearing grease-stained denim overalls and a flat cap. His eyes were wide and slightly jittery.
"Here," the man muttered, glancing nervously out into the alley. "Mr. Diamond is expecting you guys. Come inside, quick."
Ricky and John exchanged a brief, silent glance as they stepped over the threshold. Diamond? Ricky thought, his modern mind ticking over the name. Is that another one of his aliases? Circular Jack... Jack Diamond. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, throwing them into the cavernous, echoing belly of the factory. The air smelled strongly of ozone, copper wire, and machine oil.
"Come on, follow me," the jittery worker said, waving them toward a large, open-cage freight elevator.
At first, Ricky assumed the man was one of Jack’s street enforcers, but as they rode the rattling elevator up to the third floor, Ricky noticed the man’s demeanor. He wasn’t a thug. His hands were stained with black grease and his shoulders hunched with the tired posture of a genuine factory laborer. Jack wasn’t just hiding in the building; he was utilizing the actual workforce.
The elevator ground to a halt on the third floor. The worker led them down a long corridor lined with drafting tables and copper spools, stopping in front of a frosted glass door. Painted neatly on the glass were the words: Floor Supervisor – John Thomas Diamond.
So that’s his real name, Ricky mused.
Ricky gestured for John to stay out in the hall. John gave a single, firm nod, leaning his back against the wall next to the doorframe, his hand slipping inside his coat.
Ricky opened the door and stepped inside.
The office was surprisingly clean and well-lit by modern electric bulbs. Sitting behind a neat mahogany desk, casually writing on a piece of paper, was a man in his late twenties. He wore a sharp, tailored pinstripe suit, his hair slicked back immaculately.
He didn’t look up immediately. He finished his sentence, set his pen down, and looked toward the jittery worker hovering nervously by the door.
"Thank you, Hoobs," the man said smoothly, his voice carrying a calm, chilling authority. "You may go now."
He tossed a small, tied paper bindle across the desk. The worker, Hoobs, caught it with eager, trembling hands. Ricky didn’t need a chemical analysis to know the small white packet was pure cocaine.
"Thank you, Mr. Diamond," Hoobs stammered gratefully, practically sprinting out of the office and shutting the door.
The man behind the desk smiled, gesturing to an empty leather chair. "Please, sit, Mr. Stevenson."
Ricky walked forward, keeping his posture relaxed and grounded, and took the seat. "Mr. Diamond. Or should I call you Jack?"
The man chuckled, a smooth, practiced sound. "I’ve been known by many names on the West Side. Jack Legs. Jack of Diamonds. Circular Jack. I prefer to call myself Jack... for privacy purposes and all."
"Jack it is," Ricky said, matching his casual tone. "So, what kind of deal do you propose, Jack?"
Jack leaned back in his leather chair, crossing his legs. "Straight to the point. I like it. So, let me be direct with you as well." The easy smile faded from his face, replaced by a sharp, calculating stare. "One of my people saw you dealing with Owney Madden on the docks a few nights ago."
Ricky’s heart gave a single, hard thump, but his face remained carved from stone. He didn’t blink, didn’t shift in his chair, and didn’t show an ounce of fear.
"I’m not really one to interrupt your business, since you’re an independent merchant," Jack continued, tapping his fingers against the armrest. "But... you know, it would be extremely bad for your health if my other colleagues found out about this. Especially Frank and Barney Knox."
It was a blatant blackmail attempt, thinly veiled as a friendly warning.
Ricky met Jack’s gaze with cold, absolute calm. He wasn’t about to let a local gang boss think he could put a leash on the Founder’s Syndicate.
"Yes, you’re right," Ricky said smoothly, his voice unwavering. "As you already know, I deal with many people that align with my commercial interests. Owney Madden came to me. I have yet to fully consider his proposal, seeing as it creates unnecessary conflict on the border, and frankly, he has yet to show any real reputation in marketing common goods."
Jack smirked, clearly amused by Ricky’s unflappable composure. "I don’t really care about Madden. As much as I hate him and the Gophers, a full war on the streets is always bad for business. And as you may already know, Kid Yorke wants to talk to you about supplying Chelsea with your liquor. But Barney refuses to let him near you."
"Yeah, you’re right," Ricky nodded slowly. "Greenwich is flourishing. We’re drawing a lot of foot traffic from outside the Village."
"It could be flourishing for everyone, if someone was willing to share their fortune," Jack noted smoothly. "But my idiot colleague Barney doesn’t seem to grasp that concept at all. However... we could easily make a private deal without anyone suspecting a thing, as long as you’re supplying inside my territory."
Ricky raised an eyebrow. Jack’s territory consisted of the commercial docks, the heavy factories, and the rail yards. It wasn’t exactly packed with thirsty saloon patrons.
"That can be done," Ricky said cautiously. "What would you like to propose?"
Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the mahogany desk. "I would like to ask first if you could supply me with guns and ammunition."
Ricky masked his sudden surprise perfectly. Guns? If the Hudson Dusters were trying to stockpile unregistered firearms, it meant Jack was preparing for a massive escalation—either against the Gophers, or against his own colleagues. But Ricky instantly saw the lethal flaw in the request. The federal government and the police might turn a blind eye to smuggled flour and whiskey, but untraceable, unregistered firearms brought down the absolute fury of the authorities. If a gun traced back to the Syndicate was used to kill a cop or a politician, the entire shadow empire would burn.
"I have yet to ask my supplier about firearms," Ricky lied seamlessly, offering a polite but dismissive smile. "Since we don’t really have a market for unregistered weapons. I could try to ask, but don’t get your hopes up. My international contacts usually focus entirely on common commercial goods."
Jack watched him for a second, then nodded slowly, accepting the refusal without argument. "I understand. I had to try. What about paper, then? Specifically, cotton-linen blended paper?"
Ricky’s analytical mind clicked. Cotton-linen blend. That was the exact specific weight and texture used by federal banks to print official bank checks and municipal bonds.
"We have many variants of paper," Ricky said carefully. "I’ll have to ask if they carry that specific blend. But if they do, how much would you like?"
"I’d like to try for a hundred pounds of it," Jack said casually. "Just for testing purposes."
"I’ll note it down," Ricky said. "Is there anything more?"
"Well," Jack sighed, gesturing around his office. "My territory is just a bunch of factories, warehouses, and rail yards. There are only two saloons in my entire area. But I’d like to order ten crates of that Three Piece whiskey, and one crate of the Royal Spades. Deliver it to the Sailor’s Mugs Saloon down on Pier 40. Tell ’em it’s from me, and the bartender will pay you your full rate in cash."
"Consider it done," Ricky said.
"I’ll let you know if there’s anything else," Jack smiled, leaning back in his chair.
Ricky stood up, adjusting his dark wool coat. "I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Jack."
Jack simply nodded, a slick, satisfied smile on his face as Ricky turned and walked out the door.
Out in the hallway, John fell into step beside Ricky as they headed back toward the freight elevator. The Englishman’s sharp eyes scanned the empty factory floor.
"That was quick, boss," John murmured as the elevator doors rattled shut. "Everything sorted?"
"Yeah," Ricky said quietly. "He asked if I had access to heavy guns and ammunition. I told him my supplier doesn’t have a market for unregistered firearms."
John let out a low whistle. "Cheeky bastard. Wants to start a war. What did he settle for?"
"He asked for a hundred pounds of cotton-linen blended paper," Ricky said, watching the floors pass by through the elevator grate. "The kind they use for bank checks."
John frowned, thoroughly confused. "Bank checks? I haven’t heard of the Dusters forging bank notes. That’s usually a high-society grifter’s game."
"They probably aren’t forging them," Ricky analyzed, stepping out into the cold night air as they exited the building. "I think Jack intends to sell the raw paper to other syndicates for a massive markup. That’s his real racket. He runs the commercial docks and the rail yards. It’s the perfect place to store and transfer highly illegal smuggled goods. He buys bulk contraband, sits on it in these massive corporate warehouses, and sells it to the highest bidder."
John pulled the collar of his coat up against the river wind, shaking his head. "It surprises me that a mob boss is actually a floor supervisor for a legitimate telephone company."
"Whatever he may be," Ricky said, a cold, ambitious smirk touching his lips as they walked back toward the elevator. "he has a massive network of elite buyers. And his territory is brilliant. Goods don’t travel on land down here... they travel untraceably by ship. If Jack is buying, we’re going to make a fortune off him."