Chapter 172: Bagging
The plush velvet curtains inside the second-floor private parlor of the Astoria Park Inn were pulled shut against the damp river air, muting the distant whistle of watercraft on the East River. Below, the soft plink of a ragtime piano drifted up through the floorboards, accompanying the low laughter of Midtown hotel guests and local ward heelers.
Mandy Moore lounged deep in a tufted leather armchair, an imported Cuban cigar held loosely between his fingers. He blew a slow ring of blue smoke toward the brass chandelier, his ringed fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest.
"I tell you, gentlemen," Mandy chuckled, a greasy, satisfied grin stretching across his face, "Midtown is an open vault if you know which precinct captains to grease. The hotel crowd doesn’t want street-corner mud. They want discretion, high-grade cocaine, and fresh girls who don’t talk back."
Floyd sat across from him on a plush settee, looking every bit the gilded heir in a tailored black tuxedo with silk lapels. He swirled two fingers of aged brandy in a crystal tumbler, his expression one of polite, aristocratic interest.
"That is precisely why my associate and I sought you out tonight, Mr. Moore," Floyd said smoothly, his voice dripping with easy confidence. "Over the past month, watching the clean precision of your operations... it’s clear you possess a sharp commercial mind that most severely lack."
Mandy swelled with visible pride, puffing his chest out beneath his embroidered waistcoat. "Well, I’ve always said a real businessman doesn’t roll around in the gutter like street animals. I cater to gentlemen."
"Which brings us to our business tonight," Jason chimed in from an adjacent armchair, leaning forward as he adjusted his onyx cufflinks. "Our syndicate board is currently holding a private, late-night session at an exclusive waterfront estate just north of the park. Heavyweights, Mr. Moore. Port commissioners, shipping executives, and two assemblymen from the Fifth District. Floyd and I spoke of your enterprise over dinner, and the gentlemen expressed a keen desire to meet you before finalizing their spring allocations."
Mandy froze, his cigar hovering two inches from his lips. His small eyes widened as he swallowed hard, his mind instantly calculating the raw political power sitting just north of the park. "Assemblymen? On the waterfront?"
"Indeed," Floyd said, standing up and buttoning his tuxedo jacket. "Our private motorcar is idling in the side courtyard right now. If we leave immediately, we can introduce you before the board adjourns for the evening."
"Hell, don’t keep elected officials waiting on my account!" Mandy said, hastily setting his brandy glass down and snapping his cigar out in a bronze tray. He grabbed his wool topcoat and silk scarf from the brass coat tree, adjusting his bowtie in the oval mirror. "Lead the way, boys."
They walked down the carpeted rear service staircase, bypassing the crowded main parlor, and stepped out into the crisp, cold night air of the side courtyard.
Idling quietly against the curb was a sleek, jet-black Pierce-Arrow Town Car, its polished brass headlamps cutting two sharp beams through the light mist. Swimmer stood by the open rear door in a immaculate driver’s overcoat and flat cap, bowing his head respectfully as they approached.
"After you, Mr. Moore," Floyd said politely, stepping aside.
Mandy stepped up onto the running board and slid into the deep, leather-upholstered cabin without a shred of hesitation. Floyd and Jason climbed in right behind him, settling onto the facing bench.
Swimmer closed the heavy door with a solid, metallic CLICK.
As the Pierce-Arrow pulled away from the curb and glided smoothly into the darkness heading north, Mandy leaned back against the plush leather cushion, completely unaware that the spring-loaded door locks had engaged from the outside.
Two miles south, beneath the massive, coal-dusted iron trestle of the Ditmars Boulevard Elevated Station, the air was cold, biting, and thick with the smell of locomotive soot.
Parked in the pitch-black shadows beneath the wooden stairwell sat a black Ford Model T. Ten minutes earlier, Patrick and Robert had ambushed Mandy Moore’s usual goons in the adjacent alley, knocking them cold, binding them with heavy hemp rope, slicing their necks and shoving them behind a stack of beer crates.
Now, Patrick sat behind the spoked steering wheel with his cap pulled down low, while Robert sat in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his coat. Elmer and Scudy remained hidden in the deep shadow of the iron support pillars behind the car, watching the station exits.
Above them, the iron framework shivered and groaned as the four-car elevated steam train screeched to a halt along the high wooden platform. Iron brakes squealed against the rails, spitting showers of bright orange sparks into the dark.
A minute later, heavy boot heels began clattering down the long wooden staircase.
Christopher Galnick descended the steps, his thick collar turned up against the wind, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his heavy wool overcoat. His small, sharp eyes flicked back and forth across the street with paranoid precision.
Galnick reached the bottom landing and stepped out onto the sidewalk under the yellow glow of a gas lamp. He walked directly toward the idling Model T, expecting to see a familiar pug face behind the glass.
Instead, as he drew within six feet of the running board, the yellow streetlight caught the broad, unfamiliar jawline of Patrick behind the wheel.
Galnick stopped dead in his tracks. "Where the hell is Mickey?" he barked, his voice sharp and gravelly.
Patrick reached for the chrome door handle to step out—a fraction of a second too soon.
Galnick’s eyes snapped wide. He didn’t ask another question. He spun on his heel and sprinted straight back up the wooden staircase, his heavy boots pounding against the timber planks with frantic speed!
"HE’S RUNNING! UP THE STAIRS!" Patrick roared, throwing the door open and vaulting onto the sidewalk!
Patrick, Robert, Elmer, and Scudy bolted up the staircase after him, their leather soles slapping loudly against the wooden steps.
"POLICE! PRIVATE DETECTIVES!" Patrick yelled at the top of his lungs toward two startled ticket clerks near the turnstiles. "CLEAR THE WAY! OFFICIAL DETECTIVE BUSINESS!"
The loud, authoritative shout kept the civilian commuters frozen against the station walls in panic, giving the four men a completely clear path onto the platform.
Galnick didn’t bother with the exit gates. He sprinted down the wooden platform, vaulted straight over the high iron safety railing, and landed hard on the narrow, open-air catwalk running alongside the elevated train tracks!
He moved with terrifying, desperate agility, his heavy boots leaping over iron rivets and timber cross-ties as he fled north along the elevated structure, fifty feet above the dark street below.
"HALT! FREEZE, YOU BASTARD!" Patrick bellowed, leaping over the iron platform barrier right behind him, his wool coat flapping wildly in the cold wind sweeping off the river.
"FUCK YOUR BADGES!" Galnick screamed over his shoulder, spitting into the dark as he kept running.
Suddenly, the iron girders beneath their feet shivered violently. A blinding white beam of light cut through the gloom from the northern curve—an incoming southbound steam locomotive was thundering down the line directly toward them!
HOOOOORN! CHUG-CHUG-CHUG-CHUG!
Galnick glanced back, saw the iron train rushing down the track, and dived sideways into a narrow iron maintenance alcove built into the outer girder, pressing his spine flat against the steel shield just as the roaring engine thundered past!
The locomotive rushed between them like a wall of iron and fire, spewing a blinding cloud of scalding steam, hot coal cinders, and thick grey smoke directly across the track framework.
Patrick didn’t slow down for a single second. The instant the rear car cleared the switch, he leaped directly across the live track ties, plunging straight through the lingering wall of blinding coal smoke. Robert, Elmer, and Scudy followed right on his heels, their boots cracking against the wood.
Galnick pulled himself out of the iron alcove to keep running, expecting a head start—only to see Patrick burst straight out of the lingering grey smoke less than ten feet away!
Panic seized Galnick’s chest. He turned and sprinted another fifty yards down the track extension toward a dead-end maintenance siding, but his heavy lungs were burning like fire. He wheezed, his breath coming in ragged, painful rasps, his legs turning to rubber under his weight.
His boot caught on a rusted iron tie rod. Galnick stumbled, gasping frantically for air, and crashed hard against the outer iron handrail at the very end of the elevated structure.
Gasping in heavy, painful gulps, Galnick spun around, pressing his back flat against the rail. Sweat poured down his flushed face as he held both shaking hands up in the air, a bitter sneer plastered across his face as Patrick and Robert closed in.
"Alright! Alright, damn it!" Galnick wheezed, his chest heaving violently as he tried to catch his breath. "Keep your hands off the suit, dick-smiths! You got no warrant for Queens! You’re picking on the wrong goddamn outfit—Tammany’s gonna have your badges and your heads before sunrise!"
Patrick stepped up, completely unbothered, pulling a pair of heavy iron handcuffs from his coat pocket. "Keep talking, Galnick. The ride’s free."
Robert grabbed Galnick’s wrist, twisting it sharply behind his back with a loud CLICK of locking steel. Patrick shoved a thick rag deep into Galnick’s mouth, choking off his enraged curses, and they dragged him down the iron service ladder into the covered wagon waiting in the alley below.
Three blocks away on 23rd Avenue, the final leg of the trap was springing shut.
𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦
Inside a brightly lit coffee shop, John De George sat alone in a corner wooden booth, nervously pulling a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and checking the time. Outside the front glass window, his two burly private bodyguards sat at a small square table near the door, their coats unbuttoned, watching the quiet street.
Suddenly, a loud, chaotic din erupted from the narrow brick alleyway directly behind the building. Glass bottles shattered against the brickwork, followed by slurred, angry shouting.
"I’ll break your jaw, you drunk bastard!" Miller’s voice bellowed down the alleyway, accompanied by the sound of heavy metal trash cans being kicked across the cobblestones.
The two bodyguards near the front window exchanged a quick glance. One of them grunted, reaching inside his coat to adjust his revolver before gesturing toward the back corridor. They both stood up and walked down the rear hallway to clear the alley.
They pushed open the heavy wooden back door, stepping out into the dark alleyway.
THWACK! THWACK!
Miller, Chester, Roscoe, and Eugene stepped out from the deep shadows of the brick wall like ghosts. Two brutal, lightning-fast strikes from heavy leather-wrapped lead saps caught the bodyguards right behind the ear. Both men went limp instantly, collapsing onto the damp cobblestones without uttering a sound.
Inside the quiet coffee shop, Davis, Rico, Lyle, and Sterling pushed open the front glass door and walked calmly across the floor. Davis and Rico slid into the wooden booth on either side of De George before the politician could even look up from his teacup.
"What is the meaning of—" De George started, his voice squeaking in indignation.
Davis slid the cold, heavy barrel of a .38 revolver firmly against De George’s ribs underneath the table overhang.
"Mr. De George," Davis whispered softly, his voice dead cold and utterly flat. "Your appointment has been moved. Keep your mouth shut and walk out the side door with us, or you won’t survive the night."
De George’s face turned paper-white. He swallowed hard, his knees trembling uncontrollably as he slowly stood up. They guided him smoothly between them out into the dark 24th Street alley and shoved him straight into the back of an enclosed truck.
Twenty minutes later, rain swept across the dark, marshy waterfront of Lawrence Point.
Gary stood beside the rusted chain-link entrance of the abandoned chemical processing plant, swinging the heavy timber gates open as three sets of headlamps cut through the coastal mist. The Pierce-Arrow Town Car rolled through first, followed closely by the covered wagon and the closed delivery van.
The three vehicles came to a stop inside the cavernous, high-ceilinged brick warehouse. Industrial lamps powered by a portable gasoline generator flared to life, casting a harsh, blinding white light across the vast concrete floor.
Ricky stood at the center of the room, flanked by David Brians.
The vehicle doors were thrown open.
Mandy Moore was pulled out of the Pierce-Arrow first, his tailored tuxedo rumpled, his face twisted in utter shock and growing fury as he looked around the desolate factory floor.
Christopher Galnick was dragged out of the wagon next, gagged and handcuffed, glaring venomously at Patrick while trying to shake off the iron wrist bonds.
Finally, John De George was pulled from the delivery van. His knees gave out entirely the moment his boots hit the floorboards, and he collapsed onto the wet concrete, weeping in sheer terror.
Ricky stepped forward, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark overcoat, looking down at the three captured men beneath the blinding white light.