Chapter 72: Playing Politics
The noon sun beat down on the Hudson River piers, turning the air inside the second-floor parlor of the dockside saloon into a stifling soup of stale ale, pipe smoke, and sweat. Downstairs, the roar of off-duty longshoremen, coal shovelers, and draymen slamming nickel mugs onto the mahogany bar created a steady, bass hum that vibrated through the floorboards.
Inside the private room, three men sat around a heavy oak table, a bottle of rye whiskey resting between them.
Circular Jack—one of the three ruling bosses of the Hudson Dusters—swirled his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the pale light filtering through the grime-streaked window. He was a thick-set man in his early forties, his face scarred around the jawline from an old dock brawl.
"What’s this new rumor I hear about Frank’s little brother?" Jack asked, his voice low and raspy.
Kid Yorke, the second boss sitting opposite him, tapped his thumb against his glass. Yorke was younger, with slicked-back dark hair and sharp, predatory eyes. "What rumor?"
Sitting at the end of the table was Rubber Shaw. Rubber held no boss title on paper, but as deputy, he was the primary engine of the gang—the man responsible for translating the bosses’ decrees into street orders for every lieutenant from Greenwich, Hudson Docks to Chelsea.
Rubber leaned back into his wooden chair, taking a slow sip. "Apparently, a new merchant outfit calling themselves the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company—the ’commission boys’—approached Barney with a commercial deal. They offered him exclusive distribution rights on a new line of imported whiskey and he turned it down."
Kid Yorke scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. Barney turned down an exclusive whiskey line? When has that useless mutt ever been smart enough?"
"He turned it down because he claims he doesn’t trust ’em yet," Rubber said dryly. "And now he’s walking around the Tenth Avenue saloons bragging about it. Acting like he’s some shrewd corporate banker because he gave ’em a formal refusal letter."
"I don’t give a damn about Barney bragging," Jack grunted, setting his glass down with a heavy thud. "I’m interested in those boys. If they’ve got pristine imported liquor and no paper trail, that’s a potential goldmine for the dock saloons."
The heavy oak door of the private parlor pushed open with a sharp creak.
Frank "Goo Goo" Knox stepped into the room. He was dressed impeccably in a dark wool suit with a silk necktie and a polished bowler hat, holding himself with the smooth, arrogant posture of a street boss who held Tammany Hall politicians in his coat pocket.
"Why are you mentioning my little brother again?" Frank asked, stepping over to the table and pulling out a chair.
"Nice timing, Frank," Kid Yorke said with a dry chuckle. "Why don’t you talk some sense into your brother? Tell him to take that merchant deal. It might actually bring some decent traffic through Greenwich for once."
Frank sat down, adjusting his coat lapels. "Leave Barney alone. It’s up to him how he runs his beat."
Circular Jack offered a slow, knowing smirk, leaning forward on his elbows. "You don’t mind if I step in and snatch that candy away from him, do you, Frank?"
Frank took a paper cigarette from his vest, lighting it with a wooden match. "Go right ahead," Frank said, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "Maybe he’ll actually step up and take the deal once he sees you going after it. It’d do him some good to move his ass for once. He’s been salty as hell ever since I appointed Rubber as deputy instead of him."
Kid Yorke and Jack both scoffed softly. Rubber Shaw remained quiet, his face unreadable.
"Is that why he’s been isolating himself down on Perry Street?" Kid Yorke asked. "Playing big boss in his own head?"
"Ever since I handed him the Greenwich territory," Frank admitted, a faint trace of irritation touching his tone, "he’s been acting like he runs his own independent outfit. He won’t take any advice and he won’t listen to his captains."
"That’s fine," Jack said, tapping his fingers against the wood. "His Greenwich operations keep the precinct patrolmen off our backs. But his own collectors are starting to complain, Frank. They say he takes every single dollar from the protection envelopes and leaves ’em starving. Sooner or later, something’s going to blow down there."
Frank’s eyes hardened instantly, his cool political demeanor flashing into raw, lethal street violence. "I’ll kill any bastard who lays a hand on my brother. But... I’ll figure a way around his mess."
Frank let out a long sigh, taking one last drag from his cigarette before crushing it out in an iron tray. He stood up, buttoning his tailored coat and straightening his bowler hat.
"You gents go ahead," Frank said, adjusting his cuffs. "I’ve got a scheduled meeting with Councillor McNuggle over at the district hall."
He gave a crisp nod and stepped out of the parlor, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
The moment Frank’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Kid Yorke shook his head with a bitter scoff. "Why the hell does he keep spoiling that idiot anyway? Barney’s a liability."
"It keeps Frank happy," Jack said flatly. "And a happy Frank keeps Tammany Hall off our docks. How’s your area, Kid? Don’t you have bigger problems to worry about?"
Kid Yorke’s sharp face tightened, a dark, stressed scowl twisting his mouth. "Yeah. Owney Madden’s shooters from the Gophers are slowly creeping up on my Chelsea territory."
"Well, what do you expect?" Rubber Shaw remarked mildly, swirling his glass. "Chelsea’s got three times the foot traffic and double the commercial yards. It’s a prize."
"It’s the fruit of my hard work," Kid Yorke stated proudly, leaning back. "Though our cocaine supplier uptown has been getting a bit questionable with his prices lately. Still, the snow powder sells itself. Everyone wants it, so who am I to stop ’em?"
Kid let out a rough laugh, and Rubber joined in with a low chuckle.
Circular Jack, however, didn’t laugh. He sat quietly, staring down at his glass of rye as his mind calculated the larger board.
While Kid Yorke was busy selling cocaine packets in Chelsea and Frank Knox was playing politics with Tammany Hall, Jack was looking at the bigger picture. He knew where the real power lay on the West Side—in the heavy commercial shipping lines, the industrial trading houses, and the river piers.
If these "commission boys" could move tons of unmanifested freight, custom-branded luxury liquor, and pristine hardware without a single paper trail hitting the customs office... what else could they source?
Could they bring in guns? Jack thought to himself, his jaw setting. Real military steel?
Jack looked out the dirt-streaked window at the river tugs chugging past the piers. With the municipal elections coming up next year, the West Side was going to turn into a bloodbath between the Dusters, the Gophers, and Madden’s crew. While the rest of his lieutenants were playing house and collecting pocket silver, Jack knew that whoever controlled the supply lines—and the firepower—would be the ones standing when the smoke cleared.
"I’m going to find those commission boys, myself." Jack murmured softly to himself, taking a slow, heavy drink of his whiskey.