Seven days had passed since the Hudson Dusters turned the Chelsea docks into a warzone.
The heavy iron wheels of drayage wagons rattled over the cobblestones of Greenwich Village, but the usual chaotic energy of the neighborhood felt tighter, more controlled. Uniformed beat cops walked the avenues in pairs, twirling their wooden nightsticks and keeping sharp eyes on the alleyways.
Frank Knox stood by the front window of Barney’s Tenth Avenue saloon, casually sipping a cup of black coffee. He watched two precinct officers cross the street, tipping their hats to a passing carriage.
"The boys from the Tombs got out three days ago," Barney said, stepping up beside his brother. He crossed his thick arms, looking out the glass. "Everyone is back on the payroll. I’ve got crews walking the blocks day and night, just like you asked."
"Good," Frank murmured, taking another sip.
"I still don’t get why you’re paying the precinct captain to flood our own streets with coppers," Barney muttered, frowning at the police presence. "It’s bad for the gambling dens. Makes the customers jumpy."
"It makes the Gophers jumpy, too," Frank corrected smoothly. "I broke up those two tonnes of cocaine and scattered the crates across six different cellars between here and the west docks. Owney Madden is bleeding. He’s desperate. He’s going to send men south to try and hunt that powder down." Frank smiled, gesturing to the cops outside with his coffee cup. "But he can’t mount a proper raid if the streets are swarming with uniforms. We use the city’s outrage over the dock shootout as a shield. The cops keep the Gophers out, and we count our money in peace."
Barney chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re a sneaky bastard, Frank."
"Just make sure the boys stay sharp," Frank said, turning away from the window. "Owney isn’t the type to just roll over and die."
Up north, the Hell’s Kitchen waterfront was a graveyard of charred wood.
The smell of wet ash and burned pitch hung heavy in the cold river air. Out of twenty-three Gopher coal barges, only eight were left floating at the slips.
Inside the damp, cramped cabin of one of the surviving barges, Owney Madden sat at a small wooden table. He slowly exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke, the dim light catching the sharp, dangerous angles of his face. Four of his top lieutenants stood around the cabin. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the gentle slapping of the Hudson River against the hull.
When Owney had returned to the city six days ago, the devastation had shocked him. It wasn’t just the arrested men or the burnt boats. The Dusters had completely gutted their primary stash house.
"What are we gonna do now, Owney?" one of the lieutenants, a stocky man named Robert, finally asked. His voice was thick with bitterness. "How does your little personal mission hunting those ’commission boys’ help us now?"
Another lieutenant, standing near the door, crossed his arms. "We were just caught off guard, Robert."
"No!" Robert sneered, stepping forward and pointing a finger at the floorboards. "I knew they would do this! I knew they would retaliate hard when Owney marched down there and beat up their collectors! Over a dozen men!"
"It was just twelve Dusters," the man by the door argued defensively.
"Yes, twelve!" Robert shot back, his face turning red with frustration. "And in exchange, we lost our entire market! Our supply is gone. Half our men are either dead, bleeding in a hospital ward, or locked up in the Tombs. The coppers are swarming Hell’s Kitchen so thick we can’t even run a numbers game! We’ve lost control!"
Owney didn’t say a word. He took a final drag of his cigarette, dropped the stub onto the wooden floor, and calmly crushed it beneath his leather shoe.
He stood up from his chair. His hand slipped smoothly inside his coat.
BANG.
The gunshot was deafening inside the small cabin. Robert’s head snapped back, a spray of red painting the wall behind him. He slumped backward, crashing through the flimsy side door of the cabin and splashing heavily into the dark river water.
The other three lieutenants jumped, their hands hovering near their own coats, staring in absolute, paralyzed shock as Robert’s blood swirled in the Hudson.
Owney casually slipped the smoking .32 revolver back into his holster. He pulled a fresh cigarette from a silver case and struck a match.
"It’s time for us to lay low," Owney said, his voice entirely calm, as if nothing had just happened. "Right now, we are officially dead on the streets. The Dusters are celebrating. We will let them get drunk on their victory, and then we will take them by surprise. But first, we need money to rebuild."
The lieutenant by the door swallowed hard, his eyes darting from Owney to the empty doorway where Robert had just stood. "How? How do we get money?"
"The Commission Boys," Owney said simply.
Two of the lieutenants sighed, their shoulders dropping in visible disappointment.
"I know, I know what it sounds like," Owney said, waving the cigarette. "But listen to me. According to my informants, these boys have completely taken over the Greenwich liquor market, and now they’re expanding up into Midtown. They aren’t a legally registered company. They are a bunch of highly organized smugglers playing at being merchants."
Owney leaned his hands on the table, his eyes locked on his men. "Think about it. Where did they get that much high-end merchandise? How are they moving it through the city entirely undetected? Only a giant, highly structured organization can pull that off. Long term, these guys are a gold mine."
"So we’re playing merchants now, too?" the lieutenant by the door asked, frowning.
"Essentially," Owney nodded. "Our cocaine supplier just raised their prices by five times to cover the losses. It’s impossible for us to continue in the powder venture, not when the Morellos, the Eastmans, and the Five Pointers are already squeezing the margins. We’re just a bunch of backstreet boys compared to them."
Another lieutenant rubbed his jaw. "But why do you think these Commission Boys will want to side with us? And how do we even know they aren’t just another Duster racket?"
Owney smirked, a cold, calculating look in his eyes. "They aren’t Dusters. Their boss is a sleazy, cunning bastard. They might appear submissive on the surface, letting the Dusters claim them, but by giving Barney Knox an exclusive deal on imported liquors, he made the Dusters completely dependent on their supply. And their money."
Owney paced a few steps, looking out the open door at the river. "Only these Commission Boys have access to this mysterious supplier. You can’t threaten a man like that by trying to take all his profits, because the tap just shuts off. That’s why I think these guys are far more dangerous than your average street thugs. It’s not that they have the raw strength. It’s because they’re smart."
The lieutenant by the door slowly nodded, the logic finally clicking. "So that’s why you’ve been so busy lately, hunting them down."
Owney just shrugged lightly.
"How do we even find these guys?" the lieutenant asked. "The Dusters have them hidden deep."
"I already did," Owney said quietly, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. "But you leave them to me. Let me handle them alone. If we show up on their turf with steel drawn, we might be in for a lot more trouble than we can handle. I’m thinking these guys really don’t want to be found."
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