Back to 1910: Building America's Greatest Mafia

The rotting floorboards of the abandoned riverfront warehouse creaked heavily under William Kearney’s polished leather boots who has been recently promoted to Lieutenant.

​He stood near the center of the dark, cavernous room, flanked by two of his most trusted plainclothes sergeants. The air was freezing, smelling of stale salt, wet rot, and rat droppings. Standing across from the three police officers were only five shivering street informants.

​Kearney adjusted his heavy wool overcoat, his eyes narrowing as he looked over the small group. "Where’s the rest of your crew?" Kearney asked, his voice echoing coldly against the damp brick walls. "You know we’ve been waiting on your report for over a week."

​The informant leader rubbed his arms, his face pale and drawn. He didn’t have the cocky, greedy swagger he’d carried during their first meeting.

​"Yeah, well," the leader muttered, glancing nervously toward the dark corners of the warehouse. "The other five got caught by their neighborhood watchers. They’re in hiding. Plus, those ’commission boys’ you asked us to track? They aren’t just independent merchants anymore. They’re operating under the official protection of the Hudson Dusters. I don’t want any more of my men risking their necks for you, copper."

​Kearney didn’t flinch. "So I heard. I didn’t come here to force you back onto the street. I only came for the information you’ve gathered so far. I’m sure you didn’t show up tonight empty-handed."

​The leader sighed, reaching into his frayed coat. "Yeah, well. We needed to finish what we started to get paid."

​"Go on," Kearney prompted.

​"We’re not exactly sure if it’s their main hideout." the leader explained, his voice dropping into a raspy whisper. "They move too fast and they’ve got lookouts everywhere. But we have seen them consistently meeting and moving around one specific spot. Right at the intersection of Christopher Street and Greenwich Street. It’s one of the dense residential buildings there."

​One of Kearney’s sergeants stepped forward, nodding thoughtfully. "That block is packed with working-class tenements and boarding houses, Lieutenant. It would be a perfect place to hide a central office right amongst the civilian crowds without drawing attention."

​Kearney nodded slowly, satisfied with the lead. He reached into his overcoat, pulled out a thick, sealed paper envelope, and tossed it onto an empty crate between them.

​"Thank you for your services," Kearney said flatly. "There’s your remaining pay. Plus a little extra. That covers the fee where we never met, you never saw us, and you don’t know our names."

​The leader snatched the envelope eagerly, stuffing it into his trousers. He gave a quick, tense nod, then signaled his four remaining men. They turned and practically sprinted out the back door of the warehouse, disappearing into the harbor fog.

​Kearney watched them go, his expression turning hard.

​"Lieutenant," one of the sergeants asked quietly. "Can we really trust them to keep their mouths shut? If the Dusters or these commission boys offer them a bigger envelope, they’ll sell our descriptions in a heartbeat."

​"It doesn’t matter," Kearney said, turning back toward the street exit. "The Commissioner has already moved past using street rats. He’s quietly formed an unofficial intelligence unit specializing entirely in deep reconnaissance and espionage."

​The sergeants exchanged a surprised look. "Espionage? Using who?"

​"Army veterans," Kearney said, a grim smile touching his lips. "Men who came back from the Spanish-American war and couldn’t find steady work. What better way to help them than to use their skills to clean up our own country?"

​"What about these commission boys, sir?" the second sergeant asked, following Kearney out into the cold night air. "I pulled the records from the municipal clerks this morning. The customs agency completely cleared their name. The ’Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company’ is a registered, legitimate business. They’ve got documented, official supplier contracts with half a dozen import companies and legitimate trading houses in here and in New Jersey."

​Kearney stopped on the cobblestones, looking toward the distant lights of Greenwich Village.

​"A clean ledger doesn’t stop a man from mixing his legitimate stock with smuggled goods," Kearney said coldly. "And it certainly doesn’t stop us from watching their operations. Kids don’t build paper trails like that. There is a much larger, much more dangerous organization backing them."

​"So where do we start, Lieutenant?"

​"We start by pressing the Dusters," Kearney decided. "These new boys don’t have any of our precinct colleagues on their payroll yet, which means they’re vulnerable. We’ll have our veteran agents uncover exactly who is supplying them. If we can expose the puppet masters backing these kids, we can find out who’s really pulling the strings in New York City. And then..."

​Kearney’s eyes hardened into dark, ambitious slits. "...then we can finally find out who financed the assassination attempt on Mayor Gaynor."

-----------------

​Ricky stood near the very edge of the pier, his dark wool overcoat blowing around his legs. He stared down into the churning, pitch-black water, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

The night wind whipping off the Hudson River was bitter and biting. The dark water sloshed heavily against the thick wooden pilings of the commercial docks.

​Evelynn stood two paces behind him, holding her ledger tightly against her chest. She watched the toe of his leather boot hovering inches from the drop-off.

​"I’d be careful if I were you, sir," Evelynn said, her voice cutting clearly through the rushing wind. "The current is incredibly strong tonight. And I don’t know how to swim."

​Ricky offered a faint, amused smile, taking a slow step back from the edge. "Fair enough."

​He turned to face her, the pale moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. "How’s the new warehouse setup?"

​Evelynn adjusted her grip on the clipboard. "It’s fully operational, sir. It is exactly three times larger than the old Gansevoort shed, and it sits much closer to our Washington Street office. We have enough floor space to stage eight wagons or more simultaneously without crowding the doors."

​"Good," Ricky nodded, his mind immediately running the logistical map. "With that much space, we can easily transfer the massive volume we need for Don Martinez’s handlers without bottlenecking our local Greenwich deliveries."

​"What about the old storage shed on Gansevoort?" Evelynn asked. "Should we terminate the lease?"

​"No, leave it active," Ricky instructed smoothly. "Keep a small amount of inventory staged there, and leave two of our new field agents posted at the doors to make it look operational. This new warehouse is perfect because it sits deep inside Jack’s territory. Jack is a calculating, competent boss. Unlike Barney, Jack won’t do anything erratic or stupid that brings the cops to our door. We’re safe working the heavy drayage under Jack’s nose."

​Evelynn made a quick note in the margins of her ledger. "Regarding the Gansevoort shed, sir... Danny reported in an hour ago. He said he successfully found the ’volunteer baits’ for our friend in the police department."

​Ricky scoffed softly, shaking his head with a dry laugh. "That’s good. I honestly never thought there would be men who would willingly volunteer to be arrested for a fee."

​"If it involves enough silver, sir, men will volunteer for anything," Evelynn said flatly.

​"What about the fake office on Christopher Street?" Ricky asked.

​"Fully staffed, sir," Evelynn confirmed. "Danny placed four men inside the rented apartment. They are shuffling blank papers and empty ledgers as we speak."

​Ricky looked back out over the dark, sprawling expanse of the harbor. He had known the moment they left Mrs. O’Connell’s boarding house that the spotters had tracked them to Christopher Street. Instead of running from it, Ricky had turned the address into a trap.

​"Good," Ricky murmured, a cold, strategic satisfaction settling into his chest. "If this Lieutenant Kearney is as smart as I think he is, he’ll raid that Christopher Street apartment. He’ll arrest the volunteers, seize the blank ledgers, and think he’s crushed our operation. He’ll take the bait... and he won’t realize he’s been chasing shadows until we’re already miles ahead of him."

​Suddenly, the heavy, metallic sound of a pump-action slide ratcheted through the quiet air.

​CHACK-CLACK.

​Ricky turned his head instantly.

​John Caldwell was stepping out from the shadows of the warehouse wall, the dark steel barrel of the Winchester twelve-gauge leveled at his hip. The young Englishman’s gray eyes were wide, locked on the water beyond the pier.

​"Boss," John said, his voice tight and urgent. "I think you should step back from the edge."

​Ricky frowned, his upgraded Perception snapping to full alert as he followed John’s gaze out into the freezing harbor mist.

​Drifting silently out of the fog, moving with unnatural quiet toward their isolated stretch of the pier, was a massive, unlit wooden coal barge. There were no running lights. No steam engine humming. Just a massive, dark shape cutting through the black water directly toward them.

​Ricky didn’t say a word. He slowly reached inside his dark wool coat, his fingers wrapping securely around the cold steel grip of his Colt .38 revolver.

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