Chapter 124: Cleaning Up

The black motorcar rumbled to a halt along the cobblestones outside Kid Yorke’s West Side hideout. The moment Frank Knox stepped off the running board, the two lookouts stationed by the doorway froze, their faces turning pale under their cloth caps.

​The younger lookout shoved his partner’s shoulder frantically. "Go get Josh! Hurry up—it’s Knox!"

​The second man bolted inside, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. Frank didn’t hurry his stride. He crossed the narrow street with Marney trailing half a step behind, his dark wool overcoat unbuttoned just enough to reach his holster.

​Before Frank reached the stoop, the door swung open again and Josh, one of Kid’s senior lieutenants, stepped out onto the landing. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting to Frank’s hands before rising to meet his cold gaze.

​"What... what can I do for you, Mr. Knox?" Josh stammered, wiping his sweaty palms against his trousers.

​Frank stopped at the foot of the steps, staring up at him with unblinking indifference. "Where’s Kid, Josh?"

​Josh fumbled with his collar, his voice rising nervously. "Look, Mr. Knox—Kid didn’t have nothing to do with Barney! We don’t know who put your brother in the ground, honest to God! We was nowhere near the Indy Saloon when—"

​"That isn’t an answer to my question, Josh," Frank interrupted, his voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous tone that made the lieutenant flinch.

​Josh looked away, unable to hold Frank’s eyes any longer. "He’s... he’s over at the Hogging Smoke saloon on West Twentieth. Laying low in the back."

​Frank didn’t say another word. He turned on his heel and walked back to the idling automobile.

​Twenty minutes later, the motorcar pulled up to the curb outside the Hogging Smoke. Marney stayed behind the steering wheel, leaving the engine running while Frank adjusted the revolver tucked beneath his left arm. A few pedestrians on the sidewalk recognized Frank’s sharp suit and stern profile, nudging one another and quickly crossing to the opposite side of the avenue.

​Frank pushed open the saloon’s double doors and stepped inside.

​The ambient chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the scrape of wooden chairs died instantly. The entire room went dead silent as twenty pairs of eyes locked onto Frank Knox standing in the entryway.

​Up on the second-floor mezzanine, Kid Yorke leaned against the timber railing. The moment he spotted Frank, his face twisted. "Shit..." Kid muttered under his breath.

​Kid was limping heavily, his left leg bound tight in thick bandages beneath his trousers where Henry’s rifle bullet had grazed him two days prior. Gritting his teeth, he yelled down at the room, "Two of you useless bastards get up here and help me down these steps! Move!"

​Two enforcers hurried up the stairwell, letting Kid rest his arms over their shoulders as he dragged his bad leg down the steps, groaning with every footfall.

​Frank watched the painful display from the middle of the floor, his face unreadable. "I can’t decide whether I ought to be angry with you or pity you, Kid."

​Kid scoffed, his face red from exertion as his feet hit the main floorboards. "Shut your mouth, Frank. Just be glad I ain’t the bastard who put your brother six feet under."

​Frank stared down at the older gang leader. "I should be the one saying that to you."

​Kid let out a rough sigh, waving his men off. "Come on into the back office before my damn leg gives out completely. I feel like a ninety-year-old man standing out here."

​Kid’s men guided him toward a private door near the rear. Frank lingered by the bar, tapping his knuckles against the mahogany counter.

​"Give me a pour of that American blend everyone’s talking about," Frank said to the bartender. "Let’s see if it’s as good as you claim."

​Kid turned around at the office threshold, a faint, mocking smirk on his lips. "Billy, pull a bottle from my private stock under the sideboard."

​The bartender nodded quickly, reaching beneath the counter to produce a unlabelled green glass bottle tagged with handwritten ink: Lumberjack’s Piss.

​Frank picked up the bottle, examining the crude label with a raised eyebrow. "A curious name for high-grade whiskey."

​"Only an American could come up with a name that foul for good rye," Kid said as he groaned into a heavy armchair inside the back room. "That’s how you know it’s genuine."

​Frank unstoppered the bottle, poured two heavy fingers into a pair of tumblers, and walked into the office. He handed one glass to Kid and took a seat opposite him. Frank took a small sip, letting the liquor linger before swallowing.

​His eyes widened slightly. "Smooth. I can see why you and Barney were tearing up Gansevoort Street over it."

​Kid shook his head, taking a gulp from his glass. "This ain’t the stuff we fought over, Frank. The whiskey that started the war was called Royal Spades. I got that batch from a secret supplier uptown."

​"A secret supplier?" Frank swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "You wouldn’t happen to know who cleaned out my brother’s cocaine stashes the very same night, would you?"

​Kid frowned, setting his glass down hard on the table. "No, of course not! You think I took ’em? Do you think I’m stupid enough to rob you direct, Frank?"

​Frank studied Kid’s reaction for a long moment before nodding faintly. "No. I suppose you wouldn’t be." He took another slow drink. "Then it is no understatement to say there is a mutiny brewing among the lower ranks."

​Kid grunted, leaning back against his cushion. "Can you blame ’em? Barney didn’t give a single damn about the men on the street. He was cruel, greedy, and treated everyone like dirt."

​"He was also known for never listening to a word of sound advice," Frank added quietly.

​"Ain’t that the truth," Kid muttered.

​Frank leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as his voice turned to ice. "Regardless... he was my brother. Anyone involved in his death will get what’s coming to them."

​Kid shifted uncomfortably under Frank’s gaze, clearing his throat. "Look, Frank... I only marched into Greenwich because that damn fool burned four of my saloons and nearly torched three residential blocks. Then his boys came around blaming me for stealing his blow that same night—which is absurd! My men and I were up to our knees holding water buckets trying to save the block!"

​"So someone set the two of you against each other," Frank said. "Orchestrated the entire affair."

​"That’s what I reckon," Kid said. "Wouldn’t surprise me if the bastards who poisoned Barney are the very same ones sitting on your crates right now."

​"I’ll find them sooner or later," Frank said smoothly. He shifted his posture, changing the subject. "Tell me... what do you know about Richard Stevenson?"

​Kid blinked, surprised by the name. "Stevenson? Atlantic & Pacific Import Company? He was Barney’s business partner. Why?"

​"Would it surprise you to learn he’s the core reason for the friction between you and my brother?" Frank asked.

​Kid scratched his chin, thinking back. "Well... now that you mention it, before Barney and I ever laid hands on each other, I sent a letter to Stevenson offering him a partnership in Chelsea. Barney found out about it before Stevenson even accepted my terms. Barney flew into a rage, claimed Stevenson belonged exclusively to him, and said I had no claim over his goods. That’s when all this shit started."

​Frank listened calmly. "Would you say that argument never happens if Stevenson had never existed in the first place?"

​Kid shrugged. "Well... yes, I suppose, but—"

​"Then that is all I needed to hear," Frank cut in cleanly.

​Kid looked at him nervously. "What are you planning to do?"

​"Clean the dirt out of my yard," Frank said, his eyes darkening. "I had a feeling the first time I looked at his face. Deceptive. Unworthy of trust. My gut feelings are never wrong."

​"You gonna kill him?" Kid asked outright.

​"Yes," Frank replied without hesitation. "I warned my brother about him, but Barney let him cling to his coat like a parasite."

​Kid waved a hand dismissively. "Well, I ain’t gonna stand in your way. I already got my American liquor supplier locked in anyway. I got no need for Stevenson’s unpatriotic goods."

​Frank scoffed softly, setting his empty tumbler on the desk. "On another matter... I’m going to need you to hand over a quarter of your cocaine supply to me."

​Kid’s jaw dropped. He sat bolt upright, his face flushing dark red with sudden anger. "Now hold on! That’s downright unpatriotic of you, Frank! You lose your stock and come to shake me down?! Do you have any idea how much I lost when Barney torched my place?! Fire spread to my secondary stash house—hundreds of thousands of dollars in white powder went up in smoke!"

​Frank stood up slowly, looming over Kid’s chair, his dark overcoat pulling back just enough to reveal the leather holster at his ribcage.

​"That is indeed unfortunate, Kid," Frank said softly. "But Tammany Hall expects its weekly tribute. If we fail to pay the bosses uptown, even I won’t be able to shield you from the police commissioners. The coppers would like nothing more than to sweep both our outfits into the Tombs."

​Frank stepped closer to the desk. "Now... I can either have Captain Thompson and his precinct officers march in here and confiscate your entire inventory... or you can hand over twenty-five percent to me right now."

​Kid glared up at Frank, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the armrests of his chair. He breathed heavily through his nose, fighting back his rage, before finally spitting on the carpet.

​"Fine!" Kid barked out. "Fine! But you better hook me up with a new cocaine supplier, Frank! I’m running thin!"

​"Don’t worry, Kid," Frank said smoothly, adjusting his lapels. "Once our distribution recovers, suppliers will be knocking on our door. I’ll be asking the same from Jack. And once I recover my stolen crates from whoever took them, I’ll reimburse you in full."

​Frank turned toward the office door. "I’ll also hand over all of Stevenson’s remaining liquor stock to you once I seize his warehouses."

​Kid relaxed slightly, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "Alright, Frank. Fair enough."

​Frank opened the door, stepping out into the saloon without looking back. "Just keep off your feet and calm yourself down, old man."

​Kid stared at Frank’s back as the door swung shut, muttering under his breath, "Slimy bastard..."