Chapter 146: The Eye Of Sauron Sees You

The snow on Fifth Avenue fell in silent, heavy flakes, dusting the polished black carriages and early-model motorcars creeping past Central Park. Ricky pulled his wool collar up against the breeze and turned into the grand entryway of the Rosewood Hotel.

​Inside, the lobby breathed warmth and understated luxury. Marble pillars stretched toward gilded ceiling moldings, and massive crystal chandeliers shed soft light over velvet armchairs. Well-to-do gentlemen in high collars read folded copies of the Times, while women in broad furs leaned over silver tea trays. Uniformed bellhops glided silently past, carrying leather trunks toward the brass-trimmed elevators.

​Ricky unbuttoned his winter coat, letting his dark grey suit show just enough to fit the surroundings, and walked down the side hallway toward a bank of oak-paneled telephone booths.

​He stepped inside the nearest booth, folding the glass door shut to lock out the ambient chatter of the lobby. After hanging his hat on the small brass peg, he pulled Police Commissioner James Cropsey’s card from his pocket, dropped a nickel into the slot, and lifted the black receiver to his ear.

​"Operator," a woman’s bored voice crackled through the earpiece.

​"Get me Police Headquarters downtown," Ricky said smoothly. "Commissioner Cropsey’s private office line."

​"One moment, caller."

​The wire clicked several times as the switchboard patched the call across the city. After a few beats, a heavy, gruff voice cut through the static.

​"Cropsey."

​"Good afternoon, Commissioner," Ricky said, keeping his tone calm and unhurried. "It’s your friend from the other night."

​There was a short pause on the line, followed by the dull sound of a hand cupping the mouthpiece before Cropsey spoke again, his voice dropping an octave. "I was wondering when you’d finally place a call, friend. You take your sweet time."

​"Apologies for the delay," Ricky replied, watching a bellhop pass the glass door outside. "I had to handle some affairs out of town. And I prefer not to talk over open switchboards unless I have a reason."

​"Smart," Cropsey grunted. "Tammany’s got girls on half the lines downtown listening for gossip. Are you and your people ready on your end?"

​"We’re moving forward," Ricky said. "One of my associates passed along a few names linked to our mutual acquaintances in City Hall. I want to verify what your office knows about them."

​"Let’s hear them."

​Ricky pulled his small leather notebook from his inner breast pocket, flipping it open with his thumb. "First one. A man named Mandy Moore. Saloon owner out in Brooklyn Heights."

​Over the line, the rustle of paper files echoed as Cropsey pulled a drawer open. "Moore... give me a second. Right. Mandy Moore. He’s a big talker across the river. Thinks he’s royalty because he spreads enough cash around Tammany ward heelers to keep his doors open. But he isn’t running his own show—he sits under Dinny’s umbrella."

​"Dinny? The White Hand leader?"

​"That’s the one," Cropsey said. "Moore operates out of his saloon, drinks with Tammany boys over in Astoria, and tries to act like a rising power. But he’s sloppy. Careless."

​"Does he sleep at the saloon?" Ricky asked.

​"Street thinks so," Cropsey replied. " truth is, he’s got an ex-wife and two daughters living over in Prospect Heights. The woman remarried a wealthy fellow, but Moore sneaks over every couple of weeks when the new husband is out of town. Drops off armfuls of expensive trinkets trying to play the fond father."

​Ricky jotted down the detail. "Good to know. What about Christopher Galnick?"

​Cropsey let out a sharp, bitter exhale that crackled through the earpiece. "Galnick’s a bastard. He and Moore are thick as thieves, but Galnick runs a much darker wire. He supplies high-society degenerates with... forced talent."

​"Where is he pulling them from?"

​"Local parishes," Cropsey revealed, his tone turning dark. "He’s got a couple of dirty parish priests out in Queens doing the collecting for him. Operates out of Corona, buys off the local precincts, and caters to high-paying clients right out of your current neighborhood—the Upper East Side."

​"So he and Moore work in tandem?"

​"They meet regular-like in Astoria to trade funds and split territories," Cropsey said. "Galnick’s got the brains and the local cops in his pocket; Moore’s got the bluster and the Brooklyn muscle."

​Ricky turned another page in his notebook. "Third name. Johan Santana."

​"Santana?" Cropsey grunted. "He’s Giuseppe Morello’s step-brother. Ever since we put Morello away for counterfeiting, that whole East Harlem outfit has been tearing itself apart. You’ve got Ignazio Lupo, Terranova, and DiGaetano all pulling knives on each other for top dog."

​"And Santana?"

​"Santana runs the prostitution joints across East Harlem," Cropsey said flatly. "Disgusting operation. Uses street kids for most of it. If you’re looking to cut the legs out from under Tammany’s neighborhood earners, those three are the pillars keeping their pockets lined."

​Cropsey paused, the line heavy with static for a long moment.

​"Now tell me straight, friend," Cropsey added, his voice low and serious. "Can you and your boys actually handle three targets of that weight without starting a war in the streets?"

​Ricky closed his leather notebook and slid it back inside his coat pocket.

​"We can handle it," Ricky said evenly. "You’ll hear from me soon enough."

​"Wait, don’t hang up yet, I need—"

​Clack.

​Ricky placed the black receiver firmly back into its brass cradle, cutting the line mid-sentence.

​Down at Police Headquarters, Commissioner Cropsey sat at his cluttered desk with the dead receiver pressed against his ear. Hearing only the blank whistle of the open wire, he let out an irritated growl and slammed the heavy phone back onto its base. "Arrogant kid," he muttered to the empty room, rubbing his temples.

​Inside the quiet oak booth at the Rosewood, Ricky smoothed his suit jacket, opened the glass door, and stepped calmly back into the warm, bustling hotel lobby.

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

Meanwhile, the grand assembly room of the Waldorf Astoria hummed with the steady chatter of men in dark wool suits and crisp white collars. Heavy crystal chandeliers shed a warm, golden light over the velvet-draped walls, where blue smoke from dozens of expensive cigars drifted slowly toward the high ornate ceiling.

​At the front of the hall, suspended above a raised wooden stage, hung a hand-painted silk banner:

​ALLIED DISTRIBUTORS’ ASSOCIATION OF GREATER NEW YORK

​Samuel Hargrove stepped up to the brass podium, gripping the edges with his calloused hands. Beside the stage, Frank Donnelly and Patrick O’Rourke leaned back in their cushioned chairs, nodding approvingly as Hargrove cleared his throat into the quiet that fell over the room.

​"Gentlemen!" Hargrove’s loud, booming voice echoed across the hall. "For years, the independent merchant of this city has been pushed to the wall by predatory corporations! Monopolies that care nothing for fair trade and seek only to strangle the small businessman until he has no choice but to surrender his counters!"

​A chorus of hearty agreement rippled through the gathered shop owners and regional suppliers.

​"I say to you tonight—that era is ending once and for all!" Hargrove shouted, striking the wooden podium with his fist. "We stand here not as isolated shopkeepers, but as a united front! And we do so with the generous financial backing and prestige of one of the finest families in the country—the Veymont family!"

​Hargrove gestured grandly toward the second-floor mezzanine overlooking the assembly floor.

​Seated at a private table behind a brass railing, Laurence Veymont swirled a flute of sparkling champagne. He wore a impeccably tailored black tailcoat and a silk cravat, his fair hair parted neatly down the center. As two hundred pairs of eyes looked up toward the balcony, Laurence offered a smooth, practiced smile and raised his glass in a quiet toast.

​The assembly erupted into loud applause, men slapping their hands together and shouting their approval for the young scion.

​"Together!" Hargrove continued, raising his hands to ride the wave of applause. "Together, through the strength of our association, we shall guarantee that every merchant under our banner prospers!"

​Up on the mezzanine, Edwin Mercer slipped away from the railing and approached Laurence’s table, sliding quietly into the chair across from him. Mercer smoothed the front of his vest, his face flushed with excitement.

​"A magnificent turn out, Mr. Veymont," Mercer said, leaning forward in his chair. "Your presence here tonight gives this association the weight it desperately needed to command respect."

​Laurence set his champagne flute down with a delicate click, his expression modest and refined. "It is my pleasure, Mr. Mercer. The Veymont family has always believed in maintaining fairness in the commercial world. It is simply unseemly for large, predatory supplier firms to dictate terms to honest men."

​"Precisely!" Mercer agreed eagerly. "If we stand together, we can push the municipal authorities—perhaps even state legislators—to enact policies protecting independent networks from exclusive supply contracts."

​"Indeed," Laurence murmured smoothly, steepening his gloved fingers. "And as long as your association remains unified, Veymont will gladly prioritize your members for our regional distribution runs. We shall give you the leverage you require."

​"You have our complete loyalty, Mr. Veymont," Mercer declared, standing up with a grateful bow. "We will handle the street-level arrangements to ensure our members buy exclusively through our collective channels."

​"Excellent," Laurence said, offering a tight, polite smile. "Now, if you will pardon me, Mr. Mercer... I should like to observe the remainder of the evening’s speeches in quiet."

​"Of course, sir! Forgive me for intruding," Mercer replied hastily, bowing once more before hurrying back down the carpeted stairs to rejoin the board.

​The moment Mercer was out of sight, the polite smile vanished from Laurence’s face. He picked up his champagne glass, his blue eyes cold as he looked down at the crowd of cheering merchants below.

​"Filthy, unwashed swine," Laurence muttered under his breath, wiping his thumb against his glove as if he had touched something vile. "Living in mud and babbling about ’fairness’ like beaten dogs."

​Behind his chair, his butler, dressed in a sharp black tuxedo, took a quiet step forward. "It is the nature of commercial expansion, Mr. Laurence. If you intend to outmaneuver your brother Friedrich and establish a dominant foothold in New York, securing these smaller distribution channels is a necessary compromise."

​"I am well aware, Graves," Laurence said coldly, taking a slow sip of champagne. "I will let these fools play union while they bleed my competitors’ supply lines dry. They are tools, nothing more."

​Laurence turned his gaze back to the floor, watching Hargrove deliver the closing remarks of his speech.

​"Speaking of regional nuisances," Laurence added casually, leaning back against the leather upholstery. "Those merchants were muttering earlier about a man named Richard Stevenson. What do we know of him?"

​Graves bowed his head slightly. "Mr. Stevenson is a somewhat ambiguous figure, sir. He appeared in the city only recently, yet he managed to acquire substantial commercial properties and street influence across lower Manhattan in an extraordinarily short timeframe."

​"A street rat with sudden luck?" Laurence asked, raising an eyebrow.

​"Perhaps, sir. Though the rumors suggest otherwise," Graves replied smoothly. "He was recently indicted on multiple charges of murder and high-volume contraband smuggling. Yet despite the legal pressure, he seems to possess unusual financial backing. The local shopkeepers suspect there may be a larger, unseen organization operating behind him."

​Laurence tapped his fingers against the mahogany tabletop, contemplating the information. "A man doesn’t build an empire from nothing in a few months without deep pockets supporting him from the shadows. If there is a real syndicate standing behind Stevenson, a few police indictments won’t keep him down for long."

​He looked back toward his butler, his tone crisp and commanding.

​"Have our agents investigate this Richard Stevenson," Laurence instructed softly. "Find out who is funding him, where his supply lines originate, and whether he poses a threat to our plans for New York. I will not have an unsanctioned street gang interfering with Veymont interests."

​"At once, Mr. Laurence," Graves replied with a respectful nod, stepping back into the shadows of the balcony.