Chapter 154: Operation Birdcage Start

The winter snows finally gave way to the soft thaw of early spring, turning the ice along Brooklyn’s cobblestone gutters into steady streams of running water. Horse-drawn delivery carts splashed through gray slush alongside sputtering motorcars, their iron rims grinding over wet stone.

​Outside the Irishtown pub in Brooklyn Heights, the heavy oak doors swung open as Mandy Moore stepped down onto the stone stoop. In his mid-thirties, stocky and balding, Moore dressed with the ostentatious flair of a man who wanted everyone to notice his money. He wore a finely tailored dark wool overcoat over a three-piece silk suit, leaning lightly on a polished hardwood cane topped with a polished brass handle. Flanking him on either side were two towering enforcers in heavy dark coats and brimmed bowler hats, their hands resting lazily inside their pockets.

​As Moore walked down the stoop, several local shopkeepers and neighborhood women immediately brightened, calling out greetings across the damp street.

​"Good morning to you, Mr. Moore!" an elderly cobbler called, raising his hat.

​"Lord bless you, Mr. Moore!" a woman in a thick woolen shawl called out from the doorway of a bakery, stepping forward with a grateful smile. "My little Bridget is completely back on her feet thanks to the medicine you brought by last week. The doctor said she wouldn’t have made it through the chill without it!"

​Moore stopped, pausing near the curb with a soft, practiced smile that radiated warm benevolence. He rested both hands on the top of his cane, tilting his head with humble grace.

​"Think nothing of it, Mrs. Higgins," Moore replied, his voice rich and soothing. "I’m a father myself, you see. Whenever I look at your sweet girl, I see my own daughter. God has seen fit to bless me with a bit of commercial good fortune, and it is only right that those of us who have enough share it with the neighbors who need a hand."

​A collective murmur of appreciation passed through the gathered locals. "Such a good man," the baker’s wife whispered to her neighbor. "A true gentleman."

​"Now, if you’ll excuse me, good people, business calls in the city," Moore added smoothly, tipping his hat to the crowd.

​His two enforcers stepped forward, politely but firmly placing themselves between Moore and the crowd, ushering the locals back to open a path toward a black open-topped automobile waiting at the curb.

​Across the street, four stories up in the narrow room of a weathered brick tenement, a dusty window sat cracked open an inch. Through the narrow gap, the dark steel barrel of a rifle rested silently on the wooden sill.

​Rico Johnson squinted through the iron sights, tracking the center of Mandy Moore’s balding head as the man stood by the motorcar door, waving merrily to the crowd.

​"Look at him down there," Rico muttered under his breath, his finger resting lightly against the trigger guard. "Waving and smiling like he’s running for mayor. Half these poor fools probably think he’s a living saint. They’ve got no idea he’s shipping little girls off to those decrepit old rich bastards on the Upper East Side and up in Astoria."

​Standing beside him in the dim room, Davis Rickenshaw scoffed quietly, adjusting his heavy wool jacket. He stood with his hands on his hips, watching the scene below with the cold, unblinking eyes of a seasoned veteran.

​"It’s always the worst bastards who build the highest pedestals, Rico," Davis said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "A man running an operation as filthy as his needs a saintly coat of paint, or his own neighbors would string him up from the nearest lamppost before nightfall. Besides, it feeds his ego. A creature like Moore wants to be feared in the dark and worshipped in the daylight."

​Rico lowered the rifle barrel slightly, easing his breath out in a slow plume of white vapor. "Putting a round through his skull right now would take about two seconds."

​"And what good would that do?" Davis replied, shaking his head. "Shooting a dog like him in broad daylight just turns him into a martyr for these poor idiots on the street. They’d spend the next ten years talking about how a good man was struck down by common criminals. What he deserves is public humiliation. Strip away his fine clothes, expose his books, and let the very mothers and fathers he’s been preying on drag him into the gutter and beat him to death with their bare hands."

​Rico chuckled softly, easing the rifle back from the window frame. "And here I thought I was the cold-blooded one on this team, Sir Davis."

​"That isn’t malice, kid. That’s proper justice," Davis said grumpily. "Men like Moore ought to die terrified of the people they lied to. Come on... stow the glass. He’s getting into the automobile."

​Below, the motorcar’s engine roared to life with a loud sputter, sending a cloud of dark exhaust into the cold air as it pulled away from the curb. Trailing fifty paces behind it was a second, identical black car carrying four more of Moore’s guards.

​Rico moved with swift, practiced efficiency. He broke down the rifle, sliding the barrel and action into a custom-padded, hollowed-out wooden acoustic guitar case. He snapped the metal latches shut, picked up his bowler hat, and settled it neatly over his dark hair.

​Beside him, Davis opened his own heavy leather instrument case. Inside rested two Colt 1908 .380 ACP Semi automatic pistols with six loaded spare magazines nestled in velvet cutouts, and a thick paper wrapper containing five hundred dollars in crisp operational cash. Davis gave the weapons a quick visual check, closed the lid, and adjusted his trimmed beard in the small wall mirror before slinging the case over his shoulder.

​"Instruments of death packed and ready," Rico said with a dry smirk.

​They stepped out into the hallway, their boots tapping softly against the worn carpet runner. Halfway down the corridor, an elderly woman in a floral apron and white dust cap stepped out of her apartment carrying a basket of folded laundry.

​"Oh! Good afternoon, boys!" Mrs. Puddingsome said, stopping with a warm smile. "Are you two off to play a tune somewhere again?"

​Rico offered her a bright, polite smile, resting his hand gently on the handle of his guitar case. "Yes, Mrs. Puddingsome. We’ve got a gig booked over at a hall in Queens tonight. Paying good money, too."

​"How lovely!" the old woman beamed, adjusting her basket. "Mind you bundle up tight on the walk back, now. The spring sun is nice, but the night air still carries a nasty chill. Don’t go catching a fever now."

​Davis tipped his hat respectfully, giving her a nod. "We certainly will, ma’am. You have yourself a pleasant day, ma’am."

​"You too, gentlemen!" she called out happily as they turned down the stairwell.

​A block away, parked quietly beside a dry goods store, a sleek black Ford automobile sat idling softly.

​In the driver’s seat sat Joey McMahon, dressed in a crisp black wool chauffeur’s cap, a double-breasted dark coat, and leather driving gloves. His hands gripped the wooden steering wheel impatiently as he watched the cross-street through the dirt-streaked windshield.

​In the rear seat sat Floyd, looking every bit the part of a wealthy young Manhattan heir. He wore a tailored charcoal-gray three-piece suit, polished leather boots, a silk necktie, and held a fine leather satchel across his knees.

​Joey glanced into the rearview mirror, scowling at Floyd’s relaxed posture. "I still don’t see why Arthur decided you get to play the rich young gentleman from up the river while I’m stuck sitting behind this damn wheel looking like a hired servant."

​Floyd sat up slightly straighter, resting his chin on his gloved hand and adopting a smooth, ridiculously pompous mid-Atlantic accent.

​"My dear Joey," Floyd intoned with exaggerated aristocracy, tilting his head back, "it is simply a matter of divine providence and refined bloodlines. Some of us are born by the grace of the Almighty to grace the drawing rooms of Fifth Avenue and inherit vast railway holdings, while others are destined by fate to crank starting handles and hold umbrellas in the rain. I did not ask for this heavy burden of immense wealth, mind you, but I accept it with deep humility."

​Joey glared into the mirror, cracking a reluctant grin despite himself. "Shut your trap, Floyd! Next time we go out on an assignment, I’m claiming the rank of army captain and putting you down as my second lieutenant. I’ll have you scrubbing my boots and running my errands from sunrise to sunset."

​Floyd dropped the aristocratic accent, chuckling softly as he adjusted his cuffs. "You can try, Joey, but let’s be honest—you look like you belong behind the wheel of a milk wagon, and I look like my father owns three banks in Brooklyn. Besides, somebody has to look believable if we need to walk into a high-end hotel lobby to buy information." 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

​Down the avenue, Mandy Moore’s two-car convoy swept past the intersection, turning south toward the waterfront.

​"There they go," Joey said, his tone instantly shifting back to business. He pulled the gear lever back, easing the Ford out into the street. "Keep your eyes on that trailing car, Floyd. We’ll stay three wagons back so their tail-enders don’t spot us."

​"Got ’em," Floyd said, leaning toward the window as the Ford rolled smoothly into the afternoon traffic. "Let’s see where this bastard hides his real money."