Chapter 156: Infiltration

Three hours before the lamps were lit inside the inn, Joey eased the Ford motorcar to a slow stop along 19th Street, idling the engine near the edge of Astoria Park. The neighborhood was quiet, a mix of neat residential houses and wide timbered properties stretching down toward the East River.

​Tucked right along the block was a sprawling, three-story timber-and-brick inn. With its wide side additions, stables, and enclosed courtyards, the place took up nearly the entire street front. A half-dozen sleek broughams and private motorcars were already lined up along the curb.

​Joey rested his gloved hands on the wooden steering wheel, looking through the windshield at the main entrance. "So this is where Mandy brings his high-dollar trade?"

​In the back seat, Floyd adjusted his silk tie in the mirror, settling his top hat over his neatly combed hair. "It’s a clever setup," Floyd said, his voice calm and analytical. "It’s sitting right beside a quiet public park and a residential block. The average person walks past thinking it’s just a cozy roadhouse for weary travelers, while inside, he’s running a gilded brothel and selling cocaine to half the rich boys in Manhattan."

​Joey shifted in his seat, glancing toward the park across the street. Sitting on a wooden bench beneath a bare oak tree were two men in dark coats and bowler hats, resting hollowed-out guitar cases against their knees.

​"There’s Rico and Sir Davis," Joey noted softly.

​Floyd looked out the window. Across the road, Davis raised his head slightly, offering a single, almost imperceptible nod toward the automobile before returning his gaze to the street.

​Floyd let out a quiet breath, turning his silver-headed cane in his hands. "You know, Joey, every time we lay out one of these plans, I wonder whether my role makes me the master strategist or just the painted target standing in the bullseye."

​Joey cracked a dry smile, turning around in the driver’s seat. "You know the assignment, Floyd. You’re playing young Floyd Price—spoiled heir to a Fifth Avenue fortune. You get inside that private wing, drop the passkey phrase, and find out who Mandy’s big-ticket political backer is. I stay parked in the alley behind the kitchen with the engine running. If things go sour and you have to shoot your way out, I pull up to the back door."

​"And if the back door is blocked?" Floyd asked.

​"Then Rico and Davis open up from the park with the rifles," Joey replied, pointing toward the trees. "They lay down enough fire to turn the front porch into splinters, draw every guard in the building toward the street, and we break for the East River where the tugboat is waiting to ferry us across. But if you play your part clean and get us the financier’s name, we don’t start a war tonight. We wait until Christopher and Mandy are in the same room, take them both out, and let our friends at the precinct shutter this hellhole for good."

​Floyd smoothed the lapels of his tailored wool overcoat, resting his polished cane between his knees. "Gather the intel, identify the Tammany connection, and keep my head on straight. Just make sure that motorcar starts on the first crank if I come running out the back."

​"Just leave the driving to me," Joey said. "Now get ready—it’s almost time."

​Later that evening, as night fell over Astoria, a glossy black motorcar pulled up to the front stoop of the inn. A bodyguard in a dark three-piece suit stepped down from the passenger side, opening the rear door.

​Mandy Moore stepped out onto the gravel, adjusting his heavy coat and resting his weight on his brass-handled cane. Behind his car, a second vehicle pulled up, carrying four broad-shouldered enforcers in heavy coats.

​Mandy turned to his head guard, his voice crisp and authoritative. "You four stay out here by the stoop. Keep the street clear and make sure no uninvited neighborhood riff-raff wanders through those doors. Only vetted gentlemen with heavy pockets get past the foyer tonight. And the moment Mr. Delane’s vehicle arrives from the ferry, send someone inside to notify me immediately."

​"Understood, Mr. Moore," the guard said, nodding firmly as he signaled the other men to take their posts along the walkway.

​Mandy walked up the wooden steps and pushed open the heavy oak doors. Inside, the inn was completely transformed. Soft brass gas lamps cast a warm, reddish glow over high-backed velvet couches, plush Persian rugs, and polished mahogany tables. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sweet tobacco smoke, and dark liquor.

​In the main lounge, dozens of wealthy patrons in evening dress sat surrounded by young women—none older than twenty-seven, and some clearly barely eighteen—wearing fine silk gowns. Trays of champagne glasses glided through the room on the hands of uniformed servers, while small silver snuff boxes containing fine white cocaine powder were passed openly between gentlemen at the corner tables.

​Mandy nodded approvingly as he made his way toward a set of double mahogany doors leading into the inn’s restricted private wing. Before he reached the doors, a middle-aged man in a sharp but slightly frayed tuxedo stepped into his path, wearing an eager, nervous smile.

​"Mr. Moore! A good evening to you, sir!" the man called out softly.

​Mandy paused, recognizing the man immediately. "Ah, Mr. Crotten. I see you’re enjoying the ambiance."

​Crotten was a midtown wholesale merchant whose business had been steadily crumbling over the past year due to debts and heavy pressure from a Manhattan retail syndicate. To keep his head above water, Crotten acted as an informal scout, introducing wealthy acquaintances to Mandy’s underground parlor in exchange for generous finder’s fees.

​"Always a pleasure to be under your roof, Mandy," Crotten said, leaning in slightly. "I took the liberty of bringing a guest with me tonight. Someone who could prove exceptionally lucrative for your establishment."

​Mandy raised an eyebrow, looking past Crotten’s shoulder.

​Standing near the mahogany pillars was a sharply dressed young man who couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. He wore a tailored charcoal wool suit, a silk cravat, a polished top hat, and leaned casually against a silver-headed cane. His posture dripped with the effortless, slightly bored confidence typical of Manhattan’s gilded youth.

​"Who is the young fellow?" Mandy asked quietly.

​"That," Crotten whispered proudly, "is young Floyd Price. Son of Eleanor and Charles Price. His father founded the Price Retail Group back in ’80—they own that massive seven-story department store on Fifth Avenue. The boy just came into his trust fund and has more money than sense."

​Mandy observed the young man carefully. Floyd looked the part completely—a wealthy, sheltered heir accustomed to the finest luxuries, likely seeking exclusive vices far away from his family’s watchful eyes in Manhattan.

​Mandy stepped forward, a warm, professional smile spreading across his face. "Mr. Price, is it? Welcome to my establishment."

​Floyd turned slowly, tipping his top hat with a polished, practiced motion. "Mr. Moore. Mr. Crotten here has been speaking rather highly of your private accommodations on the drive over."

​"Crotten is a valued associate," Mandy said smoothly. "May I ask what brings a gentleman of your family’s stature all the way across the river to Astoria this evening?"

​Floyd tilted his head, his tone carrying a distinct upper-crust composure with just a hint of aristocratic arrogance. "To be frank, Mr. Moore, the standard parlors in Manhattan have become dreadfully mundane. I am looking for a somewhat more... exclusive investment tonight. Mr. Crotten assured me that if I spoke directly with you, I might find a seat at the table."

​Mandy froze for a fraction of a second, his sharp eyes locking onto Floyd. The phrase ’a seat at the table’ was the exact passkey code used only by high-level patrons seeking entry into the private back rooms—where the youngest girls were kept and the largest cocaine transactions took place.

​Mandy glanced sideways at Crotten. He knew Crotten was desperate for money, but bringing a genuine Fifth Avenue heir who knew the passkey meant the kid had either heard it from another wealthy patron or was ready to spend thousands of dollars to secure absolute discretion.

​"A seat at the table," Mandy repeated softly, his smile returning, cold and calculating. "You speak with remarkable directness for a man so young, Mr. Price."

​"Life is far too short for tedious negotiation, Mr. Moore," Floyd replied without missing a beat, tapping his cane against the hardwood floor. "My father always says that if you want the best service, you go straight to the man who owns the building."

​Mandy chuckled, clearly impressed by the boy’s calm boldness. He turned to Crotten, reaching into his vest pocket and handing him a folded banknote. "You’ve done well tonight, Crotten. Go enjoy yourself at the bar. If Mr. Price and I reach a satisfactory arrangement, your commission will be waiting for you tomorrow."

​"Thank you, Mr. Moore! Enjoy your evening, Mr. Price!" Crotten beamed, taking the money and quickly heading toward the lounge.

​Mandy gestured gracefully toward the double mahogany doors, where a towering, broad-shouldered bouncer stood guard.

​"After you, Mr. Price," Mandy said, his voice dropping into a low, hospitable murmur. "Let us step into the private parlor and see if we can satisfy your particular tastes."

​Floyd offered a faint, arrogant nod, stepping past the bouncer as the heavy doors unlocked, leading him straight into the inner sanctum of Mandy Moore’s empire.