Chapter 158: Legend Of The Faceless Men

The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut behind Floyd, muffling the ambient noise of the main lounge into a soft, distant hum.

​Mandy Moore led the way down a long, dimly lit corridor wallpapered in dark crimson silk. The hallway twisted in a maze-like layout, lined with numbered oak doors. From behind several of them came the faint sound of clinking glasses, muffled laughter, and quiet music.

​Floyd walked half a step behind, his top hat held loosely under his arm and his silver-headed cane tapping rhythmically against the carpet. He glanced casually at the rows of doors, his eyes sharp and observant beneath his calm expression.

​"A rather extensive layout you have here, Mr. Moore," Floyd remarked in a casual, conversational tone. "How many of these private chambers do you keep occupied on an average evening?"

​Mandy chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the opportunity to show off his operation to a prospective high-society patron. "Thirty-two fully furnished rooms, Mr. Price. And on a night like this, nearly every single one is filled from dusk until two in the morning. Some of our guests prefer to take their companions back to their private residences in Manhattan, but the majority prefer the... absolute discretion we provide right here under our roof."

​"Discretion is a rare commodity these days," Floyd agreed smoothly, playing along. "And what does such discretion cost a gentleman?"

​"It depends entirely on the level of service you require," Mandy said, gesturing down the hall. "A standard chamber starts at ten dollars a session—simple, quiet, no questions asked. But our premium suites run up to forty dollars. That includes tailor-made attire for the ladies, private side vices prepared prior to your arrival so you are never disturbed, and access to multiple hostesses at once if that suits your fancy."

​Floyd nodded in apparent approval, though in his mind he was already calculating the massive sums of dirty money flowing through the building every week.

​Mandy paused outside a brass-fitted door, turning to look Floyd over with a polite, inquiring smile. "Would you care for a brief tour of the premium suites, Mr. Price? I can have two of our finest young hostesses brought to your room immediately."

​"There’s no rush, Mr. Moore," Floyd replied, waving a hand with easy indifference. "I prefer to observe the selection first before settling in for the evening. I am a man who appreciates fine quality, not speed."

​Mandy smiled in understanding. "A gentleman of refined taste. Very well. Follow me."

​Mandy pulled open the heavy door at the end of the hall, stepping aside to let Floyd enter first.

​The room inside was expansive, covered in thick velvet drapes and warm golden gaslight. At the center sat a raised stage beside a massive mahogany bed. Several young women—most looking no older than eighteen or nineteen and some not younger than sixteen—were draped across plush silk couches, wearing fine lace gowns and serving drinks to a small group of older, wealthy men in expensive evening coats.

​Mandy gestured to a uniformed female attendant near the door. "Assign someone to Mr. Price here. Keep his glass full and ensure he has whatever he needs."

​He then turned back to Floyd with a crisp nod. "If you will excuse me for a short while, Mr. Price, I have a scheduled engagement with our principal partner upstairs."

​Floyd’s eyes flicked toward the staircase in the far corner of the room. He realized instantly that if Mandy walked away now, his chance of identifying the top patron would slip right through his fingers. He needed a hook to keep Mandy on the line.

​Floyd let out a soft, amused laugh, tapping his cane lightly against his boot as if talking to himself. "God above... my fraternity brothers would throw a strike if they saw a setup like this. The helpless fools are dropping hundreds at dull Manhattan parlors and getting nothing for it."

​Mandy stopped dead in his tracks, turning back around. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Price?"

​Floyd looked up, playing a subtle look of surprise, as if he hadn’t intended for Mandy to overhear. "Oh, just a passing thought, Mr. Moore. Nothing to concern yourself with."

​"No, please," Mandy said, his eyes narrowing with sharp commercial interest. "You mentioned your associates?"

​"Well, yes," Floyd said, straightening his suit jacket with an effortless flourish. "I belong to an exclusive private club in the Upper East—forty or fifty young gentlemen of prominent families. Sons of bankers, real estate magnates, shipping lines. We have a private brownstone where we gather every weekend, but frankly, the arrangements have become dreadfully dull. High-stakes poker and stale brandy can only keep twenty-year-old heirs entertained for so long."

​Floyd leaned in slightly, dropping his voice into a tone of quiet confidence. "We’ve been looking to contract a private supplier who can handle our weekend gatherings—furnish the mansion with top-shelf liquor, exclusive gambling tables, and a steady rotation of attractive hostesses. A full-service arrangement, off the books. I was actually considering setting up such a pipeline myself as a lucrative side enterprise."

​Mandy stood motionless for a moment, processing the proposition. Crotten was a small-time wholesale merchant drowning in debt, bringing in one client at a time for a quick finder’s fee. But standing in front of him was an actual Fifth Avenue heir who had direct access to dozens of wealthy, bored young elites willing to throw thousands of dollars at private vice clubs.

​Crotten was becoming an unnecessary middleman. Young Floyd Price, on the other hand, was a goldmine.

​Mandy’s demeanor shifted entirely. The polite, distant tavern host vanished, replaced by an eager, calculated partner. "Mr. Price... that sounds like a remarkably lucrative business opportunity for both of us."

​"It certainly could be," Floyd agreed, keeping his tone calm and slightly indifferent. "If the terms are right, of course."

​"In that case," Mandy said, gesturing toward the stairs at the back of the room, "forget the lower parlor for tonight. Step upstairs with me. The gentleman who financed our entire capital for this venture is sitting will be at a moment’s notice. I believe it would be immensely beneficial for you to sit at the table with us directly."

​Behind his neutral face, Floyd felt a sharp surge of satisfaction. Got you.

​"Lead the way, Mr. Moore," Floyd said smoothly, adjusting his silk cravat. "Let us see if we can do some real business."

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

​Meanwhile, in Greenwich Village, the sharp sound of shattering glass tore through the quiet night air along Bleecker Street.

​CRASH!

​A heavy red brick smashed through the display window of a small family-owned jewelry shop. Three men wearing flat wool caps and grease-stained coats scrambled through the broken frame, their boots crunching over the shards as they began ripping open the velvet display trays inside.

​"Where’s the gold?!" one of the thugs grunted, smashing a glass counter with a iron crowbar. "There ain’t nothing in these front boxes! Where’d the old man hide the real stock?!"

​From the back living quarters, the door swung open. A gray-haired jeweler and his twenty-year-old son stepped into the shop, the father holding a double-barreled shotgun leveled straight at the intruders’ chests.

​"Get out of my shop!" the old man shouted, his hands trembling slightly on the wooden stock. "Get out before I blow you all to kingdom come!"

​The lead thug didn’t even flinch. He let out a harsh, rasping laugh, stepping right up to the barrel of the gun. "You think them pop-guns scare us, old man? Go ahead, pull the trigger. You kill me, and fifty Hudson Dusters will be back here by midnight to burn this building down with your whole family locked inside!"

​Before the father could react, the thug threw a heavy, sudden right hook, slamming his fist into the old man’s jaw.

​THUD!

​The jeweler collapsed onto the floor, dropping the shotgun. His son lunged forward to help him, but the second thug grabbed the young man by his collar and shoved him hard against the wall, holding a rusty bowie knife against his throat.

​The lead thug picked up the fallen shotgun, snapping it open to check the breech. He let out a cold smirk, seeing the empty barrels. "Not even loaded. You old fool." He tossed the empty shotgun onto the floor and grabbed the jeweler by his hair, pulling his head back. "Now tell me where the safe key is, or I start cutting your boy’s fingers off one by one."

​"One say, an eye for an eye, is an equal justice paid by those who committed sins. But, I disagree, there are no equivalent for the evildoers." a flat, calm voice called out from the street.

​The three thugs paused, looking toward the shattered front window.

​Standing under the yellow glow of the streetlamp across the sidewalk were two men dressed in matching black woolen suits, dark neckties, and leather gloves. Covering their faces completely were stark, featureless white porcelain masks with thin black slits for the eyes.

​The thug holding the jeweler’s son turned, squinting through the broken glass. "Who the hell are you supposed to be? Scram, masked creeps, before we gut you!"

​The two faceless figures didn’t answer. They stepped smoothly over the broken glass and entered the shop, their boots making no sound on the floorboards.

​"I said stay back!" the lead thug roared, racking the empty shotgun levers aggressively as if to intimidate them. When the masked men kept advancing, he aimed straight at the lead agent’s chest and pulled both triggers.

​CLICK! CLICK!

​"Damn dry-firing junk!" the thug cursed, throwing the wooden stock violently at the agent’s head.

​The lead agent ducked his head half an inch, letting the wooden stock fly past his ear to shatter against the wall. In one fluid motion, he flicked his wrist, opening a silver stiletto blade with a sharp metallic snap.

​The lead thug pulled a lead pipe from his coat and charged, swinging it in a wide, vicious arc aimed at the agent’s head.

​The agent stepped inside the arc of the swing, catching the thug’s forearm with his gloved left hand to redirect the momentum. He drove a sharp knee straight into the thug’s sternum, forcing a spray of blood from his mouth, then followed up with a quick, horizontal slash across the bridge of his nose.

​The thug screamed, clutching his bloody face as the agent spun him around, drove a devastating right hook into his temple, and dropped him unconscious onto the floor.

​The second thug dropped his knife in a panic and tried to rush the second agent with a heavy wooden club. The second agent caught the thug’s wrist, twisted his arm downward in a brutal joint lock, and drove a rising kick straight into his chin.

​CRACK!

​The thug’s head snapped back violently, his legs giving out instantly as he collapsed onto the floor boards, groaning in agony.

​The third thug backed away in absolute terror, dropping to his knees with his hands raised. "Don’t kill me! Please! We were just taking orders from Red!"

​The lead agent stepped forward, grabbing the kneeling thug by his hair and pulling his head up to force him to look into the blank, expressionless white mask.

​"The vengeance of the innocent shall be dealt upon those who seek evil," the agent said, his voice cold, steady, and unnatural behind the porcelain plate. "Should we ever catch you on these streets again, you will not live long enough to beg."

​CRACK!

​With a swift, practiced twist, the agent snapped the thug’s forearm over his knee. The thug shrieked in pain, falling sideways onto the floor, curling into a ball alongside his two groaning companions.

​The lead agent turned toward the jeweler and his son, who were sitting on the floor in stunned silence, staring at the faceless vigilantes in absolute shock.

​The agent reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out a thick roll of banknotes, and placed it neatly on the unbroken display counter. "Accept our apologies for arriving late, sir. Use this to repair your window."

​The old jeweler swallowed hard, shaking his head. "No... no, sir! I can’t take your money! You saved our lives... we owe you everything!"

​"The local authorities choose to ignore the rot in this neighborhood," the agent said softly, stepping back toward the shattered window. "Therefore, we are forced to enact a far harsher justice. If fear is what it takes to keep the peace, then fear it shall be."

​Without another word, the two masked agents stepped back out through the broken frame and vanished into the shadows of Bleecker Street.

​Up and down the block, shutters creaked open as tenement neighbors peeked out from their upper windows, watching the three bloody Hudson Dusters writhing in pain on the sidewalk below.

​By morning, the story would spread to every alley and tavern in the ward—the Faceless Men had arrived in Greenwich Village, and the Dusters’ reign of terror was slowly coming to an end.