Chapter 167: How The Tables Have Turned

The cold wind sweeping off the evening. Clarence emerged from the shadow of a brick chimney passage, slipping into the dark mouth of the alley off Perry Street.

​Red leaned against the damp brickwork, his collar pulled high around his neck. Beside him, Sullivan sat on an overturned wooden crate, clutching his wounded shoulder with a blood-soaked rag, his face pale in the gloom. Eight surviving Dusters stood scattered in the darkness behind them, their hands buried deep in their coat pockets.

​Red stepped forward instantly. "Well? Did you secure a spot?"

​"Yeah," Clarence whispered, glancing over his shoulder toward the avenue. "They agreed to meet us on West Eighth Street, just north of the park. It’s quiet tonight. The coppers are all concentrated down on Christopher and Greenwhich Street."

​Sullivan groaned softly as he pushed himself up from the crate, his revolver hanging heavy in his right hand. He checked the cylinder with a dull metallic click before snapping it back into place. "Let’s hope to God we don’t need these tonight. My arm feels like lead."

​Red pulled his Colt .380 ACP from beneath his heavy wool coat. He snapped the slide back, checking the brass round sitting in the chamber, before letting the steel mechanism rack forward with a sharp, lethal report. He slipped the weapon back into his pocket, his jaw tight.

​"Lead the way, Clarence," Red said.

​They moved in silence, sticking strictly to the deepest shadows of Perry Street, cutting across West Fourth and heading toward Sixth Avenue. They avoided the yellow pools of light spilling from the gas lamp posts, having learned the bitter lesson of Christopher Street the night before. Every time a pair of precinct patrolmen clattered past on the main avenue, the column froze against the brick walls, waiting until the heavy boots faded into the distance before darting across the street to the next alleyway.

​When they finally reached West Eighth Street, Clarence held up a hand, motioning for the group to stay packed inside the dark gap between two brownstones.

​"Wait here," Clarence instructed quietly.

​He stepped out onto the sidewalk alone, walking toward a lone figure standing under the streetlamp near the MacDougal Street crossing. The man was pulled into a dark coat, his face obscured by the shadow of a flat cap. Clarence spoke to him in low, rapid tones for half a minute. The man nodded once, then gestured for the rest of the crew to follow.

​Red and Sullivan stepped out of the shadows, their men falling into line behind them with their heads down and hands tucked tight in their pockets.

​They turned right onto MacDougal Street, then cut immediately into MacDougal Alley. The lane was pitch-black, flanked by old two-story brick stables and carriage houses that had long been abandoned by the uptown wealthy. It was dead silent—a perfect setting for an ambush, save for Clarence and the look-out leading them down the cobblestones.

​At the far end of the alley, a massive steel door set into the wall of a double-wide brick warehouse creaked open. The lookout held the heavy iron handle, nodding silently as Clarence stepped through the threshold first. Red, Sullivan, and the remaining eight goons followed, their boots echoing softly on the stone floor. Once the last man was inside, the guard stepped back into the lane, pulled the heavy steel door shut, and threw a thick iron latch into place with a heavy, final CLANG.

​Sullivan spun around, his pulse spiking as he stared at the locked iron door. He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing his posture to remain steady as he turned back to face the room.

​The warehouse interior was dimly lit by two hanging oil lanterns. Stacks of wooden pallets, empty freight crates, and scattered workbenches filled the floor. Sitting at a long oak table in the center of the room were two men, quietly smoking cigarettes. But as Red’s eyes traveled upward, he noticed the rusted steel catwalk running along the upper perimeter of the brick walls—where half a dozen armed men stood in the shadows, their eyes fixed on the newcomers below.

​The two men at the table stood up and removed their flat caps.

​Clarence immediately walked forward, a wide grin spreading across his face as he clasped hands with the first man. "Peter! Good to see you, brother."

​"Good to see you too, Clarence," Peter replied, pulling him into a brief, heavy hug and clapping him on the shoulder.

​The second man stepped forward, clapping Clarence across the back. "You made it through the dragnet, I see," Henry Wells said, his voice deep and raspy.

​Red stepped up to the table without waiting for an invitation, pulling out a heavy wooden chair and scraping it against the floorboards before sitting down. Sullivan stiffened, then sat beside him, resting his bad arm on the table. Their eight men remained standing five paces back, keeping their backs near the wall, wary of the rifles on the catwalk.

​Henry sat back down opposite them, while Peter took the seat beside him.

​"Welcome, gents," Henry said, leaning his elbows on the table. "I hope you don’t mind the lack of fine hospitality. It’s a rough setup, but it’s one spot Frank doesn’t give a damn about. No retail storefronts down MacDougal Alley—just old painters, sculptors, and retired folk. The coppers don’t bother patrolling it."

​"It’ll do," Red said coldly, his eyes darting toward the catwalk overhead before returning to Henry. "It’s quiet enough."

​"Clarence tells me you boys want to talk business," Henry said, resting his chin on his hands. "How many men do you have left after last night’s disaster?"

​"We’ve got around thirty total," Sullivan answered, his voice tight with pain. "Twenty of ’em are laying low in the tenements off Seventh Avenue until Teague’s bulls stop kicking down cellar doors."

​Peter pulled a paper pack of Sweet Caporal cigarettes from his vest, sliding one out and tossing it across the table toward Red. "Quite a commotion you boys stirred up on Barrow Street. Even Barney never had the nerve to detonate dynamite in the middle of the ward, God rest his soul."

​Red picked up the cigarette, striking a match against the wooden table edge and lighting it with a sharp puff of smoke. "Barney was a soft-headed wuss," Red spat, tossing the burnt match onto the floor. "Everything went to hell when those white-masked bastards showed up two nights ago. From that second on, everything turned sideways. Now we’re being hunted by the very coppers we’ve been paying off every week, and Frank’s abandoned the hull entirely to go play politician in Midtown. His turf in the Village is sitting right there for the taking."

​"Well, not entirely free," Sullivan corrected grimly. "Those Faceless Men are crawling over every block where trouble starts."

​Peter feigned surprise, leaning back in his chair. "Frank truly walked away? What about his central cocaine vault?"

​"The bulls took it this morning," Red said, fury flashing in his eyes as he blew a cloud of grey smoke toward the ceiling. "Frank sold us out to Teague. Nobody knew where that basement was except us and him. He gave the precinct the drug inventory so he could look clean for Tammany, leaving Jack and Kid Yorke to hold the bag."

​Henry scoffed, shaking his head with a bitter smile. "Frank’s always been dependent on the coppers. That’s his fatal flaw. He thinks because he’s shaking hands with Tammany Hall, he’s untouchable. But the moment he steps off the street, he leaves his entire flank wide open."

​Peter leaned forward, fixing his eyes on Sullivan. "Do you have any idea when Frank plans on coming back down to the Village?"

​Sullivan held up a hand, stopping the conversation. "Before we give you details on Frank’s schedule, I need your word, Henry. If we pool our intelligence, are we officially in your organization?"

​Henry smiled smoothly. "Of course. The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

​Red narrowed his eyes, leaning over the table. "That quick? No offense, Henry, but it seems a little too convenient that you show up right at our absolute lowest point."

​"I’ll be frank with you, Red—I’m not in a position to be picky," Henry replied, his tone pragmatic and sharp. "You two have exact intelligence on Frank’s suppliers, his safehouses, and his payroll books. We have the cash, the rifles, and one hundred and fifty veteran boys sitting in reserve. We share the territory—Chelsea, the waterfront, and Greenwich altogether. It’s a massive district. Once we eliminate Circular Jack and Kid Yorke, the whole West Side belongs to us. We don’t have the luxury of sitting around waiting while Frank consolidates his hold."

​Sullivan gave a slow, approving nod. "Makes sense to me. Besides, Frank’s going to be tied up in Midtown for months. Tammany’s consolidating power after the 1910 elections—they’re taking control of the entire state legislature."

​Red sighed, his shoulders dropping as he rubbed his face with his hand. "Yeah... he’s right. Frank’s cutting ties with the street level. Whatever happens down here is too risky for his political reputation right now. He won’t come back down to fight."

​"So even if something major occurs to his remaining territory, he won’t intervene?" Peter asked.

​"No," Red said flatly. "Frank cares about power, not street corners. If the ship sinks, he’ll just build a bigger one uptown."

​"Unfortunate for his men, but convenient for us," Henry said smoothly. He raised his hand toward the catwalk above. "Hey! Bring down the hospitality for our guests!"

​Two men descended the iron stairs from the catwalk, hauling a heavy wooden crate between them. They set it down on the workbench beside the table, revealing dozen of dark glass liquor bottles packed in straw.

​Red’s goons leaning against the wall immediately stepped forward, their faces relaxing for the first time all night as they grabbed bottles and pulled the corks with their teeth, drinking greedily to wash away the terror of the previous twenty-four hours.

​Henry pulled four heavy glass tumblers from beneath the table, while Sullivan took a fresh bottle from the crate, pulling the cork and pouring a thick splash of amber liquor into each glass.

​Red picked up his tumbler, taking a long, deep swallow. His eyes widened slightly as the rich, smooth spirit burned down his throat.

​"Where the hell did you land this?" Red asked, looking at his glass in genuine surprise. "This ain’t precinct tap-gut."

​Henry grinned, sipping his own drink. "Only the best for a new alliance."

​Sullivan picked up the dark bottle, turning it in his hands to read the paper label pasted across the glass. Printed in bold, elegant crimson lettering beneath an iron emblem was the brand name: Royal Spades.

​A strange, quiet smirk touched Sullivan’s lips. He let out a low, dry chuckle. "Royal Spades... Well, I’ll be damned."

​Red glanced at him. "What?"

​Sullivan swirled the liquor in his glass, his eyes distant as the memory bubbled up. "I remember this brand. Remember that fellow we worked over in the Ninth Ward holding cell back in November?Me, you, and Frank?"

​Red frowned, thinking for a moment. "Which one?"

​"The tall guy," Sullivan said, turning the bottle in his hands. "Name was... Roldan, Reiden, Richan... Stevenson. Frank lost his absolute mind over a shipment of this exact whiskey. Barney was trying to cut Kid Yorke out of a distribution deal this Stevenson fellow put together, and Barney ended up dead over it."

​Sullivan took another sip, shaking his head. "Stevenson broke out of the precinct holding cell the next morning, but Christ, he was a tough bastard. We worked him over for two hours with iron coshes, and he just sat there on the bench laughing in Frank’s face. The only time he finally stopped smiling was when we started working over his friend in the cell across the hall. Watching his shake and bubbles coming out of his mouth, through the iron bars... that was the only thing that broke him."

​Red scoffed, a dark smile playing on his lips as the memory clicked into place. "Yeah... now that you mention it. It was Royal Spades." Red turned his gaze back to Henry. "Where did you boys manage to score a whole crate of this?"

​Henry didn’t answer. Neither did Peter.

​The two men sat completely motionless across the table, their grins widening into cold, lifeless expressions.

​A sudden, suffocating quiet descended over the warehouse. Red’s hand froze mid-air, his tumbler hovering an inch above the table.

​Before Red or Sullivan could process the sudden shift in the air, a wet, sickening SHLICK echoed from the back wall.

​The six men who had been drinking alongside Red’s eight Duster goons pulled long, narrow steel blades from their coats in a single, synchronized motion. In a fraction of a second, six heavy horizontal slashes tore through the throats of the unsuspecting Dusters. Blood sprayed across the wooden crates as the men collapsed onto the floorboards, clutching their necks with choked, gurgling gasps.

​Red’s eyes widened in sheer terror as he whipped his head around.

​Clarence was standing directly behind the remaining two Dusters. With terrifying, fluid speed—a level of lethal martial skill Red had never seen him display—Clarence stepped between the two goons, his arm flashing sideways twice. Two precise, deep crimson lines opened across their windpipes before they could even draw their revolvers. They tumbled sideways into the sawdust, motionless.

​Red and Sullivan scrambled to reach inside their coats for their pistols, but the sharp, metallic CLACK-CLACK of revolvers being cocked stopped them dead in their tracks.

​Henry and Peter were both standing now, their heavy .44 revolvers aimed directly at the bridge of Red and Sullivan’s noses from eighteen inches away.

​"DON’T MOVE A FINGER!" Henry barked, his voice ringing through the cavernous room.

​Sullivan’s breath hitched, his entire body trembling with rage and blind terror as he stared down the barrel of Henry’s gun. "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!" he screamed, his voice cracking as he looked at his dead men bleeding out on the floor. "CLARENCE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

​Clarence nonchalantly stepped over the body of a dead goon. He pulled a white rag from his pocket and slowly wiped a thin streak of dark blood off the flat edge of a long steel trench knife.

​"For starters, my name isn’t Clarence," he said, his voice flat, calm, and completely devoid of the nervous street-lieutenant accent he had used all week. "It’s David Brians."

​Red’s mouth opened slightly, his face draining of all color. "Brians..."

​"My brother was Daniel Brians," David continued, his calm demeanor shifting into a quiet, burning rage. He stepped up to the table and slammed the bloody trench knife straight into the oak wood between Red and Sullivan’s hands, the steel blade quivering. "He was also known as Danny and you both killed him."

​Sullivan stared at David, his throat going completely dry as his chest heaved. "You... you bastard. You were working with them... the whole time..."

​"As much as I want to kill you right now, I don’t make the final calls," David said, stepping back from the table and tucking his hands into his pockets. "But, there’s someone who held more grudge against you. Let me introduce you to my boss."

​David gestured toward the heavy steel entrance door at the back of the alley.

​The heavy iron latch creaked open, and the door swung inward on its hinges as one of the men opened it.

​Stepping out of the shadow of the alley and into the yellow lantern light was eighteen-year-old Ricky. He wore a dark, tailored wool overcoat with his hands resting calmly in his pockets, flanked by the broad, towering silhouette of John Caldwell.

​Red and Sullivan stared at the young man, their eyes wide with utter shock, as the final piece of the trap snapped brutally into place.

Ricky smiled wide and said. "It’s so good to see you again boys."