How Am I Supposed to Know That
Moretti's men had betrayed him.
That meant their relationship with the Union had gone sour as well.
"I've got a pretty good idea what kind of scheme those bastards are cooking up."
Maddox rattled on cheerfully while I sat on the shooting range sofa, turning a Beretta over in my hands.
"The traitors met up with Gugu Nox's old crew in Hell's Kitchen. Clever little shits dragged the Hudson Dusters into this."
The traitors had also made contact with another group.
Brian wasn't certain, but he said they were an Italian gang based in Manhattan.
"So here's the puzzle. Why hit up two outfits at the same time? The Hudson Dusters would never in a million years team up with Italians. Which means they're only planning to use one of them. Question is, do those traitors have the balls to try and use an Italian crew?"
Listening to him was starting to piss me off.
I slid rounds into the magazine and looked over at Maddox.
"So what you're saying is, the Union's an easy mark?"
"Well… nobody really knows who you people are yet. And the traitors are Italian themselves. If they're going to use somebody, it'd be the Irish Hudson Dusters, not their own kind."
"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing."
"Right? Logically, the traitors probably sent the Hudson Dusters to poke around Hazel's building. That's where Gugu Nox and his boys vanished."
At the sound of a particular word, Hazel fixed me with a scorching glare. Her building had suddenly become a target, so as the landlord she had every right. Which also meant my instinct to avoid her eyes was perfectly reasonable.
I just kept loading the magazine.
"Anyway, this whole mess looks like a total loss. No—Hazel's the biggest victim here. Those Hudson Dusters are going to keep banging on the basement workshop door forever. And setting a specific meet time in Jersey City is weird as hell. It's like charging into a place they've already fortified, pure Don Quixote style. What if we lose the guns and the cash?"
Oblivious Maddox kept right on talking.
"So the real question is which target we hit first. Do we wait for the Hudson Dusters to come sniffing around Hazel's place, or do we pour everything into Jersey City tomorrow? What's Kieran's call?"
Seven rounds of 9mm Glisenti filled the Beretta's magazine. I finished loading and stood.
"Neither."
"Neither?"
I stepped up to the firing line and sighted on the target.
"I'm going to wipe them all out at once."
Bang!
If the Colt M1911 felt sharp and precise when you pulled the trigger, the Beretta M1915 felt like a rough, blunt knife. The Colt was more accurate, too. A classic is a classic for a reason.
Bang!
Bang!
Near the intersection of West 43rd Street and 11th Avenue in Hell's Kitchen, Declan and his men walked the crowded street wearing masks.
Among them, the only one without a mask was Gugu Nox, dosed with a mild Mickey Finn, shuffling along with a vacant stare. Or rather, being dragged.
"Walk straight, you son of a bitch."
"Heh heh…"
A crewman gripped Gugu Nox's drooling arm tight. Another held the opposite arm while Declan stayed right on their heels.
After days locked up, Gugu Nox was still foggy. Every time he giggled, a puff of breath escaped his lips.
When they reached a newspaper stand, the owner stared hard at the group. He even craned his neck left and right, studying them openly.
"What are you looking at?"
"…Wait. Is that Gugu Nox?"
"And if it is, what the hell are you gonna do about it, punk?"
Declan pushed them onward.
The snubbed stand owner was just curling his lip, ready to spit a good curse, when a scrap of paper fluttered from the hem of Gugu Nox's coat. Thinking it was cash, he scrambled over and picked it up—only to find a folded note. The contents read:
Greene Street 27, DL&W 5, Warehouse #B-3.
Whiskey: 300 cases
Bulk Whiskey: 50 Barrels
Bulk Rum: 40 Barrels
Bottled Wine: 100 Cases
Colt M1911: 30 Units
"Huh? What's this?"
The stand owner frowned over the note for a long moment, then waved over a street vendor selling kitchenware.
"You saying Gugu Nox dropped it? I heard he was dead."
"Like I wouldn't recognize that face. I'm sure of it."
While the two scratched their heads, another merchant drifted over.
This stretch had been Hudson Dusters turf for ages. They had terrorized Hell's Kitchen for over twenty years, so if you counted every guy who had ever dipped a toe in, membership easily topped five hundred.
Most of the active hard cases were dead, locked up, or still plotting somewhere. The ones who had only tasted the life and gotten out now ran ordinary stands on West 13th Street, just like the newspaper man.
At the Hell's Kitchen waterfront, Declan's group reached Pier 60 on the East River.
"That should get the rumor spreading properly."
"Our boys put the word out too. The Hudson Dusters will have heard by now."
Plenty of people had recognized Gugu Nox on the way. On top of that, former Marginals members were planting stories all over Hell's Kitchen.
Don't let them hit the gunsmith's basement workshop in Hell's Kitchen. Lure them to Jersey City instead.
That had been Boss Kieran's simple, clever order. For the plan, Captain River Grey's boat, the O'Neill, was already docked at the pier.
Once they loaded Gugu Nox aboard, crewman Carlin hauled up the anchor. Moments later the boat pulled away from the pier and headed for Jersey City.
At the same hour.
At the intersection of 10th Avenue and West 41st Street in Hell's Kitchen, a group of men turned into a lightless, gloomy alley.
"What are you staring at, you little shits? Clear the road."
"Yessir!"
The punks loitering in the alley scrambled flat against the cold brick. Their eyes rolled, tracking the faces of the men who passed.
Rubber Shaw! Red Farrell!
Hudson Dusters!
The punks were barely seventeen. They had never seen the Hudson Dusters' glory days—only grown up on the stories.
Even half-baked rumors put on weight and exaggeration as they passed from mouth to mouth.
The legend of the Hudson Dusters sweeping West Side streets in wild parties still fired the kids' imaginations and lured them toward the gangster life.
Look at that rough talk, those swaggering moves!
Bang! Bang!
"Finbar Maddox! Mad Dogs!"
"What the hell did you do with Gugu Nox?! Open this door before we smash it in!"
Even as the gangsters kicked and threw their full weight against it, nothing stirred inside the basement workshop.
"Fuck! Knew this would happen—I brought a sledgehammer!"
"You're gonna love this, Mad Dogs!"
The long-handled sledgehammer was so stupidly heavy it was a struggle just to lift. One man had just wrapped both hands around the haft, ready to cave in the iron door, when someone burst into the alley.
"Rubber Shaw! Big news!"
The punks flattened against the walls again, clearing a path. The runner shoved through them and shouted.
"Gugu Nox is alive!"
"What kind of bullshit is that?"
"It's true. More than a few people saw him."
Rubber Shaw bit down hard as he read the note.
"That son of a bitch. He's been hitting liquor trucks left and right and stashing the goods right here."
"Then what about the story the Italian told us?"
"What else? He was full of shit."
Rubber Shaw suddenly put distance between himself and the iron door, then scanned every direction.
"We almost walked into a trap. Whatever's going on, the Italians were using us."
"So what now?"
Rubber Shaw's eyes dropped back to the note.
"What do you think? We hit it."
"Hell, this much product will more than cover everything Gugu Nox ever borrowed from us."
"Fuck. We thought he was dead. Guess the bastard still had a conscience."
There was no longer any reason to meet Maddox.
They hadn't come with a sledgehammer for revenge. It was always about the money.
Rubber Shaw and his crew were owed a fair sum by Gugu Nox under one excuse or another.
"Shit. Heaven hasn't abandoned us after all."
"But Rubber Shaw—if we're hitting a Jersey City warehouse, don't we need more guys?"
"Damn right. Call everyone. Scrape up every man we can. Pull this off and the Hudson Dusters rise again! We take back the old glory!"
"Let's go!"
The Hudson Dusters immediately began assembling an expedition for Jersey City. Word of it spread to the neighboring gangs as well.
A salon on West 29th Street in northern Chelsea.
The Pearl Buttons gang used the place as their clubhouse.
"Gugu Nox?"
"Looks like he teamed up with some Italian and stockpiled smuggled goods in a warehouse."
"What kind of goods?"
"Gold, silver, whiskey, rum—even machine guns, supposedly."
A liquor warehouse had somehow mutated into a treasure vault in the retelling. The rumor lit a fire under every gangster's greed.
Thwack! The Pearl Buttons boss slammed the table.
Silverman closed his eyes, then snapped them open, sharp as blades.
"I just received a revelation. The Lord Himself said we may take it. Round up the boys."
The rumor raced outward. Even the small-time outfits in Hell's Kitchen started to stir; the board was getting crowded.
Of course, the only gang that actually moved was the relatively solid Pearl Buttons.
The lesser crews weren't reckless enough to jump into an obvious war between Italians and the Hudson Dusters.
"I didn't want it to go this far."
The reports the men kept feeding me were growing ominous. I had only meant to lure the Hudson Dusters to Jersey City; now every fly in the city looked ready to swarm.
"That's what you get for overthinking. Try using half a brain next time."
Even Hazel's advice only made me think harder.
I packed a Springfield M1903, ammunition, a bipod, and a suppressor into a canvas case, turning the problem over in my mind.
Maddox, polishing off a plate of spaghetti on the shooting-range sofa, started up again.
"Only a handful will actually stick their noses in. Let's see… the Fashion Plate gang's gone soft lately. Pearl Buttons is about the only one that might jump."
Years back, the Marginals had allied with the Pearl Buttons specifically to keep the Hudson Dusters in check.
"Gugu Nox once killed two Pearl Buttons boys. Cut them to ribbons and chopped them into pieces."
He had stolen their rings and fed the severed fingers to dogs. Even Hazel, who rarely flinched, wrinkled her brow.
"He really was a complete lunatic."
"If you wrote their crimes as a novel it'd fill a whole shelf. Told you—these are gangs made by guys who only live for today…"
"Tanner and the Pearl Buttons get along, right?"
I cut into Maddox's monologue.
With the Marginals focused on the Lower East Side, their influence in Hell's Kitchen had almost vanished.
Long-term, we would need to absorb or partner with a crew that could manage the territory.
"Tanner Smith and Silverman can talk to each other, yeah."
"Good enough."
I used the office phone to call Tanner.
Told him to stop the Pearl Buttons from moving.
While I finished packing and chose a wig, Hazel handled the disguise instead of Ida this time.
"Should I come along?"
"Why, you itching to shoot somebody?"
"Yeah."
"Next time."
"Next time? Fine."
Hazel calmly draped the blond wig over my head. She circled me, inspected every angle, then patted my shoulder.
"Perfect."
"That's it? Ida always does the eyebrows too."
"…She does?"
Hazel slapped makeup powder onto my brows with all the subtlety of a bricklayer.
Once everything was ready I grabbed my gear and left the office. Out front waited the black Ford Model T we had taken off Gugu Nox a few days earlier.
My first car in this life.
Cory was behind the wheel.
I loaded the cases in back and climbed into the passenger seat.
The springs creaked loudly as I sat.
"This thing isn't going to explode on us, is it?"
"…"
Cory said nothing. His shoulders were hunched with tension.
Even the way he gripped the gear lever looked as awkward as a teenager who had just learned to drive.
"Cory, you actually know how to drive, right?"
"I drove it here, didn't I?"
"You sure? All right—go."
Rattle-rattle. Clang!
With a racket of noise the car inched forward. Between the carriages and other vehicles, our speed was barely better than walking. If we hadn't been hauling gear I would have jumped out and run.
We followed Canal Street west toward the East River docks.
Most of the men were already en route to Jersey City; a few were watching the warehouse.
Tonight at midnight was the deadline to hand Moretti the money and guns, but I had no intention of keeping to the hour.
I set the time. Always.
At Pier 34 on the west side of SoHo I boarded the boat Tanner had arranged. It was a small motor launch, maybe thirty feet, with a simple cockpit and a tiny cabin.
The captain, a rough-faced man in his thirties, looked me up and down and scowled.
"You don't look a damn thing like the description Tanner gave me."
Mask, scarf, hat pulled low, a few blond strands escaping. I didn't know how Tanner had described me, but the suspicion was fair.
"What's Tanner's favorite food?"
"How am I supposed to know that?"
"Hmm. What's his favorite song?"
"Does he even like songs?"
"Shit. This is suspicious."
The river was roughly three-quarters of a mile across.
Ten minutes later we touched the opposite dock.
At the neighboring pier a large ferry was already disgorging passengers bound between Manhattan and Jersey City.
"Let's go! To the treasure warehouse!"
A rough, mean-looking pack of men shoved past me.