You Get Betrayed Because You Can't Imagine It
Chelsea Pier, Local #824.
“So if we stick our necks into Jersey City right now, we get wiped out?”
“I guarantee it. At least your head will roll.”
Silverman, boss of the Pearl Buttons gang, let out a sinister chuckle.
“You said you were retiring, and now you’re stuck here playing labor slugger. You think that kind of talk is going to work on me?”
“I’m giving you advice out of old times’ sake.”
“Advice my ass.”
Silverman snorted, then fell silent for a moment, sorting through everything he needed to ask Tanner.
“Is it true the Marginals are operating out of the LES?”
“It’s true.”
“And that the boss who took over after you is just a kid?”
“True.”
When Tanner answered without resistance, Silverman’s eyes lit up.
“And that the Union absorbed the Marginals?”
Tanner hesitated, then cocked his head slightly.
“A little different, but… yeah, call it that.”
“……Damn. That was real? So that means you’re a Union member now too?”
“You could say that.”
Silverman let out a long sigh and stuck a cigarette between his lips. When the Marginals had suddenly vanished from Hell’s Kitchen, every rumor imaginable had flown. Then word spread that they had relocated to the LES, and right around that time Izzy Joe, boss of the Five Points Gang, got assassinated—and the Union rocketed into prominence. Because of that chain of events, more than a few people had started treating the Marginals and the Union as the same outfit. Silverman had been one of them.
“Did the Union get involved in this Jersey City business?”
“That’s why I told you to keep your hands off.”
“Is that your idea?”
Tanner shook his head.
“No. Our Boss’s.”
Silverman exhaled a long stream of smoke.
“So who the hell is this Boss of yours?”
“Curious? Join the Union.”
“Bullshit!”
Tanner smirked at the agitated Silverman.
“If you can’t adapt to the new era, you’re going to lose everything soon. If you don’t understand what’s going on out there, you’re fucked.”
“You’ve turned into a coward, Tanner.”
“I’ve turned smart, you bastard. Stay stuck in Hell’s Kitchen and you’ll get eaten alive. You still don’t get that.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know any of that shit. So we’ll handle our own business our own way.”
“Stupid bastard. Do whatever you want.”
Silverman didn’t answer. He simply walked out of the office.
“What’d Tanner say?”
“Why the hell did he suddenly want a meeting?”
“Gimme a second to think, you idiots.”
Cigarette still in his mouth, Silverman clutched the lapels of his coat. Instead of walking on, he stared out at the East River—no, at Jersey City on the far side.
The Italian gangs. The Hudson Dusters. And the Union, risen to rule the LES.
What could he possibly gain by inserting himself into the game those three were playing?
“Tanner was right.”
“What?”
“There’s nothing to gain.”
Whatever the Union was cooking up, whatever they planned for the Hudson Dusters—this time he would settle for watching from the sidelines.
Jersey City’s waterfront sat right next to the rail yards, so longshoremen, sailors, and drifting travelers all thronged there. That meant the streets around the docks were lined with cheap boarding houses and flophouses rather than fancy hotels.
My men and I had taken rooms near DL&W Pier 5. The Hudson Dusters had turned out to be unexpectedly cautious. They hadn’t charged straight into the warehouse. Instead they’d rented cheap digs of their own and spent their time gathering intelligence on the place.
“Not complete idiots, then.”
Brian gave a bitter smile. He’d been in Jersey City for days already, watching their every move.
“Rubber Shaw’s a shrewd bastard. That’s why the Hudson Dusters have managed to keep limping along.”
“Status on the warehouse?”
“The ones who betrayed Moretti are holed up with an Italian crew.”
Not Manhattan Italians—local Jersey City boys. Brian had already mapped their base of operations.
“Any good vantage points on the warehouse?”
“I found a few.”
He tapped several spots on a map of Jersey City, deliberately skipping factory roofs and rooftop water tanks in favor of higher ground on the hills.
Before sundown we went to check them. Phillis and three other members were already dug in.
“We’ve been here half a day and nobody’s come near. Well—except the Italians doing perimeter sweeps.”
The spot was that out-of-the-way. Better still, it sat only about two hundred meters from the warehouse in question.
I pulled out the scope I’d brought and glassed the building. Several men were visible on the front and side; at eight-power I could even make out faces. I confirmed the two who’d stabbed Moretti in the back. They were gesturing and talking with a man who looked like one of the Italians.
“Boss, when do we hit them? Midnight?”
“No need to attack guys who are already on full alert. We made the appointment—we can break it whenever we feel like it.”
More importantly, our deal was with Willy Moretti, not with the traitors.
“Any sign of Moretti around here?”
“You really think a guy who ran would show his face?”
“If he’s ambitious he won’t just walk away. He’ll try every angle to meet the Union crew bringing the cash and the guns.”
“Then he’ll spill the whole betrayal story and beg for a second chance. That’s what I’d do.”
We had twenty-five men committed to this job. They weren’t only here; we had eyes on other locations too. I laid out the plan for Brian and the others, then headed back to the rooming house.
Winter days are short. By the time the light had faded I was already in bed, grabbing a few hours of sleep.
I woke a little after five in the morning—well past midnight. I packed my gear and slipped out of the flophouse at once.
Even at that hour the waterfront was noisy. Ships were docking and casting off; longshoremen hustled crates in every direction. Over at the adjoining rail yard, freight trains arrived and departed with a constant racket.
Masked, scarfed, and buried in a heavy coat, I made for the overlook. Brian and two men who’d been rotating the watch greeted me with half-lidded eyes.
“Warehouse?”
“They’re all still dug in.”
The opposition was careful too. They’d been lying in wait for the Union for five hours straight without so much as a twitch. The interesting part was the Hudson Dusters.
“Two of them walked past here two hours ago. Looked like they were casing the warehouse themselves.”
So both the Union and the Hudson Dusters were staring at the same building, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. There was more.
“An hour ago Phillis and Hubert spotted Willy Moretti.”
“I knew it. Kid’s got ambition. What’d you do with him?”
“Phillis and Hubert are holding him.”
Moretti was secured. We waited for first light.
Over the East River, above Manhattan, a round sun climbed. It painted the ground red; as the day brightened, the men who’d been hidden around the warehouse began to show themselves one by one.
I kept the scope on them. The traitors inside looked gutted that we hadn’t shown. Judging by the abuse they were taking from the Italians they’d dragged into this mess, the local crew was furious. When those Italians finally stormed off without a backward glance, only the two turncoats remained.
That was the moment the Hudson Dusters moved in earnest—ten of them, exactly the number I’d counted on the pier earlier. Rubber Shaw leading them now was something I could have predicted. If the raiders opened fire, every dockworker within earshot would come running, and there’d be no time left to empty the warehouse. With numbers this low, the smart play was to take the place quietly, without gunfire. Their approach was pure common sense: guns out but silent, they closed on the warehouse the same way we would have and surrounded the two traitors.
Pistols at their heads, the turncoats started babbling excuses. Then one of the Dusters flipped open his coat and drew a knife. Rubber Shaw, leader of the Hudson Dusters, suddenly began stabbing both men in the chest and gut. His boys laughed, holstered their guns, and kept laughing even after the traitors hit the dirt; Shaw finished by stomping their skulls into the floorboards.
“A fittingly miserable death for a couple of traitors.”
Brian and the others said nothing.
Either way, the Hudson Dusters had taken the warehouse with almost no effort. The question was what they would do next. Killing the turncoats so coldly meant they had no intention of hanging around long—which meant they already had transport lined up.
As if to answer me, two of the men peeled off and headed north. At Rubber Shaw’s signal the goods inside the warehouse began to appear at the entrance.
“Boss, looks like they even brought wagons.”
“To move that much product you’d need ten wagons. Trucks would be better.”
“After twenty-plus years in the life they’ve got to have connections in Jersey City.”
Our people ringed the area, waiting only for me to fire. I watched in leisurely silence.
About ten minutes later, right on schedule, three trucks rolled up to the warehouse. They really had prepared this job down to the last detail. Now I understood why they’d bothered taking rooms.
The drivers climbed down along with the two men who’d gone north. They clearly knew Rubber Shaw—they even shook hands. Then they looked at the stacked goods and broke into broad grins. Soon crate after crate of whiskey began disappearing into the trucks.
“This is going to be pure honey.”
Brian gave a low whistle. I was sure every man closing in on the warehouse felt the same.
When the first truck was fully loaded, its driver grabbed a long crank handle, walked around to the front, and bent over. He was about to slot the handle into the crankshaft and fire the engine.
“Those three trucks are ours now.”
Time to start before they left.
I curled my finger around the trigger, found my first target through the scope, and settled the reticle on the back of Rubber Shaw’s head. Then I squeezed.
Thud-thunk!
Shaw pitched forward. I shifted to the next man already spinning, coat flaring as he clawed for his gun, and put a round through his chest.
Thud-thunk!
By the time both were down, our people who had closed to point-blank range boiled out of cover. My shots were the signal; every suppressor-equipped muzzle around the warehouse began to spit. Only the heavy, muffled reports leaked out.
“Clean it up.”
I recovered the rifle, collapsed the bipod, unscrewed the suppressor, and slid the scoped weapon into its easel case. Slinging it over my shoulder, I came down the hill and headed for Moretti.
Even with suppressors the shots were never truly quiet, and return fire would have rolled across the whole waterfront. Nothing of the sort happened. No loud reports answered us—proof that our assault had been so complete the enemy never got a chance to shoot back. The endless industrial racket of the docks simply swallowed whatever noise the warehouse produced.
A short distance away, Moretti was watching the gunfight with every muscle locked.
“Willy Moretti.”
He flinched at my voice, then slowly stood. His eyes raked my scarf-hidden face and what little of my appearance he could see; he blinked hard.
“Blond?”
“That’s not the question you should be asking right now.”
Moretti chewed his lip, then spoke with grim determination.
“Give me a chance.”
“You think you’re still capable? After getting stabbed in the back like that?”
“It will never happen again. DeMeo and DiNorscio—”
“I’m not free enough to listen to excuses.”
I changed the subject.
“The Italian crew that spent all night waiting to bushwhack us at the warehouse—you know them?”
“O-of course. Local Jersey City outfit.”
More precisely, one arm of the Sicilian network tied to Salvatore D’Aquila.
“Where’s their base?”
“On the line between Jersey City and Hoboken.”
That matched what Brian had already learned.
“Those bastards used to be our competition. I never imagined DeMeo and DiNorscio would throw in with them.”
“You get betrayed because you can’t imagine things like that. Right now I’m imagining you putting a knife in my back too.”
“……”
I left the defeated Moretti staring at the ground and turned my attention to the warehouse. One truck was already kicking up dust as it pulled away.
“Follow me.”
Phillis and Hubert boxed Moretti in, and we walked toward the warehouse. The bodies had all been dragged inside; a few of our men were already on perimeter watch while the rest loaded the crates stacked at the entrance onto the trucks.
“Any wounded?”
“None. Clean as a whistle.”
“It’s only clean once we’re gone. Move faster.”
A short while later we had scrubbed every trace of our presence and even packed our own weapons into whiskey crates for the ride. All three trucks rolled out of the yard, leaving thirty-five unclaimed cases of whiskey sitting forlornly at the door.
“Don’t get sentimental. Let’s go.”
The men scattered individually toward the waterfront. Moretti trailed me to the ground-floor dining room of the flophouse where I’d been staying. A man still had to eat breakfast.
That afternoon I took Moretti north through Jersey City. The distance was barely two kilometers, so we walked.
“Are you sure about this? Twice in one day is—”
Moretti shook his head as if the whole idea made him sick.
This time the target was the Italian crew. I was armed with a Beretta, a Colt M1911, and four spare magazines. That was the plan.
Of course there was one more piece.
Finally it was time for Gugu Nox to take the stage. Declan and the men with the wagon were already in position near the objective.