They Smuggled Every Damn Thing
Near Newtown Creek in Brooklyn.
An armed group boarded a medium-sized freighter. Five more armed toughs remained ashore, not climbing aboard. Among them stood a man with thick eyebrows and neatly combed-back hair—Dini Meehan, boss of the White Hand Gang. He glanced at his wristwatch and spoke.
"I've said it more than once. Our presence must not be revealed. Cover every face and leave no trace. All right—we're moving first."
Separate from the men on the ship, Dini Meehan set out overland. They mounted horses and rode for the Italian gang's secret warehouse.
Dini Meehan meant to watch how many men Knox had helping him, and exactly how he planned to handle the job.
It was a clear breach of Tanner Smith's terms. The White Hand and the Marginals had each agreed to put only ten men into the smuggling run. He was breaking that promise.
Knox will only take out the Italians. He won't touch the haul. But if you pull anything funny first? Knox will open fire on anyone—friend or foe. Stick to the plan if you don't want him thinking you're double-crossing him.
Arrogant bastard. This is Brooklyn. Not Manhattan.
We just take the Italians' contraband and we're done. You're the one who proposed the deal in the first place.
Fine. Whatever. As long as it works, attitude doesn't matter.
That was what he had said. Even so, Dini Meehan led extra men toward the warehouse.
It was the inevitable result of two gangs that could never fully trust each other joining forces. Suspicion was built in—and Knox had demanded ten rifles, ammunition, and bombs on top of it. That kind of firepower could wipe the White Hand out just as easily as the Italians.
If anyone's getting stabbed in the back, I'll be the one doing it.
He had floated the rumor about IRA secret agents in the first place precisely to turn the Italian gangs' attention elsewhere. And on a big score like tonight, he planned to leak the same story again—pin it on Knox—and let the White Hand slip clean away.
But the weapons and bombs Knox had demanded still needled at him. The fear that he might end up used instead of using someone else wouldn't leave him alone.
If it comes to it, I'll clean out the Marginals right there on the spot with them.
Even after laying the plan, Dini Meehan could not shake the unease. It all came down to one fact: he still had no idea who Knox really was.
At the same hour, another small freighter was heading north along the East River—a ship with no name painted on her hull.
On deck, Tanner Smith's right hand, Patrick, had gathered his ten men and was laying out the plan.
"When we hit the target, the White Hand boys will be there too. Once we crack the warehouse locks, grab everything you can carry. Load as much as the boat will take. And these—"
Patrick handed out strips of white cloth.
"Wrap them around both forearms."
"What for?"
"Friendly identification. No cloth means enemy. You don't want to catch a bullet from our own side, tie them on tight."
"Got it."
They wound the white cloths around both arms like bandages. A moment later Patrick checked the time and ordered the captain to cast off.
"All right. Let's move."
Newtown Creek, a tributary of the East River.
A narrow, roughly 3.5-mile waterway about 560 feet wide that ran between Brooklyn and Queens, serving as part of New York Harbor. Oil refineries, chemical plants, shipyards, and steel mills lined both banks. Waste from the factories filled the air with a choking stench and turned the water nearly black.
The vessels that drifted on that river of trash were mostly freighters hauling factory goods.
Today, however, two nameless boats floated on the creek with a careful distance between them.
The sun hung on the western horizon, the sky washed red with late afternoon.
As usual, the Italian Navy Street Gang men were guarding three warehouses. Calling it a watch was generous—only three men were actually on perimeter. The rest lounged in front of the middle warehouse, playing cards or wiping down their guns. Beside them a small brazier held a pot for supper; bread and meat waited on a table.
"We've got to move the goods tonight, so let's eat proper for once."
"We oughta find a warehouse somewhere that doesn't reek like hell. This place is gonna drive me crazy."
"Go crazy after you eat. Come on, everybody gather up."
Clang, clang!
He banged the pot. Men drifted in one by one. Those without chairs stood or sat on the ground to eat. Ten of them in all.
"Damn it. We're busting our asses in this stinking hole while Ralph's off sweet-talking his girl."
"Heard he ran for Nevada. Still better here than there, right? What's that bastard think he's gonna find out in the desert?"
The Navy Street Gang—Camorra men out of Naples—were still locked in a bloody war with the Sicilian Morello family. Both sides sent assassins after each other's leadership; men killed and died. When the NYPD finally cracked down hard, the shooters fled the city. Ralph Daniello of the Navy Street Gang was one of them.
"None of you heard? Ralph blew every cent gambling out in Reno. Sent a letter to Volero begging for cash."
"Crazy son of a bitch."
"Do what you want, I guess. Losing it all is the problem. What a clown."
Even with comrades on the run and warrants out, it was just part of life. And the larger picture still favored Naples over Sicily, so the men stayed optimistic. Sicilian bosses Giuseppe Morello and Ignazio Lupo were both behind bars; the Neapolitan leadership remained free and whole.
While the gang ate, three men circled the warehouses at a distance, watching for trouble.
And someone was watching one of them through a scope.
Time to start.
Knox checked the hour, settled his index finger on the trigger, fixed the target in his sights, regulated his breath, and squeezed.
Thud.
Pffft.
The round punched through the sentry's skull. He worked the bolt, ejected the brass, and chambered the next round.
Clack.
The muzzle shifted to the next target.
Thud.
Pffft.
Three sentries down in succession. Then the barrel swung toward the men still eating in front of the warehouse, utterly unaware.
Far from the warehouses, Dini Meehan, White Hand boss, was watching through binoculars. His eyes went wide.
The dull, waterlogged sounds he had almost dismissed finally registered as gunshots—just as the third sentry dropped.
"Fuck. A sniper…"
Was it Knox? He couldn't even place the direction. He had searched the whole area the moment he arrived, hunting for Knox, and found nothing.
Where the hell was the shooting coming from?
Dini Meehan was sweeping the binoculars, trying to locate the sniper, when another sound came.
Thud.
He snapped his gaze back to the warehouse front.
Every time a shot cracked, another man at the supper table toppled. Blood sprayed across the table; food went flying. The pleasant evening meal dissolved into a slaughterhouse in seconds.
The scoped rifle held five rounds. Knox worked the bolt, opened the chamber, and shoved in a five-round stripper clip. From empty to ready again took less than five seconds.
Thud.
Thud.
Dini Meehan stared open-mouthed at the massacre. The Italian gangsters still had no idea which direction the bullets were coming from. Across the broad open ground by the creek the heavy reports rolled and echoed, making the source impossible to pin down—and the men dying had no room left for that kind of thinking.
What stunned him most was the sniper's target selection and accuracy. Anyone who left the table and tried for cover behind a warehouse took a round straight through the head without fail.
By the time Dini Meehan finally fixed the sniper's position, shock tore out of him.
"Across the river…?!"
Newtown Creek's width varied. From these warehouses to the far bank was a good three hundred yards.
Hitting targets cleanly at that distance—was it even possible?
City gangs rarely picked up rifles. Outside of military service, almost no one ever handled a scope. Never having done it himself made the feat all the more terrifying.
"…Crazy bastards."
His grip on the binoculars tightened without him noticing.
Meanwhile the remaining Italians flipped the table and piled in behind it—five of them. The rounds punched straight through the wooden planks and into their bodies all the same.
And at the appointed hour—exactly six in the evening—not a single living man remained around the warehouses.
"…"
Dini Meehan swallowed hard and stared across the water. Two boats were approaching the warehouses. They reached the dock; White Hand and Marginals men poured off each vessel.
Every last Marginals man had white cloth tied around his arms.
Dini Meehan's eyes narrowed.
"If things go sideways… we're the ones who get hit."
The gangsters from both sides stepped off the boats and let out low whistles at the sprawled corpses. Then they swarmed the warehouses, bolt cutters and crowbars snapping the locks.
Watching it, Dini Meehan's mouth went bone dry. If the snipers opened fire right now, what then? Massacre. Even if some of them managed to dive for cover, the contraband would be lost—they would never get the boats moving again.
A perfect position to take a double-cross and have no choice but to watch. Charging in now would mean breaking the ten-and-ten agreement. Knox and his people might be drawing beads from across the river, but there was nothing to complain about. Exactly as promised, they had not touched the hauling of the goods.
"Damn it."
His face set hard as he stared across the creek. Something flashed, as if catching light from a mirror.
Dini Meehan swallowed again, raised the binoculars, and fixed on the gleam. The German Carl Zeiss—six-power, the glass most often used for hunting and sports—showed him the man behind the rifle. He could not make out the face clearly, but the crazy bastard was waving a hand, almost like a greeting.
Or a warning: move and I shoot.
"Fuck…"
A cold shudder ran through Dini Meehan's whole body. Sweat slicked the hand holding the binoculars.
"Boss, let's just join up at the warehouse and wipe the whole—"
"Shut your mouth. Don't you move an inch."
His insides burned, but Dini Meehan and his men stayed put and watched the warehouse goods load onto the boats.
"Boss… looks like they're cracking another warehouse."
The Marginals were cutting the lock on a second building. The original plan had been to hit one warehouse and pull out before more Italians poured in. The Marginals were already on a second—no, a third.
"Load it before the Italians show! Move!"
The Marginals tore into the warehouses with gusto. Patrick, Tanner Smith's right hand, egged his men on and threw his own shoulder under the heavy crates, helping heave them onto the boat.
When they started on warehouses beyond the plan, the White Hand leader scowled.
"Getting a little greedy, aren't you?"
"I'd rather load than answer questions. We've still got time before more Italians show."
Knox had erased the enemy so quietly that Patrick judged there was plenty of margin. It was Knox's intention as well.
Even the conflicted White Hand men, once they saw warehouses packed with contraband, found they could not simply walk away.
"Fine. We're in."
"Suit yourselves."
The first warehouse held weapons and ammunition. Both sides had already split that evenly. The second held opium, cocaine, tobacco, and premium whiskey. Neither the White Hand nor the Marginals normally touched narcotics, but nothing converted to cash faster. Dump it in Chinatown and it was done.
The problem came with the third warehouse.
Crates were stacked full of artichokes—produce that would not have interested most Irishmen in the slightest.
"Son of a bitch. They smuggled every damn thing. You can keep this junk."
The White Hand men saw no reason to bother with it. Patrick thought otherwise.
"If we want this pinned on another Italian outfit, we take these. No choice."
Artichokes were a cornerstone of traditional Italian cooking. To Neapolitans and Sicilians especially, they were more than a vegetable—they were the taste of home, a piece of cultural identity. The Neapolitan and Sicilian gangs had been fighting bitterly for control of artichoke production and distribution right up until recently. The crates in this warehouse were almost certainly spoils seized from the Sicilians.
"I don't care about the rest. Once you've seen artichokes, they have to come with us."
"Who told you to open that door in the first place?"
"You think I knew they'd be in there? Don't grab everything else and then try to duck out now."
The White Hand man spat and twisted his face.
"I'm looking at you, looking at you—and the White Hand's a joke to you? You punks who can't even hold one proper block of Manhattan, giving orders to who?"
"Not an order. Just common sense."
"Shut your mouth!"
The excited man suddenly drew his gun and leveled it at Patrick's head. Both crews froze mid-motion. The air flipped; men abandoned the crates and reached for their own iron. And then—
Thud.
Pffft.
A hole punched through the crown of the gunman's hat. The brim tilted. His eyelids fluttered.
"…"
The White Hand men stared across the river in pure shock. Patrick smirked and pointed at the man's hat.
"Unless you want a matching hole in your skull, put that piece down. Right now. Otherwise you're the ones who broke the deal."
"…"
The gunman let his arm drop, face gone blank.
Watching from a distance, Dini Meehan let out a long breath of relief—then ground his teeth.
They had cleaned out three warehouses and the nightmare he feared had not come. The tension of waiting for a double-cross had finally started to ease.
But then—
"That fucking idiot almost ruined everything. I'll deal with him later."
Fortunately no one opened up, and the plan did not collapse. Even the artichokes that had nearly sparked a civil war were loaded safely. The two boats slipped quietly away from the dock.
"From now on, partnering with other gangs is something I avoid at all costs."
The job had gone off clean, but the process had not been easy. Days of careful work had nearly been wrecked by one brainless bastard.
I turned my head and watched the western sky. The sun that had hung over the Manhattan skyline was gone. In the gathering dusk, the secret warehouses on Newtown Creek would hold nothing but corpses and the scraps of contraband dropped in the rush to load.
Even after the boats vanished I stayed where I was. I waited for full dark. The spare rifle I had prepared just in case never fired a single round. I had meant to shoot anyone who approached—but no one came.
I collected every spent casing from the ground and counted them. I pulled the flattened grass upright again until the spot looked as if no one had ever been there. When the darkness finally settled thick and complete, I packed everything and left.
Even then, not a single soul had appeared at the Italian gang's secret warehouses.
Two kilometers north of my position, a fishing boat waited at a dock on Newtown Creek.
"Looks like it went well."
On deck, Captain River Grey greeted me with a bright smile.
"Shall we head back? This boat really shows what she can do at night."
"I know. Let's go."
River Grey grinned and raised the sail.