Chapter 118: I’m A Fireball

Henry walked down West 18th Street with a heavy gal-iron kerosene can swinging at his side. The gas lamps cast long, sharp shadows across the tenement alleys, illuminating dozens of men curled up against the damp brick walls—homeless laborers, starving dockhands, and twitching addicts who hadn’t slept in days.

​Henry’s eyes swept over the alley until he spotted a twitchy man in his late twenties sitting on the cobblestones. The man had deep, dark rings under his eyes and couldn’t keep his hands still, his fingers constantly picking at his frayed coat sleeves.

​Henry walked over and crouched down beside him. The man didn’t even look up at first, just rasped out a tired question. "Got a nickel, mister? Just a nickel for some bread..."

​"I got something better than a nickel," Henry said in a low voice. He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small glass vial filled with white powder.

​The addict’s sunken eyes went wide. He lunged forward, his thin fingers clawing for the vial, but Henry snapped his wrist back effortlessly. "Easy, friend."

​"Give it to me, man! Please!" the addict begged, his voice rising into an urgent whisper. "I’ll do whatever you want! I’ll suck your dick, I’ll kill a guy, I’ll steal a watch—whatever you need, just give me that bottle!"

​Henry wincing slightly in disgust, shook his head. "Keep your pants on. You see that saloon on the corner near the avenue?"

​"The Gunpowder?" the addict blinked, looking down the block.

​"Take this kerosene can," Henry said, gesturing to the heavy container on the cobblestones. "Douse the side of the building and strike a match."

​The addict stared at the can, then let out a raspy, hysterical laugh. "That dump? Mister, I work the night cleanup crew in that hellhole! The manager pays me ten cents a night—not even enough for a loaf of rye and a hit. I’ll do you one better. I’ll douse the cellar, the bar, and the whole damn floorboards from the inside."

​Henry raised an eyebrow. "How are you getting inside?"

​"I got the side door key," the addict grinned, showing a pair of stained teeth. "I’ll burn that place to the ground for free, but I’ll sure as hell take your powder."

​Henry handed him the kerosene can and a box of matches. "Three vials of powder. You douse it right, come meet me back on this exact spot, and you can enjoy your fix while you watch it burn."

​The man grabbed the handle without hesitation and scurried across the dark street like a rat. He slipped a brass key into the side door of the Gunpowder Saloon, pushed it open, and slipped inside.

​Down in the dark cellar, surrounded by stacked cases of cheap whiskey and heavy oak barrels of rum, the addict unscrewed the cap of the kerosene can and began sloshing the fuel across the wood.

​"Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging..." he muttered under his breath, his voice bouncing off the damp stone walls as he poured the liquid over the alcohol crates. "...and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise!"

​He backed up the wooden stairs, spilling a thick trail of fuel across the floorboards, wiping down the mahogany counter, and dousing the front doorframe. When the can was completely dry, he tossed it aside, a manic smile breaking across his face.

​He struck a match against the matchbox striker. The tiny yellow flame danced in the dark room.

​"For our God is a consuming fire," he whispered gleefully.

​He dropped the match onto the saturated threshold.

​WHOOSH!

​A wall of bright blue and yellow flame exploded across the floorboards. The addict scrambled backward out the side door, sprinting across the street just as the flames licked their way down into the cellar.

​Three seconds later, the high-proof liquor in the basement caught. A deafening BOOM shook the street as the cellar exploded, blowing the front plate-glass windows into a shower of sharp shards across the cobblestones. Flaming debris shot into the night air as the entire ground floor erupted into an inferno.

​The addict ran back into the alley, gasping for breath, expecting to find Henry waiting for him. When he saw the spot was empty, his face fell. "Hey... where’d you go?"

​Then his eyes landed on a small wooden crate beside the wall. Sitting on top were three glass vials filled with pure white powder, alongside a folded scrap of paper.

​He didn’t bother reading the note. He shoved the paper into his coat pocket, snatched up a vial, popped the cork, and dumped a generous heap of white powder onto the crook of his hand. He pressed his thumb against one nostril and snorted it deep, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the warm brick as the roaring fire across the street illuminated his face.

​Down on West 19th, 20th and 21st street between 9th, 8th and 7th Avenue, similar fireballs erupted into the night sky. Henry’s men walked calmly away into the dark, their coats buttoned tight, not even turning around as shouting voices began to fill the streets.

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​An hour later, in a second-floor apartment above a gaming parlor on West 23rd street, Kid Yorke was fast asleep. He lay half-naked under a heavy wool blanket, two young women asleep on either side of him.

​BANG! BANG! BANG!

​Heavy, frantic fists hammered against the bedroom door, rattling the brass handle.

​"Boss! Boss, wake up! Goddamnit, Yorke, wake up!" a muffled voice yelled from the hallway.

​Yorke grunted, rolling over and rubbing his face. "What the fuck... shut your mouth! I’m sleeping!"

​"Yorke! Get out here! The saloons are on fire!"

​Yorke froze, his mind snapping awake. He threw off the blanket and sat up, glaring at the door. "What the hell did you just say? Say that again!"

​The bedroom door burst open, and his chief lieutenant, Dennis, stood in the doorway holding a flickering oil lantern, his face pale and drenched in sweat. "It’s the saloons, boss! They’re burning! Half the block on 10th is up in flames!"

​Yorke’s eyes widened in sheer horror. He swung his legs out of bed, jammed his feet into his trousers, pulled his coat over his bare shoulders, and sprinted down the hallway in his socks, pulling his boots on at the bottom of the stairs.

​When he burst onto the street, the night sky over Chelsea was painted a deep, sickly orange. Thick black smoke rolled over the rooftops, bringing with it the roar of crackling timber and the frantic screaming of crowd members.

​Yorke ran three blocks south, pulling up at the corner of 10th Avenue. His prized joint, the Gunpowder Saloon, was entirely engulfed in towering flames. The upper two floors were collapsing inward, showering sparks over the surrounding tenements.

​Dozens of neighborhood residents, women in nightgowns, and off-duty bouncers were rushing back and forth carrying wooden pails, throwing water onto the adjacent shopfronts to keep the blaze from spreading.

​Yorke lunged forward, grabbing Franky by his lapels and shaking him. "Where the fuck is the fire brigade?!"

​"We sent three runners to the engine house on 19th!" Franky shouted back over the noise. "But the coppers are saying there’s three different fires burning at the same time! The horses can’t move fast enough!"

​Another lieutenant came sprinting down the street, clutching his side, coughing violently from smoke inhalation. "Yorke! Yorke, it’s a disaster!"

​"What happened?!" Yorke screamed at him.

​"It ain’t just this one!" the lieutenant gasped. "The saloon on 20th is completely gone! And the spot over on 8th Avenue just went up five minutes ago! Somebody torched our top three revenue joints all at the exact same time!"

​Yorke let out a ragged scream of pure rage, spinning around and punching a wooden streetlamp post with all his weight. "FUUUUUCK!"

​He spun back toward his lieutenants, his face twisted in fury. "Wake up every single enforcer in Chelsea! I don’t care if they’re sleeping, drunk, or with a whore—get ’em out on these streets right now!"

​"We’re trying, boss!" Franky yelled.

​"Don’t just try, do it!" Yorke barked, shoving Franky back toward the crowd. "Start kicking down tenement doors! Grab every man, woman, and kid on this block and put a bucket in their hands! If this fire jumps two blocks south, it reaches the stash houses! You hear me?!"

​Franky and the other lieutenants turned to the crowd of enforcers standing around in shock.

​"You heard the boss!" Dennis roared, pointing at a group of heavy bouncers. "Get your lazy asses moving! Form a bucket line from the fire hydrant on the corner down to the alley! You three—go door-to-door on 21st. Tell everyone to get their pails out here right now or I’ll personally throw ’em in the fire!"

​"Move! Move your fucking legs!" the other lieutenant shouted, grabbing two confused gang recruits by their collars and shoving them toward a horse trough. "Fill those pails and keep the walls wet! Move!"

​Yorke kicked a fallen crate out of his way, snatched a heavy metal bucket from a stunned bystander, and plunged it deep into the water trough.

​"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Yorke spat through gritted teeth, his muscles straining as he lifted the heavy pail and charged straight toward the heat of the burning storefront, hurling the water onto the blazing doorway in a desperate, furious frenzy.