Chapter 123: Brewing Storm

Ricky sat behind his mahogany desk, leaning back in his leather chair as he turned the broadsheets of the morning paper. Yesterday’s chaos on Gansevoort Street hadn’t even made the front page—just a short, three-paragraph report buried on page four beneath an advertisement for tonic wine, dismissing the gunfight as a brief disturbance between local dockworkers.

​A quiet knock echoed at the door, and Evelyn stepped into the office. "Mr. Peter Hathaway is here to see you, sir."

​Ricky kept his eyes on the paper for a second longer before folding it neatly over his knee. "Let him in, Evelyn."

​Peter stepped inside a moment later, holding his flat cap in both hands. His clothes still bore the faint dust of the West Side streets, but his face was washed clean. He waited by the carpet’s edge until Ricky gestured toward the leather armchair opposite the desk.

​"Please, sit, Peter," Ricky said.

​Peter took a seat, setting his cap on his knee. "Appreciate you seeing me on short notice, Mr. Stevenson. I came by to thank you for your backing. The support you provided... it was invaluable to our cause."

​"No need for grand speeches," Ricky replied smoothly, resting his forearms on the desk. "I take it Barney Knox has passed on?"

​"Unfortunately for him, yes," Peter said, his voice dropping an octave. "He’s in the cold ground now. Most of the boys in the ward are glad to be rid of his temper, but his death—along with Alvin and Andy getting killed in the crossfire—left a bloody void in Greenwich. Everyone’s scrambling to snatch up what’s left of the territory. Even Barney’s most loyal are looting what’s left of his stash houses before Frank gets back into town."

​Ricky leaned back, studying Peter’s expression. "And you and your friends? I assume you’re staying behind to manage the chaos? The police aren’t looking at you, and the hand-off went off without a hitch."

​"Ah... no, sir," Peter said, shaking his head slightly. "It went smooth because Barney and Kid were already at each other’s throats, but we aren’t sticking around to celebrate."

​"Why is that?"

​"Because I’ve known Frank Knox for two years, Mr. Stevenson," Peter said quietly, his posture stiffening. "He ain’t like Barney. Frank is the kind of man everybody fears—not because he shoots wild, but because he’s cold and unpredictable. He’ll figure out who pulled the strings eventually, and we won’t see him coming when he does. The police are his hammer. Nobody in these streets wants to lay hands on a copper, and Frank can have a man hauled off to the Tombs in leg irons before nightfall."

​Peter took a breath, shifting in the chair. "The only smart play for us is to bleed his pockets dry, take the cocaine we secured, and lie low across town until things settle. Once his temper cools, we can come back with enough force to take him down for good. But while he’s roaming Greenwich? Staying here is suicide."

​"I see," Ricky said gently. "A pragmatic retreat."

​"I came here for more than just a farewell, Mr. Stevenson," Peter said, leaning forward. "As a sign of goodwill, I wanted to give you a warning. Frank Knox isn’t going to look at your business dealings with Barney the way you do."

​Ricky raised an eyebrow. "How will he see them?"

​Peter fumbled slightly under Ricky’s steady, unblinking gaze, clearing his throat. "He... he’s gonna see you as the spark, sir. He’ll look at the liquor contracts and decide you’re the reason Barney and Kid started slicing each other’s throats in the first place. He’ll hold you responsible for his brother’s death. If you take my advice, Mr. Stevenson, you’ll pack your ledgers and stay far away from Greenwich for a while."

​Ricky looked at Peter for a long, quiet moment. Then a faint, calm smile touched the corners of his mouth.

​"I appreciate the word of caution, Peter," Ricky said softly. "But I’m done running. I’m not scared of Frank Knox, nor am I intimidated by his friends in the precincts. I intend to stay right here and see what this man is truly made of."

​Peter stared at Ricky, catching a glimpse of the same unyielding, dangerous steel he had seen in Frank Knox’s eyes a hundred times before. He let out a slow, quiet sigh.

​"If you say so, Mr. Stevenson," Peter murmured. He stood up, smoothing his coat, and extended his right hand across the mahogany desk. "Then I won’t take up any more of your time. I hope we’ll be seeing each other again under better suns."

​Ricky stood, reaching out to shake Peter’s hand with a firm grip. "Of course, Peter. My door is always open."

​Peter tipped his cap and slipped out the door, leaving Ricky alone in the quiet office to his thoughts.

___________________

​The morning sky over Trinity Cemetery was gray and heavy with fog.

​Beside an open grave on the grassy hillside, a priest in dark vestments stood holding a small leather Bible, his voice monotone as he read from the book of Common Prayer.

​"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground... earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

​Only two men stood at the edge of the pit. Frank Knox, dressed in a tailored black suit with his hands folded behind his back, stared silently at the polished mahogany casket. beside him stood Marney, the political liaison from Tammany Hall, adjusting his crisp gloves against the cold damp air.

​As the priest uttered his quiet "Amen," two grave diggers picked up their wooden shovels and stepped toward the dirt pile.

​Frank didn’t wait for the first mound of earth to strike the wood. He turned on his heel and began walking down the stone path toward the iron gates, his heavy boots crunching against the wet gravel. Marney fell into step beside him.

​"The outfit bosses are getting anxious, Frank," Marney said quietly, keeping his voice low as they passed the marble headstones. "Seeing your own outfit in such disarray... others in the hall are starting to view you as a liability. They think the chaos on Gansevoort is going to mess with the weekly contributions. Despite your standing as Charles’s right hand, a few ward leaders have already suggested cutting you loose."

​Frank’s eyes remained fixed on the road ahead. "Which is precisely why I asked for a week to clear the vermin out of my ward. Are they truly that eager to replace me?"

​"You know how it is," Marney said smoothly. "Your family line traces back to Major General Henry Knox. That name alone carries weight in this city, and it secures your seat at the table. But the other ward bosses don’t care about revolutionary war heroes. They see your position as a gift you didn’t earn, and they’re jealous."

​Frank stopped near the cemetery gates, turning his head slightly toward Marney. "If my name is the only reason Charles gave me this ward, I’ll gladly hand the keys back to him today. I won’t have men whispering in the taverns that Frank Knox lives off the shadow of his ancestors."

​Marney looked uneasy, glancing toward the street where a black motorcar sat idling by the curb. "Which is why Charles is offering you an alternative to settle the doubts."

​Frank scoffed faintly under his breath. "I don’t marry teenagers, Marney."

​"She turns eighteen this December, Frank," Marney pressed softly. "It’s a solid match. It binds your military lineage to Charles’s inner circle permanently. It’s the only way for you to hold absolute authority without the ward leaders nipping at your heels."

​Frank walked out the gate and opened the rear door of the automobile. "I’m not a fool. I know which ward boss put you and Charles up to that proposal."

​Marney sighed, walking around to the driver’s side and climbing behind the steering wheel. He engaged the gears, and the motorcar rumbled away from the curb, rolling down the hill toward the city streets.

​"Where to now, Frank?" Marney asked, looking in the rearview mirror.

​"Take us to Chelsea," Frank said coldly, staring out the glass at the passing tenements. "I need to have a conversation with Kid Yorke."

​Marney’s hands tightened on the wooden wheel. "There’s already too much blood in the papers today, Frank. If you go out there and start executing gang leaders in broad daylight, it’s going to create a scandal Tammany can’t brush away."

​"Whether Kid lives or dies depends entirely on his posture when I walk into his room," Frank replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "He’s grown arrogant in his old age. He thinks because I’m uptown, he can show up with guns and grab whatever he pleases. Besides, you have deep enough connections with the editors down on Row to keep the ink clean."

​"I can temper the press, Frank," Marney warned, turning the vehicle onto 8th Avenue. "I can make sure the papers print it as a dockside brawl and leave your name out of the headlines. But I can only bend the editors so far. You give them a massacre, and even Charles won’t be able to keep the district attorney off your back."

​Frank looked out at the bustling city streets, his expression unreadable. "Just drive, Marney."