Chapter 139: Beginnings Of The Faceless Men

An hour and a half later, the Mack truck turned right, off the main dirt road onto a narrow, unpaved logging trail that cut deep into the dense timber. The track was barely wide enough for the heavy motor truck to squeeze through, the low-hanging branches scraping against the high wooden roof of the cab.

​After ten minutes of crawling through the woods, the trees gave way to a broad, open valley clearing. Rolling green hills stretched out toward small sheep and cattle pastures in the distance.

​Down near the slope of a low ridge, Ricky spotted roughly fifty young men dressed in sleeveless undershirts and knee-length work trousers. They were jogging in a double column up the incline, led by Arthur, who was bellowing out a rhythmic sea shanty to keep their pace.

​As the truck engine rumbled past the bottom of the hill, several of the runners slowed down, turning their heads to look at Ricky sitting in the passenger seat.

​"Keep your eyes forward and your feet moving!" Arthur’s booming voice rang out over the hill. "Unless you want another twenty laps around the ridge before lunch!"

​The men immediately straightened up, pick-up their pace, and continued their run over the crest.

​Ricky swung himself out of the truck cab as John slowed to a crawl, letting the vehicle rumble ahead toward the main farm buildings. He walked over to the edge of the trail as Arthur jogged down the slope, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

​"How are things holding up out here, Arthur?" Ricky asked, looking over the spread.

​Arthur caught his breath, adjusting his cap. "Getting them into shape, boss. But that old timber barn down there wasn’t nearly large enough to house sixty men on its own. We had to improvise and pitch canvas military tents in rows around the yard for extra sleeping quarters."

​Ricky rubbed his chin, assessing the layout. "Can you ask around the ranks and see if any of the boys have actual carpentry experience? I can have John haul up finished timber, nails, and corrugated iron from White Plains so we don’t have to waste time felling trees out here."

​"How many men do you want to assign to construction duty?" Arthur asked.

​"As many as it takes to put up three solid single-story wooden buildings," Ricky said. "Two for proper living barracks and one for a main mess hall and kitchen."

​Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "If we lay out double-bunk frames, we could fit thirty beds into one long barracks building comfortably. It’ll take a bit longer to frame out, but it’s far more efficient. We could use the extra building left for gear and equipment storage."

​"That works fine," Ricky agreed. "Get the carpenters identified by tonight."

​"Come on," Arthur said, gesturing down the trail. "Let me introduce you to the man who owns this spread. He’s been keeping an eye on us since you guys rolled in."

​They walked down toward a newly constructed wooden barn near the pasture fence. Leaning against the top rail was a man in his early fifties, wearing a weathered brimmed hat and a faded work coat. He was lean, tall as Arthur, and watched them approach with quiet, sharp eyes as he chewed on a blade of sweetgrass.

​"Mr. Abagnale," Arthur called out as they drew near. "This is Mr. Richard Stevenson. Ricky, this is Hanratty Abagnale."

​The old farmer tipped his hat slightly, stepping back from the fence. "Most folks just call me Henry."

​Ricky offered his hand over the wooden fence. "Most also call me Ricky. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Henry."

​Henry took Ricky’s hand, giving it a single, firm shake before resting his arm back on the fence post. "The feeling’s mutual, kid. So you’re the one running this outfit? I was told you own a trading business down in the city and these lads are your workers."

​"That was the case," Ricky said calmly. "Until a gang backed by Tammany Hall murdered one of my closest friends. Most of the men out here grew up with him."

​Henry pulled the grass from his mouth, his brow furrowing slightly. "Tammany Hall... I’ve heard rumors about their ward bosses through a friend of mine over in Bedford. Didn’t realize they were throwing around iron and lead like common bandits, though. I figured they just stuck to buying elections and taking bribes."

​"They have a finger in every pocket in Manhattan," Ricky said. "And the street gangs are just their hired muscle."

​Henry looked out over the field at the fifty young men jogging up the hill, shaking his head slowly. "I’m still skeptical about a bunch of tenement boys going up against a political machine like Tammany. You’re going to get a lot of good men killed in a fight like that—especially the ones in the criminal outfits who are only out on the street to earn a living."

​"We aren’t planning on meeting them in an open street war," Ricky replied, his tone steady and cool. "If we fought them out in the open, we’d lose. We’re going to strike at the top—eliminate their leaders and lay their crimes out where the whole city can see them."

​Henry raised an eyebrow. "And how do you propose to pull that off?"

​"We’ll gather the paper trails and feed the evidence directly to the police commissioner," Ricky said.

​Henry let out a short, dry chuckle, looking down at his boots. "Hmm... If your whole strategy relies on staying in the shadows, leaning on a police commissioner is a terrible play, kid."

​Ricky narrowed his eyes slightly. "You think Commissioner is tied to Tammany too?"

​"Like you just said, Tammany has fingers everywhere," Henry said, looking back up. "Even if your commissioner is an honest man trying to buck the machine, the deputy, the sergeants, precinct captains, and desk clerks under him certainly aren’t. It’s only a matter of time before Tammany gets him ousted or quietly replaced. Passing your evidence through precinct channels is just handing it back to the men you’re hunting."

​Ricky considered that for a second. "What about taking it directly to the press?"

​"The press isn’t a bad angle," Henry admitted, leaning back against the timber rail. "Newspaper publishers don’t care about protecting politicians—they care about selling broadsheets. If you hand them a scandal involving high-ranking officials mixed up in truly heinous crimes, they’ll print every word of it on the front page just to drive up circulation."

​Ricky looked closely at the older man, impressed by his sharp grip on city politics. "If you don’t mind me asking, Henry... how does a farmer living out in the hills of Pound Ridge know so much about Tammany Hall and city rackets?"

​Henry gave a slow, knowing smirk, his eyes glinting with decades of unspoken history.

​"Been there, done that," Henry said simply. He turned around, adjusting his hat as he began walking back toward his cattle pens. "Why do you think I live this far away from the city, kid?"

​Ricky watched the old man walk off, a faint, respectful smile touching his lips.

​"Smart old bastard," Arthur muttered under his breath.

​"He’s right, too," Ricky said, turning back toward the main yard. "We’ll keep our plans tight and handle the intelligence ourselves."

​They walked up toward the central two-story farmhouse and the surrounding clearings. Around the old wooden barn, rows of heavy canvas tents had been erected, with small groups of men cleaning their gear, resting on wooden crates, and preparing for the upcoming evening drills.

​Ricky took a long look over the bustling camp, knowing that over the next three months, this quiet mountain farm would transform every single one of these tenement runners into a disciplined, lethal force.