Chapter 116: Pushing The Trojan Horse

The afternoon crowd on the floor of the Indy Saloon on Gansevoort Street was threadbare at best. Up on the wooden balcony overlooking the taps, Barney leaned his heavy elbows against the railing, a half-empty tumbler in his hand, his brow furrowed as he watched only a dozen men sitting at the tables below.

​For five days straight, the receipts had been falling off. Worse still, Kid Yorke hadn’t bothered to bring his usual complaints or demand another meeting with the commission boys.

​"What the hell is going on down there?" Barney muttered under his breath.

​He turned his head toward Peter, who was leaning casually against the post behind him, taking a slow drag from a cigarette.

​"Peter!" Barney called out.

​Peter stepped over to the railing, his face calm. "Yeah, boss?"

​"Is it just my eyes, or have we been bleeding customers all week?" Barney growled, gesturing down at the half-empty saloon floor. "Where the hell is everybody?"

​"It’s not just here, boss," Peter replied smoothly, flicking a bit of ash over the wood. "I checked our spots along West 4th Street near Jackson Square yesterday. Same story. Crowds are thin everywhere."

​Barney’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around his glass. "Did that bastard Kid Yorke find a way to go behind my back and deal with the commission boys directly?"

​"I don’t think so," Peter began. "I’ve been keeping tabs on—"

​A loud shout from the front doors cut him off. Heavy footsteps slammed against the floorboards below as a young gang messenger burst into the saloon, panting heavily.

​"Emergency! Boss!" the kid yelled, taking the stairs two at a time and looking straight at Barney. "I got news!"

​Barney’s face flushed red with irritation. "Out with it, goddamnit! Don’t just stand there barking!"

​The boy stopped at the top of the stairs, catching his breath. "Boss... Kid Yorke is poaching our regular buyers. He’s got his own bulk supply of whiskey moving through Chelsea. Flooding every block."

​Barney blinked, taking a step forward. "So I was right! The commission boys sold out to him behind my back!"

​"No, boss, it ain’t imported stuff," the messenger said, shaking his head rapidly. "It’s an American blend. Yorke’s telling all the saloon owners it’s smoother and cheaper than European imports. On top of that... word on the street is he’s cutting his cocaine prices in half to squeeze us out."

​Barney slammed his heavy fist onto the wooden table beside him, rattling the glasses. "FUUUCKK!"

​He spun around, pacing the floor like a caged animal before glaring at Peter. "Peter! Get a message to the commission boys right now. Tell ’em I need a discount deal on our next shipment or we’re pulling out."

​Peter nodded silently, keeping his expression neutral.

​"So Yorke wants a war, does he?" Barney spat, his voice raspy with anger. "I don’t give a damn who his new supplier is. If he wants to push me out, I’ll tear his whole operation apart."

​Peter took a slow pull from his cigarette, stepping closer with an idle grin. "Boss... if you want to ruin him fast, why don’t we make his saloons a little spicy?"

​Barney paused, turning to look at him. "What do you mean?"

​"It’d be a terrible shame," Peter chuckled softly, "if his main Chelsea joints happened to burn to the ground before his business ever takes off."

​A slow smile crept across Barney’s face, though he quickly shook his head. "It’s a good thought, but we gotta be careful. Yorke’s men know your face and mine. If my crew gets spotted near his places with torches, it brings the whole west side down on us."

​"We don’t even need to go near ’em," Peter said, leaning in slightly. "We throw a few small bags of white powder to a couple of desperate addicts off the street. Tell ’em to douse the back rooms in kerosene in the middle of the night and strike a match."

​Barney stared at Peter for a second before bursting into a loud, booming laugh, slapping him hard on the shoulder. "Hahaha! That’s why you’re my right-hand man, Peter! I didn’t know you had that kind of fire in you. Goddamn, that’s brilliant!"

​Barney walked back to the table, grabbed a bottle of Royal Spades whiskey, and poured two heavy shots into fresh glasses. He shoved one toward Peter.

​"A fire is perfect," Barney grinned, tossing back his shot. "Especially when their stockrooms are piled high with crates of high-proof alcohol. Chelsea’s gonna be one big fireball tonight, and nobody can pin a damn thing on us. Yorke’s scouts will be watching the roads from Greenwich for a squad of my men, but who’s gonna notice a couple of quiet hop-heads creeping around an alley?"

​"Exactly, boss," Peter said, taking a subtle sip of the liquor.

​"Now if we could just figure out where Yorke hides his personal cocaine stashes, we’d take everything he owns," Barney said, setting his glass down with a heavy thud. He pointed a thick finger at Peter. "You pull this off clean, Peter, and I’m handing you the keys to the whole distribution operation. I’m sick of micromanaging these street rats when I could just sit back and take my cut."

​Peter offered a dry, respectful nod, keeping his voice steady. "Appreciate it, boss."

​Behind his eyes, Peter’s thoughts were cold and silent. Too late, asshole.

​Later that night, long after the saloon had closed, Peter, Reggie, and Henry stood around a scarred wooden table in a dimly lit, narrow room off an alley behind Hudson Street. A single oil lamp cast sharp shadows against the brick walls as four other trusted crew members checked their weapons in the background.

​"Alright," Reggie said, resting both hands on the table and looking between Henry and Peter. "Tonight’s the night. We run two separate plays while the streets are dark."

​He looked directly at Henry. "First, thanks to Peter playing Barney like a fiddle today, we’ve got the perfect cover to slip into Chelsea. Henry, take three of your men, find a couple of street addicts, and give ’em a free bag of powder to light up Yorke’s two main saloons. Once the matches are struck, post the rest of your guys along Gansevoort to watch for the morning fallout."

​"Got it," Henry nodded.

​"Peter," Reggie continued, turning to him. "You stay posted near Barney’s hideout at the corner of Perry Street and West 4th. That’s where his most loyal lapdogs sleep, guarding his front door. Barney gets paranoid the second he hears trouble, so you keep an eye on his guards. The moment any of ’em gear up to make a move, you send word."

​"What about you, Reggie?" Henry asked, frowning slightly. "I thought we were hitting Barney’s cocaine stashes tomorrow during the chaos?"

​"Change of plans," Reggie said, a dark smirk touching his face. "Me and my squad are taking out Barney’s third stash house on Jane Street—between Greenwich Avenue and West 4th—tonight."

​Henry blinked in surprise. "Tonight? Why push it up?"

​"Because hitting his Jane Street spot tonight gives Barney a direct reason to lose his mind," Reggie explained, leaning forward. "He’s gonna wake up, see Yorke’s saloons burning, find his own Jane Street stash cleaned out, and immediately assume Yorke hit him back in retaliation. It pushes Barney into attacking Yorke blindly before he ever realizes his own crew turned on him."

​Reggie tapped his finger on the wooden table. "There’s over five hundred and twenty-five pounds of powder locked in that Jane Street house. The other half is sitting down on Downing Street between 7th Avenue and Varick. And Frank’s personal stash on Cornelia Street is holding well over a thousand pounds."

​Henry let out a low whistle. "That’s a hell of a lot of white powder."

​"And once we clear out Jane Street," Reggie added, "my crew moves straight down to Washington Street to set up a roadblock and cut off Jack’s reinforcements if they try to roll up from the south."

​Reggie pulled a silver pocket watch from his vest, popping the latch. "You all got your stopwatches synchronized?"

​Henry and Peter pulled out their own watches, checking the hands against his.

​"Good," Reggie said, snapping his watch shut. "We launch at exactly two in the morning. Everyone’s dead asleep by then. Keep it fast, keep it clean. I want everyone back in this room by five AM."

​The men nodded, moving with practiced efficiency as they split up toward their assigned exits. Henry pulled two of his men aside, quietly detailing which alleys they were taking into Chelsea.

​Reggie stepped over to the corner bench, picking up his newly acquired Winchester pump-action shotgun. He cycled the slide once with a crisp, heavy metallic clack, checking the brass shells in the magazine tube before slipping extra rounds into his coat pockets. His men stood nearby, checking the cylinders of their revolvers and snapping leather holsters shut.

​"Remember," Reggie warned his squad in a low, sharp whisper as they headed for the rear door. "When we hit Jane Street, we only fire if we have to scatter the guards. Fire into the air or over their heads if you can. We don’t need a heavy gunfight drawing half the precinct coppers before the main event even starts."

​"Understood, Reggie," one of the men muttered, pulling his cap low over his eyes as they stepped out into the cold night mist.