Chapter 200: Threats Rising

The third-floor suite at the Hoffman House on Broadway had effectively become the temporary command center of Tammany Hall.

?In the high-ceilinged sitting room, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigar smoke, damp wool coats, and stale coffee. Two private guards stood posted beside the polished mahogany door, while down in the hotel corridor, three Tammany aldermen and a dozen ward heelers waited nervously on silk-upholstered armchairs, waiting for an audience with Charles Murphy.

?Behind a heavy writing desk near the curtained windows, Murphy sat scanning a sheaf of telegrams. His brow was furrowed, his eyes tired.

?Ever since Frank Knox’s body had been fished out of the Hudson River, Murphy had felt the ground beneath his feet grow subtly softer. Frank hadn’t just been a quiet enforcer; he had been the glue holding Tammany’s physical apparatus together. Frank was the man who read through tedious municipal bills, reminded stubborn precinct captains who paid their salaries, and delivered quiet, terrifying warnings to ambitious politicians who thought about straying from the party line.

?Without Frank standing beside him, Murphy had noticed an unsettling shift over the past few months. Politicians who used to lower their voices when Frank entered a room suddenly discovered they had opinions. Ward leaders were arguing over patronage allocations, and district bosses were demanding larger cuts of the gambling revenues. Frank’s reputation had been a vital piece of political infrastructure, and its loss was proving costly.

?The heavy oak door opened, and a guard stepped inside. "Lawrence Mulligan is here, Mr. Murphy."

?"Send him in," Murphy said, setting his fountain pen down.

?Lawrence "Larry" Mulligan walked into the suite with a calm, deliberate stride. Unlike his late half-brother Big Tim, who had always commanded a room with boisterous laughter and heavy-handed charisma, Mulligan moved like a senior bank examiner or a prosperous trade attorney. He wore a tailored, dark grey wool suit, a spotless white collar, and carried a leather briefcase under his arm.

?"Larry," Murphy said, standing up and extending his hand across the desk. "I’m sorry for your loss. Timothy’s condition had been getting worse for months... I knew the day was coming. Patrick, however... I didn’t expect that."

?Mulligan took Murphy’s hand with a firm, measured grip, taking a seat in the leather armchair across from the desk. His expression was completely composed, his sharp blue eyes clear and steady.

?"Tim was sick," Mulligan said plainly, his voice smooth and devoid of theatrical grief. "He hadn’t been making sense since July. Patrick wasn’t sick, but he had a weak heart and a hot temper. Either way, Charles, the work remains."

?Murphy looked at him closely. He appreciated the lack of emotional melodrama. New York’s political landscape was moving too fast for weeks of public mourning.

?"The Sullivan machine is in danger of tearing itself apart," Murphy said, leaning back in his chair. "The ward leaders in the Second and Third districts are already squabbling over who takes over the docks, and the street gangs are running wild. You have my full backing, Larry. I want you to step into Tim’s shoes and take complete control of the district operations."

?Mulligan nodded once, accepting the offer as though it were a routine corporate transfer. "What about the precinct captains who answer to Paddy’s old lieutenants?"

?"Handle them however you see fit," Murphy replied flatly. "Use the police, use political pressure, use the vice collections, or use muscle. Anyone who refuses to fall in line gets cut out entirely."

?"Understood," Mulligan said. "I’ll put the districts in order by the end of the month."

?He gathered his leather briefcase, preparing to stand, but Murphy raised a hand to stop him.

?"There’s one other matter, Larry," Murphy said, his tone dropping into a lower, grimmer register.

?Mulligan paused, looking at him. "Sir?"

?"Timothy and Patrick didn’t just happen to die on the same night by coincidence," Murphy said, resting his hands flat on the desk. "And Frank Knox didn’t just fall into the Hudson River."

?Mulligan remained quiet, listening attentively.

?"Over the past eight months," Murphy continued, "John De George disappeared with our books, our internal communications were leaked to the newspapers, the street gangs were pushed into a massive war, and now Frank and the Sullivans are dead. Someone is operating underneath us, Larry. A hidden network with money, intelligence, and no fear of Tammany Hall."

?Murphy leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on Mulligan. "I have two theories. Either the Fusion Party and the reformers have built a secret intelligence apparatus to destroy us from the inside... or Washington is quietly running a federal investigation into our financial networks."

?The second possibility visibly unnerved Murphy far more than the first. A federal grand jury could tear Tammany’s economic structure to pieces.

?"I need to know who I’m fighting before I start fighting, Larry," Murphy said sternly. "While you’re reorganizing the Sullivans’ territory, I want you to run a private investigation into this hidden group. Find out who killed Frank. Find out who took De George."

?Mulligan looked at Murphy for a long moment. He didn’t argue, nor did he express doubt.

?"I’ll look into it, Charles," Mulligan said smoothly, standing up from his chair. "If there’s an organization in the shadows, I’ll find their trail."

?"Good," Murphy nodded. "Keep it quiet. Don’t speak of this to the ward captains."

?Mulligan gave a polite nod, turned on his heel, and walked out of the suite.

?Ten minutes later, Mulligan stepped out through the grand entrance of the Hoffman House into the crisp, biting afternoon air of Broadway. A private, black-lacquered carriage pulled up to the curb, its iron-rimmed wheels clattering against the cobblestones.

?Mulligan climbed inside, setting his briefcase on the leather bench opposite his young personal assistant, Tommy, who immediately pulled the door shut behind him.

?The carriage lurched forward, joining the stream of horse-drawn cabs and motorcars heading south toward Union Square.

?Tommy looked at his boss expectantly. "Did Murphy give you the district backing, Mr. Mulligan?"

?"He did," Mulligan said, pulling a silver cigar case from his coat pocket. He clipped the end of a cigar and lit it with a match, breathing out a thin stream of blue smoke. "Full authority over the Second and Third Wards, the waterfront collections, and the saloon licenses."

?Tommy smiled. "That’s huge news, sir."

?"And he wants me to hunt a ghost," Mulligan added with a low, dry chuckle.

?Tommy blinked, confused. "A ghost?"

?"Murphy’s lost his nerve," Mulligan said, looking out the carriage window as the shops of Broadway passed by. "Frank Knox dies in a river, Tim dies of his disease, Patrick dies of a bad heart, there’s also a suspected assasin and Murphy thinks there’s a phantom army hiding in the dark, pulling all the strings. He spent fifteen minutes warning me about secret reformer networks and federal spies." ℯ

?"You don’t think there’s someone behind it?" Tommy asked.

?"Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t," Mulligan said, flicking a speck of ash into a brass tray. "Even if they’re real, they can wait. Murphy wants me hunting an imaginary enemy in the shadows while the front door is on fire. I have a full-scale gang war destroying our revenues in Lower Manhattan, and that is what I am going to fix first."

?Tommy pulled a small leather notebook from his coat, flipping to a section filled with scribbled notes. "The street factions are completely disorganized right now, sir. The war has split into half a dozen smaller fights."

?"Break them down for me," Mulligan instructed, leaning back against the leather seat.

?"Jack Zelig and the Eastman Gang are exhausted," Tommy reported. "They’ve taken heavy losses against the White Hand on the docks and they’re bleeding money. Paul Kelly’s faction is in the same boat—they want a ceasefire, but they’re afraid of looking weak."

?"Those two are easy," Mulligan noted. "When men are tired and broke, offering them peace is doing them a favor. What about the others?"

?"The Bowery Boys under Gallagher are stubborn," Tommy said. "They’re making good money selling bootleg arms and they don’t want Tammany telling them where they can operate. The Morello faction and the Brooklyn Camorra groups are even worse—they’re fighting an internal Italian turf war over the waterfront piers, and neither side trusts a single word coming out of Manhattan."

?Mulligan dragged slowly on his cigar, his mind analyzing the layout like an accountant reviewing a bad ledger.

?"I’m not going to sit in saloon backrooms and negotiate with street brawlers for six months," Mulligan said coldly. "We do this administratively."

?Tommy looked up from his pad. "Administratively, sir?"

?"We offer a general ceasefire," Mulligan said. "The crews that accept it get to keep their saloons, their gambling dens, and their political protection. The ones who refuse... we put the entire weight of the city government on their front doorsteps."

?A sharp, cruel smirk touched Mulligan’s lips. "If they won’t listen to reason, we’ll make listening cheaper. Every police captain in Lower Manhattan suddenly remembers their names. The health department inspects their clubhouses. The building commissioners close their saloons for structural violations. Their protection vanishes overnight, and we let their rivals take whatever is left of their turf."

?Tommy stared at his boss, a slow smile spreading across his face as he realized the brilliance of the strategy. Mulligan wasn’t going to send gang members to fight in the alleys—he was going to weaponize the municipal government to crush anyone who disrupted business.

?"If you pull that off, Mr. Mulligan," Tommy said softly, "every gang leader and ward boss in the city will know exactly who runs Lower Manhattan now."

?"That is the point, Tommy," Mulligan said, tapping his cigar against the tray. "Tim ran this empire with heavy fists and loud speeches. I am going to run it with ledgers, police captains, and business permits. It’s cleaner, it’s quieter, and it makes far more money."

?He looked out the carriage window as they crossed into Lower Manhattan. Somewhere in the dark alleys of the city, Charles Murphy believed a hidden phantom was hunting Tammany Hall.

?Mulligan didn’t care about phantoms. He had an empire to rebuild, and he was going to build it his way. But he didn’t know someone is already watching him from the shadows nor does he want to believe it.