Chapter 135: A Wanted Man
Inside the back parlor of his Hudson Street social club, Frank Knox slammed his heavy palm onto his mahogany desk, sending a glass of bourbon sloshing over the side.
"What do you mean he’s gone?!" Knox roared, his face flushing crimson.
Standing across the desk were Sullivan and Red, two senior hitters Knox had promoted to lieutenants to keep his remaining men in line after the losses at Gansevoort Street. Sullivan adjusted his wool flat cap, looking tight-lipped, while Red nervously shifted his boots against the rug.
"It’s the truth, Frank," Sullivan said in a low, cautious voice. "Commissioner Cropsey personally marched into the Charles Street station house yesterday morning. He put Captain Thompson in irons right in front of his own desk and put Captain Teague in charge. Before midnight, Stevenson disappeared that night. If I had to guess, it was Cropsey’s doing."
"Of course, it’s him." Knox spat, his jaw working violently as he chewed on the stub of an unlit cigar. "A damned police commissioner aiding a jailbreak."
"He must’ve instructed one of his men to do it." Red added, leaning forward. "Right now, Stevenson is free. We don’t know what he’ll do. But I’m sure as hell he’ll be back for revenge."
Knox stood up, shoving his heavy wooden chair back against the wall with a loud bang. "That arrogant, self-righteous bastard... He thinks because he wears a commissioner’s badge he can cross me?"
He turned to Sullivan, pointing a thick, trembling finger at his lieutenant’s chest. "You get down to the precinct right now. Thompson might be in a cell, but Sergeant Higgins and the desk clerks are still on our payroll. Tell Higgins to push the grand jury indictment through before nightfall! I want file charges logged for multiple homicide, gang conspiracy, and grand smuggling! Get Richard Stevenson’s name posted on every wanted handbill from the Battery to Westchester by tomorrow morning!"
"Right away, Frank," Sullivan nodded. "I’ll make sure Higgins rushes the paperwork through the magistrate’s office."
Knox took a heavy breath, pacing behind his desk as he chewed on his cigar. He stopped, looking up at Red. "What about those three bastards who pinched our shipment? Did you find Reggie, Henry, and Peter yet?"
Red grimaced, shaking his head. "We combed every flop house, dockyard, and train depot from Greenwich down to the Brooklyn piers, Frank. It was completely futile. Reggie, Henry, and Peter took that entire crate of refined cocaine and vanished into thin air. Either they caught a freight train heading west to Chicago, or they jumped on an outgoing steamer."
"Futile..." Knox sneered, slamming his fist onto the desk again. "Three two-bit street runners walk off with hundreds of thousand dollars of high-grade medical blow, and my own lieutenants can’t even find a cold trail! If they show their faces in New York again, skin ’em alive!"
"We’re keeping eyes everywhere, Frank," Red assured quickly. "And Sullivan’s got twenty of our remaining men keeping order along Hudson Street so the dock crews don’t start stepping out of line."
Knox leaned over his desk, his eyes dark with lethal intent. "Good. Keep our men in line and keep ’em armed. Stevenson might be out of his cage, but he’s a hunted fugitive now. Spread our spotters out around Minetta and the ferries. The second that bastard sticks his nose out of the dark, I want him filled with lead."
For three days, Ricky remained tucked away in the back room of the Minetta flat, keeping out of the daylight and away from the street-facing windows while Knox’s spotters combed the surrounding blocks.
Outside, the neighborhood went about its routine under a heavy pall of tension, but inside the cramped room, news arrived in steady drips through Marcus and the rest of the crew.
On the second morning, Marcus pushed open the door and tossed a folded broadsheet onto the wooden table where Ricky sat sipping black coffee.
"You made the front page of the precinct handbills, boss," Marcus said, pulling up a chair. "Knox had his precinct sergeants rush the magistrate. They’re posting ’em up along Hudson Street and down near the docks."
Ricky picked up the paper, unfolding it. Near the bottom of the second column, bold black ink caught his eye: WANTED FOR GRAND JURY INDICTMENT – RICHARD STEVENSON. SUSPECTED OF MULTIPLE HOMICIDE, RACKETEERING, AND UNLAWFUL CONTRABAND SMUGGLING.
He scanned the text calmly. "No photograph?"
"Not a one," Marcus shook his head. "Just your name, your age, and a generic description—five-foot-seven, dark hair, athletic build. Half the dockworkers in Greenwich fit that description."
Ricky tossed the paper back onto the table. "Then it doesn’t mean a thing. I’ll grow out a full beard over the next few weeks. Once we’re settled up in White Plains, I’ll have Phill McClain forge a fresh birth certificate and press papers under an alias. ’Richard Stevenson’ can fade into the background until we’re ready to hit back."
Late that night, a low, rhythmic knock sounded at the alley door. Marcus checked through the peephole before pulling the heavy bolt back to let Marek inside.
Marek ducked into the room, his dark wool overcoat dusted with the cold night mist. The moment he saw Ricky standing by the table, he let out a long, shuddering breath and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Ricky in a tight, relieved embrace.
"Jesus, Ricky..." Marek said, stepping back and gripping Ricky’s shoulders. "When I got your written wire from the precinct basement, I thought you were done for. And then... news about Danny..."
Marek’s voice trailed off, his eyes darkening as he looked down at the floorboards.
"How are things up in Westchester?" Ricky asked softly, pulling out a chair for him.
"Devastated," Marek said, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "Word reached White Plains yesterday morning. It hit the boys from the tenements the hardest. John had to move thirty of them out of the city center to keep ’em from jumping on the first southbound train with shotguns."
"Where’d John take them?" Marcus asked, leaning against the wall.
"A thousand-acre spread up in Pound Ridge," Marek explained. "Belongs to a friend of John’s uncle. Plenty of timber, open land, and old barns for sleeping quarters. It’s isolated, so the boys can blow off steam without getting into brawls with the locals."
Marek rubbed his face with his calloused hands. "Danny meant a lot to those lads, Ricky. He was the one who always kept the peace when tempers flared back in the tenements."
Marcus let out a quiet, sad chuckle from the corner. "That’s the truth. Remember last month when Sean and Patrick nearly took iron pipes to each other over a ten-cent pay dispute on the loading dock? Danny didn’t raise his voice once. He just pulled a worn deck of Bicycle cards out of his pocket, set a bottle of cheap rye on a wooden crate, and made ’em sit down to play high-card with their coats and boots on the line."
Ricky looked up, a faint, bittersweet smile touching his lips. "Who won?"
"Danny took both their boots," Marcus said softly, shaking his head. "By the time Sean was sitting on a cold crate in his undershirt, those two idiots were laughing so hard they forgot what they were fighting about in the first place. That was just how Danny was."
Three days after Ricky’s escape, the gray morning sky over Greenwich Village hung low and heavy with the promise of rain.
A quiet procession moved from the Minetta block down toward the small parish cemetery near the edge of the district. Hundreds of locals filled the narrow sidewalk—dockloaders, tenement mothers wrapped in dark shawls, shopkeepers, and dozens of young street runners who had worked under Danny’s direction.
Ricky stood near the edge of the burial ground, leaning against the rough trunk of an old oak tree near the rear stone wall. He wore his flat cap pulled down low over his eyes, his dark coat collar turned up against the biting wind, and his black cloth mask pulled tight across his nose and mouth.
Beside him stood Marcus and two armed crewmen, their hands tucked deep into their coat pockets, fingers resting on hidden revolvers.
Across the street, standing under the awning of a closed butcher shop, two men in bowler hats and heavy wool coats—sent by Sullivan and Red—stood watching the funeral crowd with sharp, scanning eyes.
Marcus leaned in close to Ricky’s ear, his voice barely a whisper. "Knox’s spotters on the corner, boss. Want me to have two of the boys slide around the block and flush ’em out?"
"Leave them alone," Ricky murmured, his eyes never leaving the wooden coffin being carried across the grass by six young loaders. "They’re looking for a wanted man in a fine suit who thinks he’s above the law. They aren’t looking at the shadows near the back wall."
Ricky watched silently as the priest raised a brass crucifix, reciting the final Latin rites over the open grave. Women wept softly into their handkerchiefs, while the young men stood with their heads bowed, caps clutched tightly in their dirt-stained hands.
As the heavy wooden casket was lowered slowly into the dark earth, Ricky closed his eyes for a brief second, his chest tightening with an absolute, unwavering resolve.
Rest easy, Danny, he thought silently. The next time blood spills on these streets, it won’t be ours.
Once the funeral crowd began to disperse back into the surrounding tenement blocks, Ricky and his small escort slipped down a side alley toward a quiet freight yard where a brand-new Mack motor truck was parked behind a row of wooden crates.
John Caldwell stood beside the idling truck, his hands resting on the heavy steering wheel as he kept watch over the lane.
Ricky gestured for Marcus to follow him over to the cab.
"John," Ricky said as they approached. "This is Marcus. He’s taking full operational charge of our crew down here in Greenwich."
John stepped down from the running board, extending a thick, calloused hand to Marcus. "Good to meet you, Marcus. I’m sorry about your boy Danny. He was a good lad."
"Appreciate it, John," Marcus said, shaking his hand firmly.
Ricky looked between the two men, his tone becoming sharp and precise. "Marcus, your primary job down here is keeping an eye on Frank Knox’s Dusters. Keep twenty boys on rotation at all times, watching their social clubs and precinct movements. But listen to me carefully—do not start an open street war. If Knox’s men step onto Minetta concrete, handle them silently. Otherwise, stay in the shadows."
"Understood, boss," Marcus nodded.
"Second," Ricky continued, "you’re responsible for the families on this block. The cold weather is setting in fast. I want every cellar stocked with coal, and every flat provided with fresh grain and salt pork."
John patted the wooden side panel of the Mack truck. "I’ve already got two tons of coal and three crates of salted beef sitting in the back of this truck right now, Marcus. We’ll dump ’em at the rear alley of the flat before we head north."
Marcus let out a long breath of relief, a rare, genuine smile crossing his face. "That’s a massive burden off our shoulders, John. The winter frost usually hits these tenements hard by November."
"We take care of our own," John said simply, climbing back up into the driver’s seat. "Load up, lads. We’ve got a two-hour drive up to Westchester before nightfall."
Ricky turned to Marcus, giving his shoulder a firm grip. "Keep your eyes open, Marcus. Keep the boys focused, and don’t let anyone do anything stupid out of grief."
"We’ll hold the line down here, Boss." Marcus promised, tipping his cap. "Safe travels up north."
Ricky pulled himself up into the high passenger seat of the Mack truck, settling into the leather bench as John engaged the heavy iron gearshift. The motor roared to life, casting a cloud of gray exhaust into the damp afternoon air as the truck pulled out of the alleyway and turned north, leaving the dark brick corridors of Greenwich Village behind.