The Whisper of Shadows
The long shadow of the man suddenly changed direction, tracing a slanted line toward her. Mabel stumbled and dodged the approaching darkness, shifting her steps. The shadow followed her, twisting once more.
Alarmed, Mabel froze in terror. Her heart slammed against her throat.
The man’s footsteps echoed right beside her.
Just as she veered again, the man had already reached her side and blocked her path with lightning speed.
She couldn’t even scream, whipping her body around and bolting toward the Darlington Residence.
No—she tried to run, but the heavy trunk slowed her to a limping stagger. She had to get home, yet she couldn’t risk losing the trunk full of her entire fortune.
The man pursued her with leisurely strides.
When Mabel reached the sidewalk on 63rd Street and turned back in a daze, her foot suddenly left the ground. The man’s arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her in a single motion.
“Kyaa… mmmph!”
A soft leather glove, still carrying the faint scent of cigar, clamped firmly over her mouth.
Mabel thrashed desperately, dropping the trunk. At the same moment, a speeding motorcar from Madison Avenue slammed into the trunk and swerved sharply to avoid it.
The airborne trunk crashed down with a dull thud, then rolled across the asphalt, its edges badly crumpled.
Mabel stared blankly at the wreckage.
Then a low whistle sounded in her ear. The iron-hard shoulder pressed against her back trembled slightly, as if the man was silently laughing.
A chill raced across her entire body.
Mabel began struggling again, kicking her legs, clawing at the gloved hand, and shaking her head violently. But he only held her tighter.
“Good evening, Miss Darling,” he murmured against her ear. “The weather is quite pleasant for a night stroll, isn’t it?”
The familiar voice froze Mabel’s struggles dead.
The Wet Zone, hidden behind the Broadway theaters surrounding Times Square, was Manhattan’s public secret.
When the glittering show ended, the speakeasies of the Wet Zone lit one by one. And until dawn, they stayed up with drink and revelry.
A single black Ford Model T stood parked in front of the 52 Brownstone building. Of the two motorcars cruising the street, this was the one that stood out less—perfect when you wanted to stay invisible.
Just before stepping out, Carlyle had given Massi instructions.
“Don’t wait for me. Go home.”
When the business was finished he would walk home and enjoy a breath of air. His head had been unusually clouded with stray thoughts lately.
“But….”
Massi turned back to protest, then swallowed his words upon seeing Carlyle’s icy expression. His boss did not tolerate repeated orders.
“…Be careful.”
As a faithful bodyguard, Massi muttered under his breath.
Carlyle gave a light chuckle, adjusting his fedora as he stepped out of the car. Standing before the unmarked gate, he knocked. A small window in the door opened.
“Password.”
A thick, raspy voice came from the window.
“Open.”
He commanded shortly.
He didn’t know or need to know the constantly changing password.
Through the bars a pair of eyes appeared and locked onto him with a sharp gaze. Then the pupils widened as if ready to pop out. Soon the door opened with a metallic clang.
“You are here! Your companions arrived fifteen minutes ago and have been waiting.”
The doorman bowed politely, then closed and bolted the door. He hurried down the stairs and opened the wall-mimicking door, stepping back a pace.
Carlyle stepped into the narrow, dimly lit tunnel lit by a couple of crude electric bulbs. The tunnel connected to the corridor of the next building.
Climbing the stairs that led from the corridor, another door appeared at the end. The guard on duty opened it at once and bowed deeply.
“Good evening, Chief.”
The El Dorado Club was not yet open.
Some notorious regulars had already claimed booths and, after the dancers finished their final rehearsal, were casually chatting while buying expensive champagne for the girls.
Carlyle climbed the stairs toward Mezzanine without removing his fedora. The Mezzanine featured private boxes overlooking the stage, curtained in red velvet so the interior remained hidden.
The instant he entered, the lively conversation inside fell silent. Cigar smoke hung in thick clouds beneath the ceiling lights.
“Alright, everyone out. Now!”
Salvatore waved a hand at the showgirls in their glamorous stage costumes. They filed out in a crowd, flashing Carlyle flirtatious smiles.
The three men seated in the private room rose in unison to greet him.
Carlyle took the empty head seat, set his fedora aside, and scanned them one by one with a silent nod of acknowledgment.
He went straight to Benjamin.
“Ben, I told you not to cause trouble in Madden’s territory.”
Benjamin had a delicate face but a temper that flared at the slightest insult. That was how he earned the nickname Mad Dog, though few dared speak it aloud—those who did rarely survived.
Benjamin grumbled in protest.
“Madden’s henchmen started something with our guys first. Those Irish potato farmers should just be quietly eating potatoes in the back kitchen of Health Kitchen.”
After Prohibition took effect, more than twenty thousand speakeasies had sprung up in New York State alone. Large ones were divided among loosely affiliated Italian, Irish, and Eastern European Jewish gangs.
Their uneasy coexistence over the looming massive wealth had led to turf wars like never before. Lately the Jewish gang had jumped into the speakeasy and gambling business at Health Kitchen, clashing with the traditional Irish gang that had long held that area.
Carlyle occupied a unique position—belonging to none of them yet somehow belonging to all. That was why he acted as their unofficial bank and sometimes acted as mediator.
Carlyle rubbed his temple, gesturing to Maxim with obvious impatience.
“Max, explain it.”
Maxim, known as Numbers, handled the organization’s books with his innate mathematical talent.
Opposite in personality to the hot-headed Benjamin, the two had grown up as lifelong friends in the Jewish ghetto of the Lower East Side.
“Ugh, you big idiot. Madden’s beer, we do Scotch whiskey and fine wine. No overlap, so keep your nose out of their territory!”
Just out of Sing Sing, O’Neil Madden had immediately launched speakeasy and bootlegging operations and seized Health Kitchen overnight.
Of course, Carlyle had supplied the money.
“What? Big idiot? The guy who can’t even shoot straight!”
Benjamin shot to his feet, drew his gun, and aimed it at Maxim’s temple. Maxim rolled his eyes, as if to say here we go again, and shoved the barrel roughly aside.
“Get lost, you crazy bastard.”
“Maxim Baski! You called me a crazy bastard? Huh, huh. If I put a few bullets in that big head of yours, will you finally shut up? Hmm, I’ll give you exactly one shot—just one, to match your length. How about it?”
“Sit down.”
Just as Benjamin was about to lose his mind and explode, Carlyle’s grim voice cut through.
He paused, glanced at Carlyle, then sat with a grunt, glaring.
Back when they were boys and force alone decided rank, the hierarchy Carlyle had burned into Benjamin’s soul was the only thing that could leash the raging Mad Dog.
With an awkward expression, he tucked the gun back into his holster.
Benjamin had only just turned twenty-four, yet thanks to Carlyle he was already a millionaire. No matter how crazy, you didn’t bite the hand feeding you.
Carlyle stared at him, then let out a quiet sigh. Benjamin avoided his gaze, looking guilty.
“Ben, what is it I hate most?”
“…Noise.”
Benjamin growled.
“If you want someone gone, make sure they disappear quietly, no one noticing. The next morning’s paper has no single line about it. Understood?”
“…Understood.”
Carlyle had spent a good deal of effort quietly silencing the ruckus Benjamin had caused at the Health Kitchen speakeasy.