Chapter 3 - The Audit of 12th Street
The basement of the warehouse was a testament to low-level criminal prosperity. The floors were covered in cheap green felt carpeting, three flat-screen televisions mounted on the damp concrete walls displayed live sports feeds, and a mahogany bar in the corner was stocked with mid-shelf whiskey and stale cigar smoke. Around a circular poker table sat five men—local bookies, small-time loan sharks, and muscle-for-hire who worked the docks.
At the head of the table sat Daniel Webb.
He had Marcus’s build—broad shoulders and a thick neck—but none of his brother's quiet dignity. Daniel’s face was soft, puffy from years of cheap success and expensive grease, and his fingers were adorned with heavy, gaudy gold rings that looked like they had been taken from a pawnshop window.
When Daniel saw Connor Malone standing at the bottom of the stairs, the cigar in his hand dropped onto the green felt, burning a small, black hole into the fabric.
"Connor," Daniel stammered, his chair screeching backward against the floor as he stood up. His hand hovered instinctively near his waistband before he looked at the cold, unblinking eyes of the Malone underboss and thought better of it. "I... I didn't expect you to come in person. We could have met at the restaurant. I could have brought the books to you."
"The books are closed, Daniel," Connor said, taking off his leather gloves and placing them neatly on the edge of the bar. He didn't look at the other five men in the room, but his presence was so immense, so heavy with the threat of immediate violence, that two of the poker players silently stood up, grabbed their coats, and walked past Connor toward the stairs without saying a word.
Connor didn't stop them. He didn't need to.
"Hey, what is this?" Daniel looked at his remaining muscle—a towering dock worker named Leo who had a broken nose and a scar running from his ear to his chin. "Leo, tell him... tell him we're paid up on the weekly percentage. We sent the envelope to Tony on Monday."
Leo took a step forward, his chest puffed out, but Connor didn't even look at him.
"Leo," Connor said, his voice quiet, almost conversational. "If you take one step toward me, I am going to take that brass pole behind the bar and insert it into your throat. Then I am going to call your union representative and tell him you slipped on some grease. Go home to your wife."
Leo looked at Connor’s hand, where the heavy steel brass knuckles were glinting under the fluorescent lights. He looked at Daniel, whose face was rapidly turning the color of wet chalk.
"Sorry, Dan," Leo muttered, stepping back and grabbing his jacket. "My shift ended ten minutes ago."
Within thirty seconds, the basement was empty, save for the hum of the televisions and the two men standing on opposite sides of the green felt table.
"Connor, listen to me," Daniel said, his hands rising, palms outward, in a frantic plea. "Whatever Sarah told you... she’s sick, Connor. She's got some kind of heart condition. She’s not right in the head. She spends all her money on doctors and medicine. I've been helping her! I've been giving her hundreds of dollars every month!"
"Hundreds?" Connor walked slowly around the poker table, his eyes locked onto Daniel’s gold rings. "A hundred dollars doesn't buy bread and bananas for a six-year-old child in this city, Daniel. And it certainly doesn't cover the six hundred thousand dollars I put in a trust account for her four years ago."
"The trust..." Daniel swallowed hard, his throat clicking in the silence. "The trust was... it was poorly invested, Connor. The market—"
"The market didn't buy those gold rings on your fingers, Daniel," Connor said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming the cold, terrible whisper that had preceded the turf wars of '22. "The market didn't pay for the custom leather upholstery in that Mercedes parked in the alley. You took Marcus’s blood money. You took the money that was supposed to keep his daughter from having to choose between peanut butter and fruit on a Wednesday afternoon."
"I had expenses!" Daniel screamed, his fear finally turning into a desperate, cornered anger. "Marcus owed people! You think he was a saint? He had side bets! He had debts in the neighborhood! I had to clean up his mess!"
Connor reached out, his hand moving with the blinding speed of a striker. His fingers caught Daniel by the knot of his silk tie, twisting the fabric until the fat man's face turned purple, his breath hitching as Connor dragged him face-first onto the poker table.
The cards scattered, the poker chips raining down onto the floor like plastic hail.
"Marcus Webb died with his ledger clean, Daniel," Connor whispered, his face inches from the other man's nose. "Because I personally cleared his accounts. Every single one of them. You lied to his widow. You threatened his daughter. You left them to freeze in a fifth-floor walkup while you sat in this basement playing at being a boss."
"Please..." Daniel choked out, his fingers clawing at Connor’s iron grip. "Please, Connor... I can get the money. I can get some of it back. Give me a week. Give me forty-eight hours!"
"You have thirty seconds," Connor said, pulling his phone out with his free hand and placing it on the table next to Daniel's cheek. "You are going to call your bank. You are going to transfer every single dollar in your corporate and personal accounts to the trust fund routing number I am about to text you. If there is one cent left in your name when the sun rises tomorrow, I am going to have Mikhail take you down to the docks. And you will see how long Marcus’s brother can tread water with fifty pounds of scrap iron tied to his ankles."
"I can't transfer it all... the bank will flag it..."
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Connor tightened his grip on the tie, pressing Daniel’s cheek hard against the wood of the table.
"Twenty-five seconds, Daniel," Connor said. "Choose between your money or your lungs."
