wolf. Find another lamb to play with.
Broome Street Hall was a classic Bowery dive. It had a plain storefront with two big windows on either side of a double door. A large sign proclaimed Lager Beer along the front, though many patrons here preferred a punch that contained cocaine sweepings, benzene, camphor, hot rum and whiskey. Jack had seen what it did to patrons; if they were lucky, they might only have a day or two of useless oblivion. The unlucky ones never woke up.
He glanced over at Cooper. “He’s here?”
“Yes, confirmed. Up front in the saloon.”
Last night, one of Jack’s policy shops had been robbed. The particular location happened to border O’Shaughnessy’s territory to the east. Though no one had been caught, it did not take a genius to figure out who had been behind the holdup.
Jack meant to send a message. One that would not be misinterpreted.
He had two of his men with him. Thirty men would’ve made it seem like Jack was scared of O’Shaughnessy, which was laughable. Ten men would have been smart, merely to ensure nothing happened. Two was an insult, one meant to get under O’Shaughnessy’s skin.
Jack wasn’t worried. O’Shaughnessy wouldn’t dare hurt him. To do so would bring fire and brimstone to the Lower East Side and everything Trevor had worked for destroyed. Just like years ago, when gang warfare used to be the normal state of affairs downtown. When hundreds of innocent lives were lost.
That reminded Jack of his little do-gooder. Perhaps he’d scared her off for good after the fundraiser the other night. She’d run from the club as if rabid hounds were chasing her—or one very aroused male.
Christ, how he’d wanted her.
But he’d purposely pushed, testing her. His words and touch had frightened her, proving he couldn’t be what she needed, a gentle man who fucked with the lights off every other Saturday night. That wasn’t Jack. Though he wore bespoke suits and oiled his hair, he had been raised in a brothel as well as on the streets. Justine might have a strong will, but so did he—with the blood on his hands to prove it.
He would only horrify her. No, she was better off.
Pushing that away, he focused on the task at hand. “Let’s go.”
He crossed Broome and started for the doors. Night had fallen hours ago, the gaslights casting yellow gloom on the dirt, piss and animal excrement in the street. Cooper opened the door and Jack stepped inside—and all conversation ceased. Even the piano player in the corner froze, the notes hanging in midair until they dissipated.
Good.
The place was packed with men, young and old, gathered around small wooden tables on the scuffed tile floor. A table with food had been set up in the corner, flanking the long wooden bar along the far wall.
At the bar stood Trevor O’Shaughnessy.
He wore a black cap pulled low, but Jack could still see the hatred in Trevor’s gaze reflected in the mirror behind the bar as he watched Jack’s approach.
Removing his derby, Jack went toward the bar. He ignored the patrons gawking at him. Two men at tables closest to the bar shot to their feet, but Cooper and Rye, who flanked Jack like foot soldiers, blocked them.
When he reached the bar, Jack stepped directly between O’Shaughnessy and another man. “A beer,” he told the bartender.
The bartender shot a glance toward O’Shaughnessy, who discreetly nodded his head. A few seconds later a beer appeared in front of Jack. He went to dig a coin out of his pocket, but the bartender waved him off. “It’s on the house,” the man said.
Jack lifted the glass in thanks and took a long sip. It was terrible, nothing but watered-down piss. Cradling the glass in his hand, he turned, put his back against the bar and studied the crowd. Roughnecks and thugs stared at him, a room full of men who had no ambition or drive. Their hands were dirty and their clothing tattered. No thought to distinguish themselves from the butchers and hooligans of the past. A shame, really. Not forward thinkers, this crew.
He made no effort to speak. Just took up space while he drank the beer. Years of experience had taught him that employing silence was often the most threatening thing a man could do.
O’Shaughnessy was short and stocky. He had black hair, a thick neck and misshapen ears from years of boxing. By all accounts, he had a hair-trigger temper.
Sure enough, Jack didn’t have to wait long.
“What