(Working Title for Novel): Chapter 1

Judge Malcolm Jones sat down in his chair, the leather cushion screamed under his weight. The wooden frame of the chair creaked. His wig was made of fine horse hair bleached white. His spectacles rested neatly on the tip of his large nose. The room filled with noise as people chattered and watched on in the room. Their conversations came to a sudden halt when the judge banged his gavel. The sound of wood against wood echoed and the room fell silent. Judge Jones opened his mouth, lips quivering from the weight they bore, and announced, “Silence!” His lips wiggled with slurred speech from the weight of his mouth. The gluttonous judge shouted out, “The jury has come to their decision and finds the New York Governor of Justice Phillip J. Addams guilty of bribery, murder, destruction of property, and treason.”

The judge’s face was paler than the snow outside that fell alongside the ash and soot pouring from countless factory chimneys. His bright cherry colored cheeks and a snout to match glowed as he gave his verdict. The man across from the judge sat dressed in fine garments. His suit was well trimmed and reflected elegance, but his face reflected horror. Next to him sat another man in a fine suit who cursed under his breath as the sentence was delivered. The first man whispered to the next, “What happens now? I thought I would be free, you’re a lawyer do your damn job!”

The lawyer whispered back, “I-I don’t know. I thought the case was going in our favor!” Beads of sweat began forming on his forehead, under his receding hairline. “There’s nothing I can do from here. I’m sorry Governor Addams.”

Judge Jones’ lips sat low by his chin with plenty of space between his nose. His ears were surprisingly proportionate to his head which seemed relatively large. His stomach lurched out and bulged from his torso. The black judge’s robes that he wore fit loosely, specially sewn for him, and were decorated with stripes that had floral designs running down in them. The judge’s hands were large and gripped his gavel lazily. He cocked his head towards the men across from him who were continuously whispering with concerned expressions.

“Please,” begged the governor to his lawyer. “I can’t go to prison! Come up with something, bend the rules. I’m paying you good money for thi-” The governor’s words were cut off as the judge banged his gavel.

“If there is something you must say,” bellowed Jones. “You’ll say it to me as well.” The governor looked up at him, face red.

Pushing his chair back, the Governor of Justice stood up and barked at the judge, “You can’t put me in a cell! I’m innocent and the court knows it!” His hands shook as he pointed his skinny fingers at the massive judge.

The clock inside held its long arm out towards the eight next only one minute from the nine while its short hour arm pointed towards three. The electric lights buzzed and hummed quietly above the court. Their light illuminated the dark wood floors which rested under many rows of chairs.

“Sit down Governor Addams,” requested Judge Jones. As Phillip Addams sat down in his seat, guilt swelled in his throat and worry clotted his veins. Sweat dripped from his wrinkled forehead and slid to his dripping nose. There was a waterfall of stress pouring from his pores. Addams darted his eyes to the judge in awful terror. “The sentence is execution by firing squad,” the judge bellowed. The gust of wind from his lungs played his voice like a bass that boomed through the room with great potence. He slowly turned his massive head towards Addams. His second chin leaped from his third and dangled off of his robes that barely wrapped around his neck. The eyes of the guilty met the eyes of the judge who smiled slightly with froggish lips and yellowing teeth.

“Firing…” murmured Addams. He stood up once again now with tear filled eyes and shouted, “Damn you and your lies! I am not a murderer, I am pure unlike you! Your hands stink after shaking so many of those gangsters shit caked hands!” Saliva sprayed from his mouth as he shouted violently. “I am head of the police, this state, and even the damn treasury. I won’t be killed by your goons!”

Judge Jones sighed then, with his sausage-like fingers massaging his temples, he said, “Governor Addams be calm, now, or--”

“Or what?” blurted the disheveled Governor of Justice. “You’ll kill me slower?”

Judge Jones waved to the guards waiting in the courthouse then asked politely, “Please remove this nuisance.” The guards made their way to Addams still screaming and shouting. Restraining Addams, they dragged him out of the room. The governor’s tie was a brilliant gold and brown that hung tightly to his navy blue shirt. His jacket matched the tie’s brown with pants that matched his shirt. His shoes were dark brown oxfords that gave him an extra inch of height. A small moustache balanced on his lip like a slim caterpillar on a twig.

Addams was transported to his prison cell as the judge sat in his office. It was a dimly lit room with only his desk lamp and the light from outside his large windows providing luminescence. The curtains were a brilliant green with yellow patterns that hung heavy and were tied so they could stay open. He gazed out the window, watching the snow fall slowly from the grey sky. As it fell, it melted and mixed with the black sludge that filled the streets. A sharp knock on his door alerted the judge who quickly replied to the noise with, “Yes? Oh, er, come in.” He coughed and brushed off his robes. He threw his judge's’ wig on which sat crookedly on his head.

The door opened as a rough and ragged looking man entered. His cap was sewn poorly much like his blue tinted jacket. He had a thick sweater on with Christmas patterns knitted throughout underneath his brown jacket. A blue shirt now fading into grey peeked out from behind his sweater. His pants were a mismatch of olive green trousers that had patches of denim sewn in. His shoes were hidden beneath wraps of cloth to keep him warm. The underside of his shoes had grippers on to keep him from slipping on the ground. They were not meant for the nice wooden floors which he stood on. All of his clothes were covered with soot and mud which smelt like ash or burning fuel.

His face was young and somewhat clean with only a few smudges of dark grease that streaked across his forehead. His eyes were dark brown that faded to black in the dark. His long hair was a lighter brown that peaked out from under his tweed flat cap while patchy stubble that linked to his sideburns masked his face. The man’s steps were heavy as he approached the judge. He was a tough man who had seen hardship before, someone not to be pushed around. He smelled, unpleasantly, of oysters and crabs. He sat down in leather the chair facing Judge Jones and stretched his back.

Jones greeted the man, “Bryngwyn, good to see you my boy.” He chuckled heartily then coughed with great violence and phlegm. “My apologies, too much smog and not enough cigarettes. I hear Dr. Wilkins’ brand cures you of that wretched factory air.” He smiled gaily with the hope of appealing towards his guest.

Bryngwyn spoke up, “Cut the shite, Malcolm. You wanna beat ‘round the bush now?” He had a sing-song voice, undeniably Welsh. His r’s rolled hard. “You did a good job putting little old Phillip-boy away. That whole business is over now so we’re done. As I suspect you’d like your payment now. I don’t like wasting time, let’s get this over with.” He began to reach into his coat pocket when the judge backed up and pulled a small flintlock pistol from his desk.

“Easy there, boy,” Jones said. “Don’t you move a muscle. Today is not the day I die.” He shook and trembled, his aim swaying back and forth with worry.

Bryngwyn yelled, “I’m not shootin’! I have the money you damned fool. How am I supposed to pay you if you’re goin’ to go and shoot me?”

“Slowly take it out then,” the shaking judge retorted.

Bryngwyn took out a letter and put it on the judge’s table. “There you idiot,” he said. “Now put that little toy down before you hurt yourself.” The judge slid his pistol back into his desk and took the envelope.

“Forgive me for my paranoia,” Judge Jones replied. “You can not be too careful in these times,” he chuckled. “Now, let me count this out.” He opened up the letter to reveal a large sum of money. He counted the money quickly making sure it was the correct amount. A man of his stature could never trust such scum who dabble in crime and vice.

Bryngwyn sighed and said, “Hope we can do more business in the future, just don’t point a gun at me next time.” He began to stand up from his chair and walk out. His dirty shoes tracked brown footprints across the floor. Before he left, Bryngwyn turned and saluted jokingly, then closed the door. He exited the courthouse and was thrust into the cold, New York City streets.

He walked down the steps that were crowded with the finer aristocrats and lawyers in the area. They wore navy blue top hats and thick coats with silver trimmings. Pocket watches, necklaces, small chains, and bracelets were adorned all throughout their clothes with intricate detail. On the street carriages tugged by horses rushed by, some were real breathing and living horses while others were mechanical. Electricity buzzed from their plated bodies as they galloped by.

Diesel cars trudged through the slush on the streets and splashed black sludge on the sidewalks. The snow had begun to come down faster and thicker, blocking his vision. Bryngwyn marched through the oncoming storm towards the docks where the wind blew with fury. Workers by the bay wore as much as they could afford. Their heads were covered with ragged hoods and wore coats made from deer skin. Their grimy boots had several holes that were wrapped in cloth. Their pants were quilts of random materials patched together. Bryngwyn noticed that most of the workers were young, black men.

He made his way down by the water where three men were waiting. There were two men of average height and one slightly taller, possibly 180 cm or so. He had light brown hair that peeked out from under his bowler hat. His collar was turned upwards to shield his neck from the cold. His hands were wrapped in thin cloths to create makeshift gloves. The two other men had warm coats although one was still shivering. Bryngwyn approached the group and saw one man carrying a large case. “Hello boys what’s on the agenda?”

The one holding the briefcase had green gloves spattered with black oil. His index and middle finger on his right hand were exposed since the fingertips of the gloves were missing. His hair was blond and had greasy streaks running through it. He had a rough, patchy beard which couldn’t hide his cracked lips. “Oi,” muttered the man. “Glad you could make it Bryngwyn. Contact should meet us here soon. What was holding you up?” He coughed into his arm then wiped the mucus onto the side of his jacket.

“Dropped off the money to the judge man,” replied the Welsh gangster.

The man with the case nodded then said, “Alright well you’re gonna need this.” He took out a small derringer pistol, two shots. He placed the gun in Bryngwyn’s hand.

“Alright thanks,” replied Bryngwyn. He put the pistol in his coat. He looked around and spotted a strange figure heading his way.

The man with the green gloves saw the strange man too and turned towards everyone then announced, “Alright this is him.” He began to approach the buyer, a very odd fellow. The man wore a large coat with coattails. It was a deep red with three off-white stripes running at an angle across each of his coat’s arms. The lines met at a blue star on his back with two other stripes sprouting out from the star leading to both coattails. His vest was red as well and had a pocket watch tucked neatly inside. His shirt was white and crisp, tucked into his grey slacks tapered closely to his legs. On top of his head was a short, grey top hat with the design of a gear sewn into the front with golden thread. His hair was black and had no grey hairs except for two on both sides of his head above his temples. He had large sideburns that puffed out slightly under his cheeks. His moustache was large, large enough to cover his top lip in fact. Underneath his lip and down his chin grew a small, pointed beard. All of his facial hair was linked by stubble. His brown eyes were surrounded by dark, purple bags. On his left eye he wore a monocle with a golden frame. On his neck was a dark red bowtie with gear designs on each end.With a smile and a twitch the man spoke up, “Good afternoon chaps, I presume you have what I want?” The strange client was obviously unnerved, shaking slightly with each wide smile.The man with the green gloves nodded and put the case on a table nearby. He opened it up to reveal a gun. It was a specialized Hartman’s Submachine Gun issued in 1898 by the United States Military. It was bronze plated with various olive branch designs across the whole model. The firearm had a solid stock made from oak, stained red. Its magazine was a drum, but the rounds were loaded facing the curve of the magazine itself. It loaded into the gun with the curve facing forward. The magazine had ridges on its sides with springs. Once loaded, the gun was cocked with a mechanism reminiscent of a train’s coupling rod. There were two pivoting points connected by a bar with a handle coming out of one pivot. The handle would be turned forward like a train's wheels to load the first round into the chamber. The ridges on the side of the magazine would be hooked by the cocking mechanism that would load each round. The gas produced from the round being fired would spin the cocking mechanism loading the next round. It fired 400 rounds per minute and carried 52 .45 ACP rounds per magazine.“Oi,” shouted Bryngwyn towards the client who was mesmerized by the weapon, gazing passionately at it. “What’s your name boy-o?”“Oh,” sputtered the man. He cleared his throat and answered, “Reginald Rampart, good sir. Now I have the money here, no need to worry.” Reginald pulled a fat envelope from his coat and placed it next to the gun.The man with the green gloves picked up the envelope and opened it to reveal 150£. “Alright,” said the man in the green gloves. “Well I’m glad we could do business, contact us again if you’re ever in the market.”Reginald picked up his new weapon, it was lighter than he expected. He began to load the gun when the tall man asked, “What’re you doing that for, chap?”“Oh nothing,” replied Reginald. “Just seeing how it works.”Bryngwyn began to reach for his gun inside his coat. He blurted out, “Easy there pal don’t wanna do somethin’ stupid now.”Reginald cocked the gun, the first round loaded into the chamber and was ready to fire. “My word!” he exclaimed. He was giddy, his eyes burned with excitement. “This is a fine weapon indeed.” He put the gun down and closed the case. “Fine weapon indeed. Money well spent I’d say.”The men eased up and released the grips of their guns. They shook hands and began to walk away when the fourth man heard a click. He turned his head and saw the case open. Reginald dropped the case and held his new gun in his hands. With little pressure, he pulled the trigger releasing two bullets that flew into the man’s chest. They pierced his coat and embedded themselves in his heart and lung. The spent casings made a clang as they hit the ground; smoke billowed from their hollow shells.The three remaining men ran and took cover behind crates by the docks. Reginald held the gun and began to fire at their cover while walking casually towards them. The tall man emerged and fired both rounds from his Derringer. His aim was off the first time and the recoil from the first shot lifted his hand slightly thus causing him to miss his second. The rounds spun past Reginald who took cover as well. Most worker on the docks ran away while some stayed to watch from afar.The man with the green gloves sprinted to a large crate across from him. Reginald sprayed bullets towards him, but missed. The box was peppered with bullets and barely hid the man. He once again ran back to his original cover, shooting once as he ran across. Reginald fired twice again just before the man reached safety, hitting him once in the arm. Bryngwyn popped his head out from cover to see his opponent however Reginald was ducking. Reginald ran diagonally to the boxes opposite of where the tall man was. The tall man opened up from his defensive position to shoot Reginald, but when he moved from his position Reginald fire three shots into him. Two landed in his chest, both missing his heart, but his third pierced his right temple. Bits of skull and brain splattered against the pavement as the man fell with a thud.The man with the green gloves sprinted, and at the sight of his retreat, so did Bryngwyn. He darted away towards the sidewalks, using the boxes on the docks to cover his escape. Reginald chased after him, rushing through the maze of crates stacked high. The man pulled a box from the top of a stack, toppling it and blocking Reginald. As he ran onto the street, a carriage rode next to him. Out from its window a hand extended holding a pistol. The mysterious figure pulled the trigger sending a bullet through the man’s ear. The other side of his head burst, destroying his ear and flinging brain matter onto the grime soaked snow.Bryngwyn ran further down the docks out to a pier where a small rowboat floated in the water. He hopped down into in and began to row. The carriage door from the street opened and out came a young white man with hazel eyes. He had brown stubble with a red tint and his mustache did not connect to his beard that hugged close to his jaw. His shaggy brown hair was kept mostly under his plaid flat cap made up of greys and browns. His jacket was a dark green military coat with gold painted buttons. He had a grey vest and scruffy white shirt underneath the jacket. His pants were grey as well and he wore black shoes with puttees.The mysterious young man began to run towards the pier, smoking gun in hand. His feet sloshed in the grimey mix of dirt and snow. Black slush littered the docks while smog and mist hovered around the bay. As the man reached the end of the pier, Bryngwyn was further out in the water, fading into the thick fog. The man squinted, aiming his gun at the Welsh man in the boat. The sights of his gun aligned with his target for a brief moment and the roar of a gunpowder discharge signalled Bryngwyn’s death.The cartridge loaded in the gunman’s revolver fired and a bullet soared into Bryngwyn. The Welsh man sputtered blood, spitting it up onto himself. The bullet had ruptured his lung and bursted his heart. He died almost instantly. A hole was torn through his white Christmas sweater with green trees and blue snowflakes. Blood seeped out and turned the white to a dark red. A small cavity had been made in his back when the bullet exited his body. The little rowboat floated off into the mist, hiding his body from the man’s sight.Reginald joined the figure on the pier and grabbed his shoulder. He chuckled and said, “Good shot my boy, you’re getting ever better at that, James. Now let’s get down to Limvey’s flat, I am sure he will be glad to hear of these results.” James went to get the money from the corpse of the man with the green gloves while Reginald walked towards the carriage. He signalled to James to join him then shut the carriage door.James smiled and went after him. He entered the vehicle drawn by mechanical horses which buzzed with electricity. They were fantastic inventions, able to guide themselves with the press of a button. As he sat down, Reginald scooted to the seat opposite of James. “You know Limvey’s been gettin’ paranoid lately,” blurted out James. He had an Irish accent, not too high pitched nor too low. It was a medium pitched voice, one possessing maturity while maintaining a pinch of youth in his vowel pronunciation. “Tellin’ us to kill some blokey Bone Alley Boys is just desperation over the whole weapons deal.” Reginald punched in a few numbers and letters that were on a keyboard in the back of the carriage. A light on the side of it blinked green and the horses began to take off.Reginald reached for a handle on the wall of the carriage and pulled to reveal an expanded tray with tea and snacks. “Limvey has been acting odd lately,” replied Reginald. He picked up his tea cup and took a long sip. Chamomile with honey and a spot of milk, delicious. “I think these are security measures, a cleanup.”James shrugged and mentioned, “Well this is the third attack we’ve had on the Bones this week. Guns, every single time. Guns and guns and guns. Think he’s going after that revolution again?”“Possibly,” Reginald suggested. “He’s been thinking of it. We’re not ready, but he wants New York.”James did not speak for a while. He sat and pondered the idea of a free New York. All of a sudden he asked, “What’s going on with the Li’s?” The carriage took a sharp turn, nearly spilling Reginald’s tea. James took a small pastry from the tray and ate it. It tasted of apples and some sort of other fruit that he did not know.Reginald smiled, his moustache nearly covered both of his lips. “The Li’s cut a deal with the Bone Alley Boys in the arms trade. The Lis, however, were not supposed to sell to the Bone Alley Boys because we had an agreement with them for us to buy the guns. And now, from what we know, the Bone Alley Boy’s were supposed to make an attack on a Washer Boys’ outpost over by the Woolworth Building construction site. The plan fell through so they were left with extra guns they didn’t need. They tried selling them quickly to avoid the police from finding them and sold a bulk of them to the Hamilton’s Gang. Now the Hamiltons are encroaching on our territory so Limvey decided to buy up the rest of the guns while teaching the Bone Alleys not to buy from the Lis. Now we have a problem with the Lis, Hamiltons, and Bone Alley Boys. We can not simply attack the Lis since they are under Mazzini Family protection so we will have to hold a meeting to renegotiate our terms. After these issues have been resolved with the Bone Alley Boys we may proceed with negotiations and a counter attack on the Hamilton’s.” His lecture over, Reginald took a long sip from his cup.