Free Sons and Princes by James Lepore

warm up by the time he parked it on Madison Street across from the fortress-like footings of the Manhattan Bridge. The cold bit at him as he walked the two unlit, windblown blocks to the bar, where, entering, he was happy to feel the flush of heat in the front room, and also to note that the place was empty. O’Brien, behind the bar, nodded toward the back, and, without bothering to shake hands or say hello, Joe took off his heavy wool overcoat and scarf, and pushed open the door to O’Brien’s “club,” a twenty-by-twenty, windowless room with a worn out hardwood floor and three or four wooden tables and chairs, where regulars could have a private conversation or an all night card game.
    Inside, at a table in the far right corner, he found Logan and Dolan, who he knew by sight and of whom he had heard stories of his days in the late forties and early fifties as an enforcer – for what side Joe did not know – in the series of wildcat strikes that broke the once iron grip of Joseph Patrick Ryan on the then thriving International Longshoremen’s Association on Manhattan’s Hudson River waterfront. The yellowed lamp hanging over their table cast a deceivingly mellow glow over the two Irishmen, whose dark eyes revealed little, except for a gleam of displeasure at the appearance of Joe Black in the room.
    “I need to talk to you alone,” Joe said, directing his gaze at Logan, who was sitting on the right side of the table.
    “What about?” Logan answered. He and Dolan looked at each other, and then back at Joe, who was standing just inside the door, about ten feet away, in partial darkness.
    Joe did not reply. He rarely said anything twice, or made any effort to press his opinions on others. On the table between Logan and Dolan was a bottle of Canadian Club, about two-thirds full, and two glasses.
    “This is my friend, Ed,” said Logan. “I know what you’re here for. You can talk to both of us. Have a seat.”
    Joe walked over and put his coat and scarf neatly over the back of a chair to his left, then returned to his position near the door. At five-nine, a hundred and eighty pounds, wearing a navy blue turtleneck sweater and black slacks, there was nothing spectacular about Joe physically, except for his dark eyes, perhaps – the way they seemed to see you and not see you, as if you were already dead.
    “The don has accountants,” said Joe. “Did you know that?”
    It was Logan’s turn to remain silent. Dolan had not yet said a word, but he seemed restless, and this Joe Black noticed.
    “They have made a study of your business,” Joe continued. “They believe – with caution – that you have made a profit of two million dollars in the last year. Don Velardo wants one million dollars, in one week. Also, you must stop doing business until he permits you to resume.” He spoke in the formal, stilted, slightly hesitant English of the European peasant who, driven by shame and ambition, had worked with great intensity not to master it so much as to keep its complexities and maddening contradictions at bay.
    “And what if I refuse?” Logan said.
    “Then I will cripple you. And if you continue to refuse, I will kill you.”
    “Who is this fucking goombah?” Dolan said, putting his hands – massive, powerful hands – on the table in front of him.
    Joe lifted his sweater at the waist, and put his hand on the barrel of his gun, a .44 Magnum, in 1977, one of the most powerful handguns you could buy, legally or illegally. At ten feet, it would take off Dolan’s arm at the shoulder, or his head at the neck for that matter. Joe had not had to use it as often as people thought. Displaying it was usually all that was usually necessary, his reputation being the most effective weapon in his arsenal. But tonight it was not enough, as Dolan – six-two and all muscle – in one motion, rose, lifted the table in his hands, and hurled it at Joe like a discus. Its leading edge slammed into Joe’s chest, knocking him