Chapter 8 The Austrian Gang Business

  "What's your strategy moving forward?" Hemi Weiss leaned back, his gaze fixed on Dani.

  "Squeeze them out," Dani replied with a grin. "First, we target the Austrian gang's assets—their clubs, bars, and underground casinos. We'll also disrupt their loan sharking and smuggling operations. Weaken them bit by bit, then deliver the final blow to wipe them out completely."

  "And you've considered how they might retaliate?" Hemi asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Dani smirked. "We'll start discreetly. Get people to cause trouble at their clubs and bars. We can hijack their liquor deliveries, raid their casinos, and even use customs to interfere with their smuggling routes. With these tactics, they'll be stretched thin in no time."

  Hemi Weiss lifted his glass of whiskey, took a thoughtful sip, then smiled. "I like your plan, Dani. I'm in." He extended his hand toward Dani.

  Dani's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he shook Hemi's hand. The first major step of his plan was in motion, and he could almost taste victory.

  The two men solidified their agreement.

  A temporary alliance, forged to dismantle the Austrian gang together.

  As Dani left with his advisor, Hemi's deputy, Bugs Moran, turned to him. "Do you really trust him, Hemi?"

  Hemi chuckled, lighting a cigar. "Trust him? Not a chance. Dani's not one to be sentimental. Avenging his men? That's just a story. He's likely aiming to draw us into a conflict with the Austrians. When both sides are worn down, he'll be ready to step in and seize power."

  "So why agree to the alliance?" Moran asked, puzzled.

  Hemi shrugged. "It's a game of chess. We've always been at odds with the Austrians. Why not stir the pot while we can? We might find some gains in the chaos."

  "Dani wants to use us; we'll use him right back," he said with a grin.

  Moran nodded, raising his glass to clink with Hemi's. They drank, sharing a knowing smile.

  In their world, no one was naive. Every move was calculated, and everyone had their own agenda. It wasn't so different from politics—only the stakes were higher.

  As Dani rode away in his car, he turned to his advisor, Burstein. "See? The Irish weren't hard to sway. Their hatred for the Austrians runs deep. They'll jump at any chance to take them down. How are things progressing with the other gangs?"

  "We've got the Mexicans on the line. We're meeting their boss tomorrow. As for the French, it'll be a few days—they're out in San Francisco."

  "And the Russians and Poles?" Dani inquired.

  "I'll handle them personally," Burstein replied. "Offer them a bigger cut of the coke profits, and they'll be eager to do our bidding."

  Dani nodded, gazing out at the neon-lit streets, imagining the city under his rule. Soon, he thought. Soon.

  The next day, Hardy began his new role.

  Sean and Reid picked him up in a truck, driving to a run-down part of town. They pulled up to a large iron gate, and Sean honked the horn.

  A slit in the gate opened. Sean waved, and the gate swung wide, allowing them to drive into a courtyard filled with warehouses.

  "Welcome to the stash," Sean said to Hardy, a grin on his face. "This is where all our booze and smokes are kept."

  "We're in charge of supplying seven bars and two clubs in our area," he continued. "We get inventory every evening, pick it up from here in the mornings, and distribute it. Pubs settle their accounts with us weekly, and we pass it up the chain every Monday."

  A burly man approached, greeting Sean and Reid before turning his attention to Hardy. "This is Jon Hardy," Sean introduced. "Bill's brother. He'll be overseeing our territory from now on."

  "Nice to meet you, Jon. I'm Benson, the assistant warehouse manager." They shook hands, exchanging pleasantries.

  As they headed inside, Benson asked, "How's Bill doing?"

  "He's stable now," Sean replied. "Should be back on his feet in a couple of months."

  Benson nodded, then leaned in, curious. "By the way, any idea who took down Cook and his crew? People are talking. Must've been someone tough to take on all those guys alone."

  Sean shot a glance at Hardy, then smiled. "No clue. Could've been a move by the boss."

  Before Fred left, he'd instructed them to keep Hardy's involvement under wraps, primarily for Hardy's safety. Hardy had no desire for fame—staying alive was his priority. So, Sean played along with the cover story.

  Inside the warehouse, Sean began going through the inventory list. There was a variety of goods: whiskey, rum, vodka, brandy, tequila, fruit wines, Marlboro, Camel, unbranded cigarettes, and various cigars.

  As the goods were loaded onto the truck, Sean and Reid handled the counting. Once everything was loaded, Sean handed the list to Hardy to sign.

  Hardy glanced at the total—over three thousand dollars. Considering the average worker's wage in 1945 was around two hundred dollars a month, this load represented over a year's salary for many.

  That was just one day's haul from their territory. As they pulled away from the warehouse, Hardy asked, "Are these all legit?"

  "Absolutely," Sean said. "Top-notch stuff."

  "So, how do we make a profit?" Hardy wondered aloud. "Hike up the prices in the bars and clubs?"

  Sean laughed. "Nope. Our prices are actually lower than the market rate."

  "How's that profitable?"

  "Smuggling and tax evasion, my friend. The government's tax on tobacco and alcohol is sky-high, anywhere from 40% to over 80%. If we went legit, we'd be broke."

  "We dodge domestic taxes and bring in foreign goods through our own smuggling channels. Even other suppliers buy from us. It's less lucrative than during Prohibition, but the margins are still solid, especially on the pricier stuff."

  Hardy, familiar with crime dramas and a student of gang culture, knew well how the Prohibition era had fueled the rise of American gangs, providing them the financial backing to expand. Even after Prohibition ended, smuggling and tax evasion remained key revenue streams.

  "Doesn't the IRS crack down on this?" Hardy asked.

  "They do, but we keep things under wraps. And when it gets hot, the boss smooths things over."

  They arrived at the first stop—the "Bunny Nightclub," where Bill had taken Hardy on his first day. The manager emerged, accepted the delivery, and signed the paperwork.

  After finishing the nightclub deliveries, they moved on to the bars. By 10 a.m., they'd completed their rounds, delivering all the goods.

  "Let's grab some breakfast," Sean suggested.

  Hardy nodded. "Sounds good. Let's eat."