American Dynasty

T H I R T Y - F I V E

The phones were ringing constantly. Papers and police reports were being dropped off on his desk every ten minutes. It was utter chaos. 

Constable John Grey took a drag from his cigarette as he attempted to make sense of the report he was holding in his hand. Different bosses from the Irish and Jewish Mobs had been seen entering what was suspected to be one of Flynn Dempsey's many hideouts over the past months. Typically bosses either stayed away from each other or were waging brutal wars. Ten bosses had left the house unscathed so far. John pursed his lips and ran a hand through his dirty blond hair. 

"You stare at that paper any harder, it might catch on fire," his co-worker Vincent joked as he passed by his desk. 

John tore his gaze away from the report and frowned. "It doesn't make sense," he said. "They're...congregating." 

Vincent raised an eyebrow. "So?" 

"That's out of the ordinary. And then there's this," he said, holding up a picture. Vincent squinted at it. It was grainy, like it had been taken in a hurry and covertly. It looked like it was taken in a speakeasy, and Flynn Dempsey was sitting at a table with Stella Biancardi. 

"What the hell is an Irish mobster doing with Beppe Biancardi's daughter?" Vincent asked. 

"That's exactly what I'd like to know," John said firmly. "As if we didn't already have enough trouble with Masseria and D'Aquila trying to kill each other all the time." 

"No rest for the wicked, I suppose," Vincent mused. John dragged his hand down his face and groaned. Vincent patted his back sympathetically. "Why do you think no one else wanted to take this job? Playing cat and mouse with the most dangerous men in New York is not only deadly, it's difficult." 

John at times wondered why he had agreed to take the project on as lead investigator. The New York Police had been trying to take the Dempsey gang down for a while now, but no matter how hard they tried it seemed their leader Flynn was always three steps ahead. John studied the photo of him with Stella Biancardi. Flynn Dempsey was a young chap, not even in his mid-twenties. A waste of potential, John thought. Good looking, strapping young man. He was clearly smart, if only he used his intelligence for good. The handsome, dark, brooding bad boy. It was no wonder that Stella Biancardi sought his company, but she was a respectable society girl, and she had no business having dalliances with murderers. 

"Hey, John, you need to take a look at this," another officer said as he came over to John's desk. John cringed slightly as he took the photos from the man's dark-skinned hands. "Thanks, Charles," John said tightly, smiling at the young officer. 

"Why do you always act so strange with him?" Vincent whispered as Charles walked away. 

John grimaced at Charles who had retreated to his desk. "He's coloured." 

"So? By most definitions so am I," Vincent said matter-of-factly. 

"Yes, but you don't really count. You pass." 

"Pass? You mean I pass for white? That might be true but that doesn't make me any less Chinese." 

"No, but it makes me forget that you're Chinese," John said casually. 

Vincent rolled his eyes. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," he muttered. 

John frowned as he looked at the other pictures Charles had brought him. "What in God's name..." Vincent took a peek and his eyes widened. Pictured was Giuseppe Masseria and Salvatore D'Aquila talking on the front porch of D'Aquila's home. 

"Well, one of them is definitely dead after that meeting," Vincent said. The words died in his throat as John revealed the next picture. Salvatore and Giuseppe were shaking hands and smiling. "I have...so many questions," Vincent spluttered. "If Masseria and D'Aquila are working together, that's a lot of trouble heading straight towards us." 

"Not nearly as much trouble as this is causing Flynn. Look," John aid, pointing to a figure in the background. The next picture was a little bit closer, and the person's face became more clear. 

"Is that...Aiden Murphy?" Vincent said in disbelief. 

"Flynn's second in command," John confirmed, glee creeping into his voice. 

"What are you so happy about?" Vincent asked incredulously. 

"They'll tear each other apart from the inside; we won't even have to do anything," John said with a laugh. 

"It'll be bloody and people will die," Vincent protested. 

"Dying is what gangsters do best, Vince. Don't shed tears for people who don't deserve them," John said flatly. 

"We can't just knowingly let people die! They're Americans just the same as you and I!" Vincent pressed. 

John huffed in exasperation. "Let's get one thing clear: those scumbags are not American. Flynn Dempsey is from Ireland and a gypsy no less. Giuseppe Masseria and Salvatore D'Aquila are both from Sicily. And honestly, if I had it my way, they wouldn't have even be able to come here in the first place. They're immigrants, and they chose to commit crime instead of appreciate the opportunities that America offers. So yes, I can knowingly let them die and I'll sleep well at night." 

Vincent was taken aback but did not respond. He didn't dare tell John that his own father had been an immigrant from Tuscany. His mother had roots in the country dating back to the Gold Rush, but she still suffered simply due to her race. 

"Vince?" Vincent was snapped out of his thoughts. John raised an eyebrow. "Did you hear what I said?" 

"Uh, no, sorry," Vincent murmured. 

"I said we should start pinching all the bosses he's met with. Arrest them on small crimes so we can bring them in for questioning and get some information from them." 

"They won't talk," Vincent said doubtfully. "Snitching is a sure-fire way to get yourself killed, especially if Dempsey is involved. We still haven't found the body of the last guy who ratted him out." 

John hummed. "They might be a little more willing to jump ship when I tell them about the storm that's brewing. Everything's about to fall apart for Flynn Dempsey, and I want to be right there in the middle of it to see it happen."