To Abide in His Shadow

Although there exists a perpetual noise in New York City, the constant motion of a multitude of urban dwellers, the busy lives of millions, swinging, swaying, vibrating separately and as one, encircling one another, the night is dead. The voices of the millions are simply a placeholder for the silence which is imposed upon the world’s capital, when he is about his business. When he speaks, will not the entire world drop its work and pause, out of fear, and awe, out of terrified respect? His word is more important, carries more authority than the revered leaders of the land, whether he speaks to the mass or to himself in the mirror before bed. Some say he was born from the secrets of the city. Some believe that he has huge armies at his command. There are a few who would swear before God that they see him in mirrors, hiding in shadows, following everywhere they go. Everyone knows he is to be feared. The rumors may be speculation; the fact is that there isn’t a politician in office in the city, not a bootlegger on the streets, not a businessman on Wall Street who isn’t under his thumb. An adverse situation can break a man, can crush a mediocre man, can crumple an ordinary man. But the same scenario can expose an extraordinary man, can pull a man with potential to his destined greatness. He was a known man, a respected and feared man prior to Prohibition, but this new law had introduced him to a level of prestige known only to a select few. In a few short years, the once-small-time gangster pulled himself from the shadows of the city, and by the manipulation of an unfortunate situation, the dark ambition, quiet cruelty, and charismatic evil of Ricky Malone was placed on the throne of New York City. By the year 1929, his was a power paralleled by none. The imposition of his will and his orchestration of the lives of the people in his town are exacted by way of low whispers through a telephone, in an abandoned warehouse on the Hudson guarded as if it were a palace; one of his many hideouts “No. No possible way. To steal money from me is one thing, but to steal from him…no. È incredibile. I tell you, this Irish mob is getting totally outta control. Believe you me, if it was a different situation, I was a few years younger, I’d wish every one of ‘em sweet dreams at the bottom of the river…” Malone pulls an infant cloud out of the butt of his Cuban cigar, releases it back into the sky, places the lit cigar into the ashtray, and continues to think about the issue placed before him. “Perhaps it was my mistake. I was ignorant for placing the money directly into their hands.” He anxiously spins the cylinder of his revolver with his free hand as he contemplates. He stands up, placing the gun on the desk and his hand on his forehead. Pacing back and forth, he pulls the wire of the telephone taut and retracts it multiple times. There is no voice on the other end of the line. Sitting back down, Malone says, “If you come across Scraps, tell him to find me,” and promptly hangs up the phone. He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes, letting out a sigh. He sits here for several minutes, breathing extremely heavily. Ricky Malone, the most feared man in all the boroughs, notorious along the entire East Coast, has not been this burdened in decades. Not since he had climbed the ranks of the New York underworld. Malone has not had a serious care since he amassed his huge wealth. Even as a six-year-old boy, a new immigrant from Naples, a poor boy who had nothing but the clothes on his back, Malone did not worry to the extent to which he worries now. Nearly sixty years of life have not taught him to cope with such hardship. He glances at the shining pistol on his desk. Picking it up, he very slowly raises the muzzle to the roof of his mouth. The metal is cold on his lips and his tongue. Malone hears the click as he ever so slowly pulls back the hammer of the gun. His finger touches the trigger for just a moment, and before he knows it, the gun is back on the desk with a thud. Adrenaline tears through his body. It is not the first time Malone had entertained the horrid idea. He wipes drops of sweat from his forehead, and flips the safety switch of the pistol before shoving it into his coat pocket. Throwing the fedora on his head, he briskly walks out of the warehouse, to where his men and his car are awaiting him. “Let’s get outta here.” The men follow and load into the car, and they disappear into the night.