Shane pushed open the heavy oak door, and a wave of warmth—rich whiskey, tobacco, and wood polish—washed over him.
Dim light filtered through the stained-glass lampshades, casting amber halos across the wooden bar. From a brass-horn gramophone, Louis Armstrong's "Potato Head Blues" poured out, the trumpet solo carrying the brassy, humid vibrancy of New Orleans, even if New York's air was dry and bustling. The music wound through the room, mingling with chatter and the occasional clink of glasses.
Tom followed, squinting against the dim light. Though it was early evening, the bar was already lively. Three stockbrokers in suits huddled around a table, exchanging notes beneath the fold of The Wall Street Journal, while a corner group played poker, the clatter of chips punctuating bursts of laughter and occasional curses.
Behind the bar, Matteo wiped a glass with meticulous care. His rolled-up sleeves revealed faded tattoos snaking along his forearms. He looked up, a restrained smile appearing.
"Shane, long time no see," he said, his deep voice calm, eyes flicking briefly toward Tom with a nod.
"Tom, meet Matteo," Shane introduced briefly. Then he pointed at two high stools. "Two beers, please."
Matteo retrieved the bottles from an ice bucket. Condensation dripped onto the wooden surface, leaving small dark rings. Tom took a bottle, sighing in relief as the cold liquid washed away the day's heat.
Across the bar, a woman in a tailored men's suit whispered to her companion, their hands lightly clasped, platinum rings catching the dim light. Jazz and murmurs swirled through the smoke-filled room, carrying the quiet dignity of a world at ease—if only briefly.
The peace shattered suddenly. At a table near the back door, a red-faced drunkard rose, tipping over the round oak table. Whiskey spilled across the floor.
"Say that again!" he slurred, pointing at the man across from him.
The other man, burly and unyielding, grabbed a bottle. Amber liquid arced through the air. "F*** you!" His roar reverberated through the bar, making nearby glasses tremble.
Before chaos could unfold further, the back door burst open. Two tall figures moved in with lightning precision.
The man on the left bore a scar running from earlobe to chin. His right hand gripped the bottle-wielder's wrist like iron, thumb pressing a nerve point. The drunkard's arm went limp. With his left hand, the man caught the bottle and pinned the troublemaker to the floor, knee pressing the small of his back.
"That's enough," he said, deep and commanding.
His companion twisted the other drunkard's arm behind his back, pressing him against the wall. In mere seconds, both men had neutralized the fight. The bar's patrons, initially stunned, quickly returned to conversation, as if such incidents were routine.
Within minutes, tables were upright, glass swept away, and the room returned to its lively rhythm. Jazz carried on.
The scarred man patrolled the bar, steps measured, gaze sharp as a hawk. Passing the bar, his eyes caught Shane's, lingering in recognition.
"Mr. Shane?" he murmured, barely audible over the din. Excitement lit his expression.
He approached quickly. "Shane Cassidy! It really is you! I thought I must have mistaken you for someone else."
Shane looked up, startled, then recognized him. "Volker? I didn't expect to see you here."
Volker nodded, the scar accentuated by his smile. "Thanks to your help on the ship, my brother survived. I'll never forget it." His handshake was firm, almost bone-crushing.
Shane offered a brief explanation. Tom understood instantly.
Volker clapped Shane on the shoulder. "You and your friend shouldn't rush off. Vik and I are still on duty. I'll ask for leave, and we can have a proper drink." He hurried toward the back.
Moments later, Volker returned with a young man—blond, blue-eyed, youthful, yet with a steely determination far beyond his years.
"This is Vik, my brother," Volker said, pride clear in his voice. Vik stepped forward. "Mr. Shane, thank you for saving me. Without your medicine, I might not be here." His gratitude shone despite the unfinished sentence.
Shane shook his hand. "It's nothing. Don't dwell on it."
They settled at a round table near the bar. Matteo brought four glasses of whiskey, ice clinking against amber liquid.
"To friendship, and new beginnings," Volker said, lifting his glass. They drank, the whiskey warm with a hint of sweetness and spice.
Tom set his glass down, curious. "Are you working here now?"
Volker nodded. "After we got off the ship, we settled in Brooklyn, but that place… it's too messy. No rules. So we're temporarily watching this bar." He lowered his voice. "We're planning to move toward the port. More opportunities there for people like us."
Shane raised an eyebrow. "The port has perks, but the gangs there aren't to be trifled with."
"Brotherhood or Hand of Zion?" Volker smirked. "They're just rabble-rousers, relying on numbers to intimidate."
Vik leaned forward. "Mr. Cassidy, I heard you work at the port… Could you guide us?" His voice carried urgency, controlled but palpable.
Shane studied them silently. Finally, he asked, voice low: "Volker, how many men can you mobilize right now?"
Volker's gaze sharpened. "Five of us came off the ship, all trustworthy. If necessary, we can call eleven more from Brooklyn—all armed. Real weapons."
Shane tapped the table, considering. Tom watched quietly, curiosity written across his face.
"Good," Shane said finally, eyes sharp. "I do have an idea…"