Chapter 5 - THE GARAGE AT RED HOOK
That evening, the heavy rain returned to New York, pounding against the corrugated tin roof of Miller’s Fleet Services.
I stood in front of Sam’s office desk, my canvas coat soaked through. Sam sat behind his cluttered wooden desk, puffing on an unlit cigar, listening silently as I told him everything.
I didn’t leave out a single detail. The broken compass, the three little girls in Prospect Park, Savannah’s forced marriage, Arthur Kingsley’s threats, and Julian Vance-Vanderbilt’s plan to lock my daughters away in Switzerland.
When I finished speaking, the only sound in the office was the steady thump-thump of the rain against the metal walls.
Sam slowly took the cigar out of his mouth, set it in a glass ashtray, and leaned back in his squeaky leather chair. He stared at me for a long, uncomfortable minute.
“You’re a damn fool, Vance,” Sam said, his rough voice scraping through the quiet room.
I lowered my head. “I know, Sam. I’m sorry for bringing this baggage into your shop. I’ll pack my tools and leave tonight—”
“Shut up and sit down,” Sam growled, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.
I blinked, taking a seat slowly.
Sam reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a glass bottle of amber whiskey and two small heavy-bottomed glasses. He poured two generous shots, pushing one across the scuffed desk toward me.
“I’ve known you for seven years, Leo,” Sam said, his sharp eyes holding mine. “You’re the best mechanic I’ve ever hired. You don’t steal, you don privilege-check your hours, and you work until your knuckles bleed without complaining. I always knew you were running from something big, but I didn’t care as long as you were honest with me.”
He took a sip of his whiskey, letting out a rough sigh.
“Those three little girls are your blood,” Sam continued, pointing a calloused finger at my chest. “A man who doesn’t fight for his blood isn’t a man at all. You think you’re alone in this city, kid? You think you’re just a grease monkey?”
Sam stood up, walked over to a heavy iron safe built into the brick wall behind his desk, and swiped a keycard. He pulled out a thick, black leather-bound binder and tossed it onto the desk in front of me.
I looked at the binder. Stamped on the front in gold foil was an emblem I recognized: The International Brotherhood of Teamsters & Maritime Workers Union.
“Before I bought this garage twenty years ago,” Sam said, a grim smile touching his lips, “I was the chief shop steward for the waterfront transport union in Brooklyn and New Jersey. I know every crane operator, every port worker, every logistics coordinator, and half the private investigators from here to Boston. Julian Vance-Vanderbilt might own a few high-rise banks and corrupt politicians, but guys like him depend on guys like us to move their money, their imported goods, and their private security fleets.”
I stared at Sam, realization slowly dawning on me.
“What are you saying, Sam?”
“I’m saying,” Sam said, slamming his hand onto the binder, “that if we’re going to tear down a high-society bastard who’s hurting three innocent kids, we aren’t going to do it with fancy lawyers who can be bought off. We’re going to use the city’s nervous system against him.”
He leaned over the desk, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective fire.
“Tomorrow morning, I’m calling a few old friends at the Port Authority and the Manhattan Private Drivers Union. We’re going to find out every piece of dirty laundry Julian Vance-Vanderbilt has ever tried to hide under the rug. And when we find it, Leo, you’re going to use it to rip his life apart.”
I looked down at the whiskey glass, then at the man who had been a father to me when I had none. A heavy weight lifted off my shoulders, replaced by a cold, unstoppable determination.
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“Where do we start?” I asked.
Sam smiled, a hard, dangerous expression. “We start by finding out what’s inside the shipping containers Julian’s private equity firm imports through the Red Hook terminal every Thursday night.”
