THE CITY BENEATH THE LAW by GIC
Chapter 4: THE SINS OF THE JUDGE
Chapter 1: THE MOURNING AND THE MISSION | Chapter 2: THE HIDDEN AGENDA | Chapter 3: THE RETURN OF THE GHOST
Nova Loncastre, April 1925
“City’s slippin’. Barely 3 a.m. and the whole force is dreamin’. Figures,” Harvey said quietly. “That’s why I turned in my badge — too efficient,” his words cut like a straight razor — not meant to start a fight, just to provoke the man beside him.
Chapter 3 recap: with the city’s power players scheming over the end of Prohibition, Harvey Turpin resurfaces from the underground, only to be caught in a standoff with Gil. T Azell — a veteran enforcer looking to curry favour by turning him in. But before Azell can work Harvey over Ernie Harlow’s whereabouts, a mysterious gunman takes him out — none other than Jack O’Keeffe, the presumed-dead chief of police. Reunited, they retreat to Harvey’s hideout, where a shaken Harlow meets O’Keeffe and learns the harsh truth: Judge Charles Kearns is genuinely dead, and there’s no going back. O’Keeffe brings bigger news — Prohibition is ending, and the crime bosses must adapt fast. With the city’s future hanging in the balance, Harvey, Harlow and O’Keeffe realize the coming days will be a reckoning.
O’Keeffe tensed. Not much, just a twitch in the jaw, but Harvey saw it. He knew the buttons, knew the old man bled blue. O’Keeffe had trained at least half the cops in the city — some good, some bent — but they were his boys. His legacy. And Harvey was twisting the knife.
“As soon as we’re clear, I’ll show you what the boys in blue are worth,” O’Keeffe said under his breath, eyes scanning the dark for movement.
Harvey smiled.
Planning the heist had been a bastard — like building a watch with no tools or blueprints. It was the kind of job you gave to ten men with nothing to lose. But they were doing it in two — Harlow wasn’t ready to dance with devils like these.
Then, when it looked like the whole thing was a pipe dream, One-Eyed Bill turned the tables.
“Hawthorne’s warehouse.”
Two words, and the sky cracked open.
“Why?” Harlow had asked.
“The bosses know about the tunnels,” Harvey said. “But I’ll bet you a bottle of good rye that neither Langston nor Hawthorne knows about ‘em.”
O’Keeffe nodded, picking up the thread. “The bosses will be watching the entrances they know. But this one? This isn’t their warehouse. They don’t know it’s wired in.”
“Which makes it our way in and out,” Harvey said. “All we gotta do is wait ‘till the city’s snug in its sheets. Once the badge boys start dreamin’ about donuts or dames or whatever the hell keeps ‘em human, we slip in, snatch the hooch and walk out like ghosts.”
Harlow didn’t buy. “This seems too easy.”
Harvey grinned. “That’s ‘cause I’m involved.”
When the day came, Harvey and O’Keeffe moved through the tunnels like shadows — boots muffled by dust, breath held like they were sneaking past God.
The maze under Nova Loncastre was colder than the streets above and twice as cruel. When Kearns was alive, he had mapped the thing like a madman with too much time and even more secrets. Now, it was theirs — a rat’s path carved through decades of corruption and concrete. They had studied it like scripture, burning the turns into memory.
The warehouse above was quiet — just a couple of greenhorns, eyes heavy, guns holstered, dreams running loose in their heads. Harvey figured Ironclad had raised the alarm, whispered to his new bedfellows that trouble was brewing, that some out-of-town crew had knocked off Azell.
But warnings only mattered if someone listened.
And the mayor? The judge? The shiny new chief with his shoes still clean?
They had laughed it off.
“Who’d be dumb enough,” they probably said, sipping something imported, “to take a swing at a shipment this public? Legit booze, protected by cops — only a madman would try it. Or someone stupid.”
It’s not stupidity if involves Harvey. Probably.
Harvey and O’Keeffe moved carefully and deliberately up and down, their arms full of bottles. They kept one eye on the shadows, the other on the sleeping rookies.
The old chief’s jaw was tight. Not over the theft — that part he could stomach — but over how far the force had fallen in so little time. These kids couldn’t spot criminals if they walked up and punched them in the badge.
When the warehouse was almost empty, Harvey began to half-haul crates and half-hunt. His gut had started barking the minute they stepped into Hawthorne’s domain, and he didn’t make a habit of ignoring it. While O’Keeffe played pack mule, Harvey nosed around the corner.
When the last bottle was stashed, Harvey tossed O’Keeffe a bundle of scribbled notes.
O’Keeffe flipped through the scrawl. Names. Dates. Orders. One note stuck out like a rusty nail.
“Enter the house by the back. Gun provided by Edward ‘Ironclad’ Malone.”
His face went white. Then red.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he hissed. “I smelled these bastards a kilometre off, but this? This is a goddamn trail of breadcrumbs. If I hadn’t seen Kearns’s body with my own eyes, I’d swear he was still pulling the strings.”
Harvey leaned against the desk. “They’re not criminals. Not the real kind. They leave trails ‘cause their world’s built on paper. Is that enough?”
O’Keeffe looked at Harvey.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Harvey lamented. “They were at least smart enough not to put their signatures.”
O’Keeffe let out a bitter chuckle, louder than he meant to. It echoed in the quiet office like a pistol shot.
That was enough.
“Who’s there?” a voice barked from the warehouse floor — sharp, suspicious and all too familiar.
Harvey and O’Keeffe froze.
Then, another voice. Familiar, too.
Harvey’s eyes flickered to the corner — the hidden door.
O’Keeffe hesitated. He didn’t like running. But Harvey could talk his way out of hell if he had to. O’Keeffe? He would be another body with a badge.
He vanished through the hidden door.
Behind him, Harvey turned toward the voices.
It was going to be one hell of a conversation.
Harvey took a slow breath and painted a smile on his face. The sort of smile that told a man the house was on fire, and he had lit the match himself.
He stepped out of the office and struck a match off the doorframe, lighting a cigarette.
“James ‘Needle’ Calderone. Louis ‘Ledger’ Ferelli,” he said their names like a man calling ghosts into the light. “Ain’t it funny? They say a goon’s still a goon, even if you put ‘em in a suit. Don’t you know bosses send idiots to check places for them?” Harvey provoked. “Oh, wait, I heard y’all are a little lighter when it comes to helping hands these days.”
The smoke curled around his face.
“Well, well, well,” Needle said, slick as wet asphalt. “Harvey Turpin. Thought you were dead. Shame you ain’t.”
Ledger eased his piece down. “City’s full of miracles these days, eh?”
“Prohibition’s dead. Booze is walkin’ in daylight. And now the dead are followin’,” Needle said with a chuckle.
“The dead walkin’ ain’t even the strangest one,” Ledger said.
“That so?” Harvey let the question float.
Ledger unscrewed a flask and took a swing. Offered it to Needle, who waved it away — fast, too fast.
Harvey exhaled through his nose. “So tell me, what’s the real miracle?”
Needle smirked. “This warehouse, Harvey. Was full-up just hours ago. Government-stamped, tax-paid, legal liquor.”
“The first load in years,” Ledger cut in.
Harvey took a drag and laughed. “This joint? Packed? I’ve seen fuller churches on Monday mornings.”
A door creaked behind them. A young cop stepped in. He looked at the empty warehouse, then at the two bosses. Harvey saw the fear bloom behind his badge.
“Get out,” Ledger said flatly.
“But, sir…”
“Kid,” Needle cut it, “do yourself a favour. Take your buddies and step outside. Whatever noise you hear, it’s none of your business. And don’t come back ‘till we say so.”
The rookie looked from one to the other. Then, down to the floor. He turned and vanished without a word, taking the last breath of innocence with him.
“Now,” Needle said, brushing invisible dust from his lapel like it had insulted him, “where were we?”
“If you don’t believe us,” Ledger added, “you’ll read about it in tomorrow’s papers. First legal shipment since the taps ran dry — that’s headline stuff, Harvey.”
Harvey let the smoke linger between his teeth before flicking the butt near their feet. Neither flinched. “Will it be a group photo? Or just Ironclad hogging the spotlight?”
That landed.
They stepped closer. Ledger’s pistol reappeared like it had been aching to join the conversation.
“We’re equal partners,” Ledger said, trying hard not to sound like a man repeating what someone smarter had told him.
“Yeah,” Needle stepped in like a partner. “And you know a thing or two about partnerships, don’t you? No way you hijack a whole shipment solo. And Azell? He didn’t fall on his own knife.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Harvey said, voice dry and full of holes. Even a blind choirboy could see the lie.
“Harvey… Harvey…” Ledger shook his head.
Harvey flicked the fresh cigarette at them. The glowing tip kissed Ledger’s chin. The twitch in his jaw said he felt it.
“You call me a thief,” Harvey said, tone light, “but what does it make you — sulkin’ through warehouses in the dark like a couple of burglars? Doesn’t smell much like partnership and trust to me.”
Needle grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You know what your problem is, Harvey? You’re too damn good at sniffin’ out the truth — and too damn bad at pickin’ sides. All we wanted was Harlow. But you got sentimental. Started hangin’ around with ghosts and gangsters. You’ve got no loyalty to Nova Loncastre, Turpin.”
“No loyalty,” Ledger echoed. “We keep this city runnin’. We keep it safe.”
That one dug in. Harvey felt it twist, but he didn’t bleed. Not yet. He swallowed the heat and let the silence hold the line.
Harvey would never betray Nova Loncastre.
Ledger raised the gun as casually as a man reaching for his tie. “Enough. Game’s up. You’re comin’ with us. You’ll take us to Harlow, the booze and the cash.”
Harvey looked at the barrel like it was a ticking clock.
He sighed. Worn. “Mind if I have one last smoke?”
Ledger glanced at Needle.
“Sure,” Needle said, dragging the word like he was king of the room. “Go ahea…”
He never got the last syllable out.
Harvey flicked the cigarette, making it land square in Ledger’s eye.
The boss howled, eyes burning, hand flying to his face. The gun clattered to the floor.
Needle blinked, reaching for his holster. But Harvey was faster. Two quick cracks from his revolver and the exhale of cordite filled the room. One slug caught Needle in the thigh. The second hit his shoulder. He hit the floor with a grunt, twisted up in pain and disbelief.
Harvey didn’t wait for applause.
He bolted from the office, boots pounding the concrete, heart hammering against his ribs. The hidden door wasn’t an option. Too many questions if he vanished like smoke. He needed to escape, not to disappear.
He left by the back of the warehouse — slammed into the back door shoulder-first, blew it open with a grunt. Inside, the bosses were screaming. Outside, Harvey squinted into the dark.
Gun raised, ready.
But the street was empty.
O’Keeffe leaned out from the alley like a ghost with a badge.
“You alright?”
Harvey didn’t answer. He just ran.
They moved like they had rehearsed it — no chatter, no second looks. The city was still asleep, but the sky was starting to peel off the night. A smear of orange and yellow on the horizon. They ducked alleys, avoided lantern light, slipped past milk carts and drunks waking up in gutters.
When they were sure no shadows followed, they cut down a narrow lane behind an old butcher’s shop and pulled open one of Kearns’s secret trapdoors. The tunnel swallowed them.
They didn’t speak until they hit the hideout.
Harlow was pacing like a man on trial. “What the hell happened?”
O’Keeffe turned to Harvey. But the gumshoe didn’t speak.
He crumpled to the floor like he had finally let go of gravity and lit a cigarette.
“Just…” he muttered between breaths, “…need a minute… to breathe.”
One cigarette burned down. Then another.
Only then did he talk.
“They know I’m alive,” Harvey said. “And now I know something else,” he flicked the spent butt into a corner. “There’s a crack between Needle and Ledger. Small now. But cracks widen.”
Harlow and O’Keeffe looked at Harvey, trying to understand what he was saying.
“Needle passed on a flask like it was poison,” Harvey explained, eyes fixed on the curl of smoke rising off his cigarette. “Not casual. Not polite. Scared.”
Harlow blinked. “Scared?”
Yeah,” Harvey got up and sat down in a chair. He leaned back. “Those two hate each other. Used to trade bullets. Only reason they stopped was ‘cause Ironclad and the Rat played peacemaker. Now they wear suits. Think that and a bank account makes ‘em clean. But under the pinstripes? Still goons. And that hatred’s still burnin’. Quiet now. But give it a shake…”
“Like powder keg,” Harlow said.
Harvey smiled. “Exactly.”
“They’ll be hunting you now,” O’Keeffe said.
The smoke traced a lazy “S” from Harvey’s nostrils to the ceiling. “Let ‘em. I’ve been a ghost long enough. Time to haunt the living.”
O’Keeffe studied him for a beat. “You sure?”
Harvey nodded once.
O’Keeffe reached into his coat and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “Then you’ll like this. It’s from Bill.”
Harvey took it. Read it.
“Gala. Seven dwarves.”
“Dead drop near the warehouse,” O’Keeffe said. “I checked it before I cleared your exit.”
Harvey’s grin cut across his face like a knife. Harlow was still squinting, trying to piece it together.
“They’re throwing a party,” O’Keeffe explained. “Toasting the end of Prohibition. New era. New Nova Loncastre. And they’re showcasing the whole rotten cast.”
Harvey re-read the note, then muttered, “Langston, Hawthorne, Ironclad, the Rat, Needle, Ledger and Runaway. The seven dwarves.”
“All under one roof,” O’Keeffe said.
Harvey stood. “That’s my stage.”
“Stage?” Harlow asked.
“They’ll be watchin’. Smilin’. Shakin’ hands with the good citizens. They can’t touch me there — not in front of the press, the donors, the clergy. So they’ll have to listen. And I’ll tell them a story. One so close to the truth they’ll believe every word.”
Harlow opened his mouth, but O’Keeffe cut in first.
“I’ll be there,” he said, calm and final. “He won’t go in alone.”
“No, you wo…”
“I’ll be there,” O’Keefe repeated, voice low and firm as a locked safe.
His voice had such authority that even Harvey Turpin fell silently in agreement.