Matthew J. Kirby - Last Descendants

T he informant cleared his throat across the dinner table, his long frock coat unbuttoned, his hair greased and curled at his temples. Evening had quickly overtaken the townhouse, and the man had emptied his plate before delivering his message. Boss Tweed had patiently allowed this. His hold over New York had always been rooted in what he could give people, the appetites he could whet, the greed he could manipulate.

Its true, the informant finally said. Theres an Assassin in the city.

Tweed slurped down another briny oyster. Do you have a name?

Not yet, the informant said. But someone is working Reddy the Blacksmith to keep the Bowery Boys out of it.

Tweed had consolidated his power and was now the most influential man in New York. He controlled the Tammany Hall political machine, and through it the streets and the ballot box. His network of spies and politicians in Washington had already alerted him to the presence of an Assassin operating in New York. There were rumors the Brotherhood planned to use the ongoing civil war to mount an offensive. It was even possible they had learned of the Templar plan.

Without the Bowery Boys, Tweed said, the riots will fail.

It wont be a problem, Boss

The gangs of the Five Points and waterfront wont be strong enough without them.

The Bowery Boys are in.

I trust they are. But we still need to know who this Assassin is, and what the Brotherhood is after.

Ive made inquiries.

Tweed wasnt pleased or reassured by that. It was a mistake to underestimate an Assassin. Be discreet, he said. We want to flush the Brotherhood out into the open, not drive them deeper into the shadows. He dragged a bite of roast beef through the brown sauce on his plate and ate it.

Of course, Boss. The informant eyed the food remaining on the table and licked his lips like a dog.

But Tweed knew true power relied on keeping his constituents wanting more. That will be all. Return when you have a name and not before.

The informant bowed his head. Yes, Boss. Then he rose from the table and left the room as Tweed continued to eat.

Out in the street, the informant walked, still hungry, to where he could board an omnibus headed downtown. Though night had fallen, the city carried on by gaslight. He passed theaters, restaurants, and saloons all crowded with customers enjoying the slight break from the days heat.

Sometime later, when he reached the gang clubhouse at Number Forty-Two on Bowery, he did so unaware of the eyes watching him, the shadow perched unnoticed on the ledge of a building three stories above the street.

Those eyes were patient, and when the informant left Number Forty-Two a few hours later, staggering a little with drink, the shadow descended and followed silently behind him.

The informant hadnt been discreet enough. A few blocks farther, near an alleyway, the Assassin made his move the flash of a hidden blade, a quick and silent thrust

The body wasnt discovered until morning.