Bill the Butcher’s place was probably something he wanted to have when he was alive. Powerful ghosts tend to do that to any spiritual real estate they control. That made me think that the human man William Poole was in there somewhere, and not just the NYC version of a god of war. He could still want things.
It was huge, the size of a modern warehouse. Probably too big to exist in the Five Points in the mid-19th century. It was a combined slaughterhouse and butcher shop, and I don’t think I need to go into any more detail than that. It neither looked nor smelled pretty.
Bill is hanging out near the door with a few of his buddies, all sitting on barrels and boxes and rickety wooden chairs. I don’t need to guess or ask which one of them is Bill the Butcher. I recognize him the same way I recognized Boss Tweed, which is the same way they recognize me, for that matter: there’s a sense of power that you just can’t mistake for anything else. Some of the “men” in this group are ghosts, while others are just spirits that cling to a predator like Bill like they were remoras. Bill doesn’t look any different than the others, just a 19th century working man in a leather apron and a handlebar mustache, but just beneath the surface is a thing made of hate and blades.
As I approach, their raucous conversation fades and they turn their attention to me. I’m rolling a coin across my fingers as I come, and most of them probably just think it’s a nervous tic if they notice it at all.
Bill knows better. I can see it in his eyes. The coin is a relic from his time: a gold double eagle. In his day, it was worth twenty dollars, which of course bought a lot more than it does now. Today, it’s worth…a lot more.
In my hands, it’s a nuke. If I go, the Five Points goes with me. Overkill, maybe, but when you’re dragged off into an adventure like this and don’t have time to prepare, sometimes you just have to make do with what you have in your purse, including your good luck charm.
Naturally, he doesn’t flinch. “Looks like I need to have a word with those boys I sent to talk to you,” he says.
“I don’t know why you bothered with them,” I reply. “They were losers even in their own movie.”
“Yes, well, they were easier to deal with than those boys from Coney Island.”
I imagine they were. With the Warriors being “noble” street thugs and their territory being so far from his own seat of power, they were probably hard for him to control.
“So what can I do for you, young lady?” He asks, casually leaning back in his chair.
“I’m here to serve an eviction notice,” I answer.
He raises an eyebrow. “You’d better have more than that on you if you intend to enforce it,” he says, nodding toward the coin in my hand.
Yeah. I better. And I’d better come up with it fast.