JBIronWorks
Midnight Rendezvous
Midnight Rendezvous
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
New York, 1928
“Where are they? They should have been here thirty minutes ago!”
“Relax Herschel, they’ll be here soon. O’Connell wouldn’t dare cross us. In the meantime, keep your voice down.”
The first man who’d spoken, Herschel, grunted, adjusting his grip on the Thompson Sub-machine gun in his hands, and looked around the foggy marsh.
“I don’t know, Heinrich, I still don’t like it. The Coast Guard could have got them.”
“The Blackhawk can outrun anything the Guard can give chase with,” The German-born gangster said dismissively, leaning his Winchester Model 94 repeater against the side of the dark-green Ford Model AA parked in the middle of the dock.
The two pinstripe-suited bootleggers, along with their boss, Russian-born Sarkov, and one other henchman, Italian Gordio, were waiting on a dilapidated T-shaped pier deep in the swampy marshes outside New York City.
It was well past midnight, and the fog hung thick over the marsh, turning the trees and low islands that dotted the swamp every so often into fuzzy outlines and barely-visible shapes.
A Ford Model AA sat on the dock, facing dry land, and a second was parked next to the end of the pier, on the weed-choked dirt road that ran past it.
An old flat-bottomed punt was tied to the left side of the pier, littered with bits of wood and slightly overgrown.
The gang of bootleggers frequently used this spot to meet O’Connell, and had in fact reinforced the old pier for their own use.
“Silence,” Sarkov hissed sharply from the end of the pier, leaning out over the murky water. “I hear something.”
The gangsters went quiet, and after a minute, the faint rumbling sound reached their ears.
“Sounds like an engine,” Gordio said quietly from his spot at the right end of the horizontal pier.
They all instinctively tensed, ready to bolt incase it was the Coast Guard, but a second later Sarkov relaxed, motioning the others to do the same, as the faint flicker of orange flames became visible through the heavy fog, and a boat’s horn tooted twice in quick succession, then once more.
“They’re here,” he hissed, and the others moved quickly, Herschel heading to the end of the pier, looking back along the dirt road, and Heinrich came to the end of the dock, ready to catch the mooring lines.
A minute later, the dark outline of the rumrunning vessel became visible, resolving itself into a long black-hulled steam cruiser, the single low funnel belching black smoke into the night air. Orange flames came out of the six exhaust pipes right behind the funnel, throwing a flickering light across the vessel.
Fifty-four feet long, the Blackhawk was painted entirely black, save for a narrow stripe of dark-green running horizontally across the hull, and the low pilothouse, which was also dark-green.
Powered by twin Liberty aircraft engines, the lean rumrunner was armed with a Lewis Machine Gun mount forward of the recessed pilothouse.
As the rumrunner came alongside the dock the engines were throttled back, and a pair of crewmen appeared on deck, readying the mooring lines.
The nearest crewman threw a line to Gordio, and he caught it and wrapped it around the bollard next to him.
Sarkov caught the other line and did the same, making the rumrunner fast to the dock.
As the crew aft extended a gangplank, a tall blond man in a long black trench coat and matching captain’s hat emerged from the pilothouse, leaning back in to tell the helmsman, “Keep er’ runnin’.”
“O’Connell,” Sarkov greeted the Irishman as he stepped to the rail, “Glad to see you made it. We were worried you’d run afoul of the Coast Guard.”
“Almost did,” The other replied in a heavy Irish brogue, before motioning for the crew to get unloading.
“Before you continue, what’s the inventory? Did you get everything we requested?”
“Eh, almost,” O’Connell replied, stepping aside as the crewman from the Lewis nest headed aft to help unload.
Sarkov frowned, not at all happy with that answer.
“Explain,” he said coldly.
O’Connell raised an eyebrow at the other’s tone, but continued.
“We got everything ‘cept for the six casks o’ Cuban Rum.”
“Gilderoy assured me he would have it!” Sarkov fumed angrily.
“Aye, he did. And he would ‘ave, if the authorities hadn’t confiscated it before he left port. Apparently it was from an illegal brewer.”
Sarkov deflated, visibly frustrated, but he understood there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
“I took some ‘o me own money and got two crates ‘o French Rose Champagne from him instead. Figured you could distribute it to that fancy place on the corner ‘o Broadway and Wall St.”
“The Phoenix. Yes, the owners would pay a pretty penny for some fine champagne. Good call O’Connell.”
The captain nodded, then continued from before.
“We took so long because we ran into a Coast Guard cruiser waitin’ off the corner ‘o Long Island, hidden behind the point. We threw ‘im off our tail, but it took a bit.”
Sarkov nodded, accepting the explanation.
“One other thing,” the captain added, “While we was at Gilderoy’s Bertram’s crew came in. Told us to tell you bunch to avoid Fifth tonight. Cops raided a speakeasy earlier and the whole place is still crawlin’ with Feds.”
“Must have been Dogan’s place. We'll use the back route tonight then.”
O’Conell nodded, and the two fell silent, watching the others work quickly to get the alcohol offloaded.
The Blackhawk’s crewmen unloaded the casks and crates onto the dock and over to the truck, and Heinrich, standing in the back of the Ford, hefted them up and rolled the kegs into place.
Meanwhile, Herschel and Gordio stood guard, their eyes peeled for any unusual movement in the gloomy marsh.
In short order the first truck was loaded, and Heinrich moved it off to the bank and backed the second onto the dock, where it was quickly filled with the remaining contraband.
The trucks loaded, Gordio and Herschel untied the Blackhawk’s lines, and the vessel cast off, drifting out from the pier.
“I’m taking her down to the warehouse on South Street. We’ll meet ya’ sometime on the morrow,” O’Connell called, as the rumrunner’s engines revved up and the vessel veered away into the fog.
Sarkov tipped his black fedora, than turned and ran over to the second Ford, jumping in the passenger side.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said to Gordio, and the gangster started the truck and drove off, following the first vehicle down the foggy road.
Unbeknownst to the bootleggers, Detective Hatchwood had overheard everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, here it is! My first real large Prohibition MOC, and the first MOC I photographed outside, so apologies if the lighting is a bit off, I'm still figuring out how to balance everything out.
Hope you all like it! :D
Midnight Rendezvous
Midnight Rendezvous
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
New York, 1928
“Where are they? They should have been here thirty minutes ago!”
“Relax Herschel, they’ll be here soon. O’Connell wouldn’t dare cross us. In the meantime, keep your voice down.”
The first man who’d spoken, Herschel, grunted, adjusting his grip on the Thompson Sub-machine gun in his hands, and looked around the foggy marsh.
“I don’t know, Heinrich, I still don’t like it. The Coast Guard could have got them.”
“The Blackhawk can outrun anything the Guard can give chase with,” The German-born gangster said dismissively, leaning his Winchester Model 94 repeater against the side of the dark-green Ford Model AA parked in the middle of the dock.
The two pinstripe-suited bootleggers, along with their boss, Russian-born Sarkov, and one other henchman, Italian Gordio, were waiting on a dilapidated T-shaped pier deep in the swampy marshes outside New York City.
It was well past midnight, and the fog hung thick over the marsh, turning the trees and low islands that dotted the swamp every so often into fuzzy outlines and barely-visible shapes.
A Ford Model AA sat on the dock, facing dry land, and a second was parked next to the end of the pier, on the weed-choked dirt road that ran past it.
An old flat-bottomed punt was tied to the left side of the pier, littered with bits of wood and slightly overgrown.
The gang of bootleggers frequently used this spot to meet O’Connell, and had in fact reinforced the old pier for their own use.
“Silence,” Sarkov hissed sharply from the end of the pier, leaning out over the murky water. “I hear something.”
The gangsters went quiet, and after a minute, the faint rumbling sound reached their ears.
“Sounds like an engine,” Gordio said quietly from his spot at the right end of the horizontal pier.
They all instinctively tensed, ready to bolt incase it was the Coast Guard, but a second later Sarkov relaxed, motioning the others to do the same, as the faint flicker of orange flames became visible through the heavy fog, and a boat’s horn tooted twice in quick succession, then once more.
“They’re here,” he hissed, and the others moved quickly, Herschel heading to the end of the pier, looking back along the dirt road, and Heinrich came to the end of the dock, ready to catch the mooring lines.
A minute later, the dark outline of the rumrunning vessel became visible, resolving itself into a long black-hulled steam cruiser, the single low funnel belching black smoke into the night air. Orange flames came out of the six exhaust pipes right behind the funnel, throwing a flickering light across the vessel.
Fifty-four feet long, the Blackhawk was painted entirely black, save for a narrow stripe of dark-green running horizontally across the hull, and the low pilothouse, which was also dark-green.
Powered by twin Liberty aircraft engines, the lean rumrunner was armed with a Lewis Machine Gun mount forward of the recessed pilothouse.
As the rumrunner came alongside the dock the engines were throttled back, and a pair of crewmen appeared on deck, readying the mooring lines.
The nearest crewman threw a line to Gordio, and he caught it and wrapped it around the bollard next to him.
Sarkov caught the other line and did the same, making the rumrunner fast to the dock.
As the crew aft extended a gangplank, a tall blond man in a long black trench coat and matching captain’s hat emerged from the pilothouse, leaning back in to tell the helmsman, “Keep er’ runnin’.”
“O’Connell,” Sarkov greeted the Irishman as he stepped to the rail, “Glad to see you made it. We were worried you’d run afoul of the Coast Guard.”
“Almost did,” The other replied in a heavy Irish brogue, before motioning for the crew to get unloading.
“Before you continue, what’s the inventory? Did you get everything we requested?”
“Eh, almost,” O’Connell replied, stepping aside as the crewman from the Lewis nest headed aft to help unload.
Sarkov frowned, not at all happy with that answer.
“Explain,” he said coldly.
O’Connell raised an eyebrow at the other’s tone, but continued.
“We got everything ‘cept for the six casks o’ Cuban Rum.”
“Gilderoy assured me he would have it!” Sarkov fumed angrily.
“Aye, he did. And he would ‘ave, if the authorities hadn’t confiscated it before he left port. Apparently it was from an illegal brewer.”
Sarkov deflated, visibly frustrated, but he understood there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
“I took some ‘o me own money and got two crates ‘o French Rose Champagne from him instead. Figured you could distribute it to that fancy place on the corner ‘o Broadway and Wall St.”
“The Phoenix. Yes, the owners would pay a pretty penny for some fine champagne. Good call O’Connell.”
The captain nodded, then continued from before.
“We took so long because we ran into a Coast Guard cruiser waitin’ off the corner ‘o Long Island, hidden behind the point. We threw ‘im off our tail, but it took a bit.”
Sarkov nodded, accepting the explanation.
“One other thing,” the captain added, “While we was at Gilderoy’s Bertram’s crew came in. Told us to tell you bunch to avoid Fifth tonight. Cops raided a speakeasy earlier and the whole place is still crawlin’ with Feds.”
“Must have been Dogan’s place. We'll use the back route tonight then.”
O’Conell nodded, and the two fell silent, watching the others work quickly to get the alcohol offloaded.
The Blackhawk’s crewmen unloaded the casks and crates onto the dock and over to the truck, and Heinrich, standing in the back of the Ford, hefted them up and rolled the kegs into place.
Meanwhile, Herschel and Gordio stood guard, their eyes peeled for any unusual movement in the gloomy marsh.
In short order the first truck was loaded, and Heinrich moved it off to the bank and backed the second onto the dock, where it was quickly filled with the remaining contraband.
The trucks loaded, Gordio and Herschel untied the Blackhawk’s lines, and the vessel cast off, drifting out from the pier.
“I’m taking her down to the warehouse on South Street. We’ll meet ya’ sometime on the morrow,” O’Connell called, as the rumrunner’s engines revved up and the vessel veered away into the fog.
Sarkov tipped his black fedora, than turned and ran over to the second Ford, jumping in the passenger side.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said to Gordio, and the gangster started the truck and drove off, following the first vehicle down the foggy road.
Unbeknownst to the bootleggers, Detective Hatchwood had overheard everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, here it is! My first real large Prohibition MOC, and the first MOC I photographed outside, so apologies if the lighting is a bit off, I'm still figuring out how to balance everything out.
Hope you all like it! :D