Chapter 2
Mickey Foley was NOT having the kind of week he'd envisioned he was going to as his first week as Captain of the Alcohol Task Force on the New York City Police Department. His mentor, Lieutenant Funk, had given him the promotion with the stipulation that he immediately begin work assembling a crew to begin the life-encompassing task of slowly shutting down the distribution arm of the illegal alcohol business in New York. A married man with two children, Foley hadn't been the ideal candidate for the job, but no other cop in New York City had stood up to the brutal tactics of Mr. McMahon in the past, even going toe to toe with hired thugs on several different occasions. The only problem with this entire situation was that no one had bothered to ask Captain Foley if he'd wanted this responsibility.
His first interviewee, a young man whose origins came from the part of the country where illegal liquor was made, rather than sold, now sat before him at rapt attention.
"And why would this task force be better with you on it than without it?"
At this question, Dustin Runnels sat up in his seat even further. "Well, sir, I know everything there is to know about the bootlegging industry. My father worked for the McMahons for years and years-."
"Wait. Your dad worked for Vincent McMahon?"
Runnels snickered slightly. "Yessir. But I'm nothing like him."
Foley smiled, acknowledging the inference Runnels had made about his fathers' questionable character, then pushed a stack of papers towards Runnels.
"Well, sir, you have an impeccable service record. Eight years as a prison guard. Three years on the Mayor's personal protection unit. You're exactly the kind of man I want on this force." He reached out to shake Runnels' hand, signifying his satisfaction with his candidacy. "I only have one question," Foley continued. "Are there any other guys over at the prison or on the protection unit you'd like to send over here?"
Runnels laughed. "Sure, sir, I bet there's three or four roughnecks we could fit into this unit if we tried real hard…"
To meet Candice Preston was to be completely mesmerized by her overwhelming beauty. Orphaned at the age of thirteen, she quickly found refuge in the company and employ of Patricia Stratus. Now, just weeks removed from her twentieth birthday, the chestnut-haired young lady had worked her way all the way up to being the top assistant to Stratus. It was Preston's job to supervise the other young women who sought refuge at the Stratus. Herself an early orphan, Patricia didn't mind having them around. She shuddered at the thought of where many of these young women would be if they didn't have a place such as hers to turn to. In exchange for their room and board, many of the girls sought employment at the hotel and the restaurant in the bottom floor. Candice waited tables downstairs, often until after midnight, and spent her days helping clean rooms and thinking about the young man she'd met a few weeks ago when he'd shown up with Chris and the other young men from Canada, seeking shelter and food. Chris she'd known for a while, what with him becoming the unofficial "man of the house" as a result of his deep relationship with Patricia. She'd watched as he spent much of his weekend time fixing things around the hotel that none of the rest of them could. She understood why Patricia had fallen so hard for him. He treated her well, never yelled or raised his hand towards her, and seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. All Candice had to do was watch them look into each other's eyes and she knew instantly that the two were meant to find one another.
And those men were coming again today. Candice could always tell when they were coming by the way Patricia would meticulously comb every inch of her hotel, scouring out any imperfection in the appearance or general upkeep of her elegant hotel. She'd personally do the cooking those days, preparing the roast turkey or fresh haddock, the wild yams and rice that were native to her Canadian homeland. All of the young women in Stratus' care had imprinted her as a sort of surrogate mother, and it was easy for Candice to envision her as an actual mother very soon.
Patricia was expecting the boys around seven. She knew on Fridays their employer paid them for the weeks' worth of deliveries they'd made throughout New York City. She hadn't heard Chris speak much about his employer, but that was just as well. The less she knew about Chris's line of work, the better. But she couldn't wait to hold him, and thank God he was alive another week.
Whoever told you as a child that cheaters never prosper clearly had never been acquainted with John Layfield. The only son of a Texas steel baron, Layfield had been sent to New York as an adolescent by his parents in order to receive the finest quality education. Immediately upon his graduation, he'd begun cutting his teeth under the Tammany Hall political machine in New York. He'd worked his way up the ladder over the last twenty years and now, even in the midst of accusations of corruption and misconduct, he was on the verge of becoming the next Governor of New York. As he stood on his large balcony overlooking Midtown Manhattan, he watched as his team of servants and household attendants scramble for his impending departure for his summit on city matters later that afternoon. There was only one thing he had to take care of first. Something that had been eating at him for a very long time…