Cockleshells and croissants at the Brevoort breakfast table. Fading day of red factories crushed in the corner and all of the dog licenses lost. Your girl will never get her pension. That’s not the way things play in this port. Jim Fisk has caught the bullet of the beauty’s toy. They’re all a bunch of circus shooters, all the way from Coney Island down to The Battery. You get me a fresh loaf at the fish market and I’ll dress you in a blue-serge suit like a genuine Zulu warrior. The kitchen is filled with chefs all waiting for the coup. It ain’t nothing but a happy bludgeon with a shiny ice pick on the ride down here anyhow.
All Gall is Divided