Chapter 103: Barely Legal Plagiarism
Ricky set the telephone earpiece back onto its brass hook with a dull click, ending the call with Owney Madden.
He leaned back in his swivel chair, his gaze drifting to the corner of his mahogany desk where three thick, freshly printed books rested beside his ledger. He had purchased them directly from the System library at a steep ten-thousand-dollar cost.
Ricky reached out, running his fingers over the heavy bindings. The first volume was The Age of Extremes: The Short Twentieth Century, 1914–1991 by Eric Hobsbawm. It broke the century down into three distinct geopolitical eras: The Age of Catastrophe, marked by the devastation of World War I and World War II; The Golden Age, defined by the post-war economic boom and Cold War solidification; and The Landslide, chronicling the collapse of global empires and ideologies. It was an unmatched synthesis of macroeconomics, political shifts, and grand strategy.
Beside it sat Gangster City: The History of the New York Underworld 1900–1935 by Matthew Renn. This text detailed the violent peak of the city’s underworld from 1900 through the 1930s, documenting the exact transition of neighborhood street toughs into organized, ruthless racketeers.
Finally, his hand rested on Wall Street: A History by economic historian Charles R. Geisst. It was the definitive historical record covering American companies and stock market trading on Wall Street through the twentieth century, spanning from 1900 all the way to 2000.
Ricky chuckled softly under his breath, muttering to himself, "Ten grand felt like a rip-off when I clicked purchase, but these three are actual cheat codes..." He thumbed through Geisst’s pages, tracing the dates of upcoming market movements. "I was never a history guy back home, but if this helps me make money without changing the timeline too much, it’s a goldmine. Drip-feeding small investments on Wall Street will turn into a bottomless cash printer."
He closed the book and tapped his desk, pondering silently. Could I profit off this library right now by publishing future science fiction? A genuine hit could pull in millions.
The moment the thought crossed his mind, a translucent red warning window snapped open before his eyes:
[WARNING: CAUSAL HAZARD]
Advanced fictional concepts will contain sufficient technical specificity to accelerate weapons development.
Estimated technological acceleration: 8–17 years.
Probability of military exploitation: 73%.
Recommended action: Reduce technical specificity before publication.
Ricky stared at the warning, whistling softly. "Yeah... maybe not sci-fi," he muttered aloud. "If I drop technical concepts that let Germany build an atom bomb early, this whole timeline is cooked."
He swiped the window away and considered other options. High fantasy wouldn’t pose any threat to historical technological progression. I’ll just have to apologize to the future authors, he thought with a slight twinge of guilt. I’ll write down their names and make sure they’re supported financially in the future just in case my publishing takes away their livelihood. It’s the least I can do.
He searched the System catalog for The Witcher.
A blue evaluation box appeared:
Original publication date: 1990 - 2024
Original author: Andrzej Sapkowski
References to future events: 0
References to future technology: 0
References to people not yet born: 0
References to historical events after 1910: 0
Evaluation: Safe.
Ricky smiled, nodding. "Nice. Fantasy, Isekai, LitRPG, overpowered protagonists... all safe." He adjusted the System filter to visual storytelling, and his eyes widened. Complete archives for Naruto, Slam Dunk, Bleach, and early Superman comics populated the screen. "Holy shit," he whispered, browsing the manga entries. "Visual novels and comics count too? I’m going to own the publishing industry."
Two sharp knocks on the oak door cut his thoughts short.
Ricky instantly closed the System screen, swept the three history books into his top desk drawer, and slid it shut with a firm thud. "Come in."
The door opened, and his acting secretary stepped into the office. "Boss, there’s a man downstairs in the reception hall looking for you. He says his name is Mr. Peter Hathaway, sent by Mr. Knox."
Ricky adjusted his cuffs. "Send him up."
A minute later, hesitant footsteps sounded in the carpeted hallway. Peter Hathaway stepped into the office, holding his flat cap awkwardly in both hands. Because Jimmy usually acted as the main representative between Atlantic & Pacific and the street crews, Peter looked visibly tense and deferential stepping into Ricky’s private office for the first time.
"Mr. Stevenson, sir," Peter said quietly, standing near the doorway and bowing his head slightly. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Have a seat, Peter," Ricky said smoothly, gesturing to the leather armchair across from his desk. "What brings you here today?"
Peter sat down on the very edge of the seat, resting his cap on his knees. "Mr. Knox asked me to come by, sir. He... well, he wanted me to pass along a message, keep things friendly between us. He said he wants to make sure we keep the peace."
Peter smoothed down his coat, framing the warning as gently as possible to avoid souring the business relationship. "Mr. Knox was saying it’d be best for everyone if you stopped taking on our street boys for your morning wagon routes. He feels it’s disrupting the neighborhood, and he’d appreciate it if you sent them back to their usual stoops. Just to keep things quiet, sir."
Ricky didn’t hesitate for a single second. "Alright. Tell Barney we’ll stop hiring his men immediately and pull them off our routes."
Peter blinked, frozen in place. The complete, casual ease with which Ricky accepted the demand caught him entirely off guard.
Just like that? Peter thought, his chest tightening with a sudden wave of bitterness and confusion. Peter cared deeply about his men and the starving boys in the tenement blocks who were routinely forced into brutal street crime just to buy bread. To see Ricky toss them aside without even a second of pushback made Peter wonder if the man sitting behind the polished desk was just another selfish corporate boss who didn’t give a damn about the working class.
Ricky caught the sharp flick of disappointment in Peter’s eyes and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
"You’re wondering why I agreed so quickly, aren’t you?" Ricky asked softly.
Peter hesitated, then gave a tense, tight nod. "Those boys are starving, Mr. Stevenson. Working your wagons was the only honest pay they’ve seen in months."
"I know," Ricky said calmly. "And I gave them those temporary jobs specifically to keep food on their tables and prevent chaos down the line. But look at the reality, Peter. Barney is extremely paranoid and dangerous right now, especially with the rising frictions between him and Kid Yorke. If I keep pushing him, who do you think he targets first? He won’t attack this building—he’ll send men to ambush the delivery wagons."
Ricky looked Peter straight in the eye. "If my wagons get targeted, it’s those exact tenement boys who end up taking bullets on the street. I care about their lives, Peter. But I can’t openly engage a man who currently has the police department on his payroll. Escalating right now gets your men killed."
The tension in Peter’s shoulders uncluttered. He stared at Ricky, realizing the decision wasn’t born out of indifference, but a cold, practical desire to protect the workers from being caught in a bloodbath.
Peter leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, guarded whisper. "We know you can’t touch him directly, Mr. Stevenson... but we can."
Ricky frowned, slightly confused. "What do you mean?"
When Ricky looked into Peter’s eyes, he stopped. The hesitation was gone, replaced by a dark, burning fire of pure hatred and vengeance.
"The three of us—Barney’s street captains—and all our men are taking over Greenwich," Peter said, his voice deadly earnest. "We’ve been quietly pooling our money to buy weapons. We can’t let Barney keep running things like this. He’s spiraling, and if we don’t put him down now, he’s going to kill more of our people."
Ricky leaned back, assessing him carefully. "Have you thought this through, Peter? Even if Kid Yorke doesn’t step in, I doubt Jack would stay out of it. And more importantly, Frank will come down on Greenwich with the full force of the police department to protect his interests."
"Not if we hide all the cocaine stashes during the chaos," Peter countered sharply. "That powder is Frank’s only real source of income. Jack and Kid have their own territories—they can only offer Frank so much. Without Barney’s stashes, Frank gets nothing."
Ricky paused, his eyebrows rising in genuine surprise. "Cocaine is Frank’s only source of income?"
"Yes sir," Peter confirmed firmly. "Before that big Hell’s Kitchen heist for Owney Madden’s cocaine, the only money Frank made was from small-time extortion, robberies, stealing cargo from the rail yards and docks, and petty drug sales on the corner. Barney managed and ran all of that for him."
Ricky kept his face completely neutral, holding back the urge to smile. So that’s Frank’s structural weakness, he realized. Strip away Barney and the cocaine, and Frank’s political backing collapses.
"If you’re going to do this," Ricky said, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious cadence, "what do you need from me?" He raised a finger before Peter could answer. "Under one condition: if I help you, you must guarantee that no one outside your inner circle will ever know I was involved."
"You have my word, Mr. Stevenson," Peter said instantly, nodding. "We want to buy weapons from you. Specifically guns, if you have them."
Ricky thought for a moment, tapping his desk. "I can supply you with firearms, but only cheap, low-quality ones. I don’t operate a weapons market—unregistered guns draw heavy attention from the authorities, and I won’t have high-grade military hardware traced back to my company."
"We’ll take whatever you have," Peter said earnestly. "And I promise, not a soul will ever know where they came from."
Ricky pulled a small notepad from his vest pocket, jotted down a series of letter-number codes with prices next to them, tore the sheet off, and handed it across the desk.
"Here," Ricky explained, pointing to the codes on the slip. "The SW1899 is a .38 caliber revolver. The CM1903PH is a Colt Model 1903 Pocket Hammerless pistol. The FNM1900 is an FN Browning Model 1900. For rifles, the WM1894 and MM1894 are lever-action rifles. We also have the Mauser 98 sporting rifle in an 8mm caliber, and for heavy close-range fire, the Winchester Model 1897 shotgun."
Ricky looked up at Peter. "They aren’t used—they’re factory new, but they are cheap, low-quality grades. You can expect them to jam occasionally if you don’t keep them clean. I can supply the ammunition for all of them as well. Hand this code list to your fellow street captains."
A huge, relieved smile broke across Peter’s face as he carefully folded the paper and tucked it safely into his coat pocket. "Thank you, Mr. Stevenson. I’ll be sending a runner with our cash and order very soon."
"Stay smart, Peter," Ricky said with a short nod.
Peter stood, bowed respectfully, and exited the office, closing the door quietly behind him.
Once he was alone, Ricky leaned back in his leather chair, staring up at the ceiling. Through the System interface in his mind, he knew he could easily purchase high-quality weaponry, modern semi-automatic rifles, and tactical shotguns. However, the later historical eras of the System shop remained strictly locked.
Unlocking the World War II era required reaching $1,000,000 in total cumulative purchases from the System shop. Right now, his current lifetime spending sat at exactly $67,365.89. Because the System priced all its items at pure base manufacturing cost without inflation, spending a full million dollars was still a distant dream.
Ricky smiled softly to himself, closing his eyes as the sound of wagon wheels on Hudson Street echoed outside. Cheap guns will do just fine.