Chapter 10: Forced Out
The late afternoon sun was dipping low over the water, painting the river in cold, dark shades of gray.
Four days had passed since the fight in the alley. Ricky had spent every single hour on high alert, his eyes constantly scanning the crowds of dockworkers, the drayage carts, and the shadowed corners of the slips. But nobody had approached them. They had spent their days out on the bay with Mr. Vance, hauling nets and keeping their heads down. The routine had kept them safe, but Ricky knew it wouldn’t last.
Around three in the afternoon, the Mary-Ann docked, and Vance handed them their daily split of six dollars.
Ricky and Marek walked back toward the warehouse in silence. The air was cool, carrying the familiar, heavy stench of low tide and horse manure. They slipped through the loose board at the back of the Hudson Valley Produce warehouse and stepped into the dim, cool shadows of the ground floor.
Ricky stopped. Marek bumped right into his back.
A man was waiting for them near the base of the wooden stairs.
He was leaning casually against the brick wall, wearing a long black wool coat and a dark flat cap pulled low over his eyes.
His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. He didn’t look like any of the young thugs from the alley. This man was older, his face hard and unbothered, like he was waiting for a streetcar.
Ricky’s muscles tensed instantly, his Agility ready to coil, but his heart gave a heavy, nervous thud. "What do you want?"
The man slowly pulled his right hand out of his pocket and offered it. "Name’s Doyle," he said. He had a thick, flat Irish accent.
Ricky didn’t move. He kept his hands near his sides, his eyes locked on the man. He didn’t take the hand.
Doyle let out a soft, dry grunt and pulled his hand back, sliding it back into his pocket. "Suit yourself. I was sent here to send you both away from the docks."
Ricky’s jaw tightened. "And why would we do that?"
Doyle didn’t raise his voice. He casually reached inside his heavy black coat and peeled the wool back just enough for Ricky to see.
Tucked neatly into the waistband of his trousers was a small, silver-plated .32 caliber pocket revolver. The dull metal caught the dim light coming through the high warehouse windows.
"I’d love to avoid any incidents," Doyle said, his voice entirely conversational. "Especially since you’re a Yankee, kid. But you beat up five of our boys. If you stay around these slips like nothing happened, it’s bad for our reputation."
Ricky stared at the cold metal of the gun.
A cold sweat broke out under his gray hoodie.
He had fifteen points in Agility and Perception, but those stats didn’t make him bulletproof. He was eighteen years old, and a piece of lead from that revolver would tear through his lungs just like anyone else’s.
In Georgia, people used guns to settle everything. Out here, he’d gotten used to the idea of fists and bricks, but the sight of the .32 changed the math instantly.
"The worst thing we could do," Doyle continued, looking up at the high ceiling, "is slip up those stairs while you’re snoring. Put a couple of holes in you and your friend, stuff you in a couple of pickle barrels, and sink you to the bottom of the Hudson. But Boss Malone respects the peace around here. He doesn’t want the harbor police sniffing around the piers because of some rogue loaders."
Doyle looked back at Ricky, his eyes lazy but dead serious. "So we’re sending you away. If we catch you on Gopher turf tomorrow, we won’t have a chat first. Understand?"
Ricky swallowed the dryness in his throat. "We were just becoming regulars on Vance’s boat."
"That’s real unfortunate," Doyle said, nodding once. "But I have a job to do. We’re all just trying to make a living here."
Marek stepped forward, his face pale, his voice shaking slightly but desperate. "Mister... you seem like a reasonable person. Is there really no chance? We can pay. We can pay the weekly dues. Whatever the other boats pay, we’ll double it."
Doyle shook his head. "Almost everyone on the North River knows you thrashed Martin and his boys. If we let you buy your way out of it, the other shippers think they can just beat our collectors and pay a fine later. It doesn’t work that way. You got off unscathed. Be thankful for that."
Doyle walked past them, his heavy boots clicking on the floorboards as he headed toward the loose board at the back of the building. He paused, his hand resting on the wood.
"I don’t know what happens if we see you here tomorrow," Doyle said over his shoulder. "But if I were you, I wouldn’t dare."
He slipped through the gap, and the warehouse went completely silent again.
Marek looked at Ricky, his eyes wide with fear. "Ricky... what are we gonna do? We can’t go back to the boat. They’ll be waiting."
Ricky let out a long, heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. The stress of the encounter was finally starting to fade, leaving a dull ache in his temples. "We can’t stay. And we can’t let Mr. Vance wait for us tomorrow at five sharp. It isn’t fair to him. We need to go down to the slip and tell him we’re done."
"What about our stuff?" Marek asked, looking up toward the third floor.
"We don’t have anything but a piece of cardboard and some empty boxes," Ricky said practically. "Let’s go."
They walked back down to the lower basin. The evening fog was rolling in from the harbor, thick and gray, hiding the distant outline of the Statue of Liberty.
Mr. Vance was on the deck of the Mary-Ann, grunting as he rolled a wet, salt-crusted drift net over a wooden barrel. He looked up as their boots hit the gunwale.
"Mr. Vance," Ricky said, standing on the edge of the pier. "We’re not going to be able to help you anymore."
Vance didn’t stop rolling the net. He puff-puffed on his pipe, a cloud of blue tobacco smoke rising into the damp fog. "I know."
Ricky and Marek exchanged a look.
Vance stopped, leaning his heavy elbows against the wooden rail. He looked at them with his sober, red-rimmed eyes. "The whole waterfront’s talking about what you did to Martin and his crew. I’m glad someone finally cracked their skulls, but... out here, shit has a way of biting back. I figured they’d send someone to run you off."
He looked at Ricky’s dirty, fish-stained gray hoodie and his scuffed modern sneakers.
"Good luck to ya, boys," Vance said, his voice dropping into a gruff, quiet tone. "Consider what I told you about your clothes. You’ve got money in your pockets now. If you want a cheap room to rent and a job where the Gophers won’t look, head inland. Greenwich Village. It’s the perfect place for you."
Ricky nodded slowly, a sudden feeling of gratitude warming his chest. "Thanks, Mr. Vance. For everything."
"Five sharp was a good run," the old man grunted, turning back to his nets. "Now get out of here before the night watchman sees you."
They turned and walked away from the Hudson River docks, the cold harbor fog swallowing the Mary-Ann behind them.