Chapter 29: Founder’s Syndicate
The top floor of the Washington Street building was quiet except for the low, constant rumble of drayage traffic rolling past the windows below. Late afternoon light filtered through the dirt-streaked panes, illuminating tiny specks of dust drifting over the old wooden floorboards.
Ricky stood near the front window, his hands resting lightly on the sill as he looked down at the bustling street. Behind him, Marek, John Caldwell, and the three Murphy brothers were sitting on a couple of overturned wooden crates and an old, discarded pine bench.
Ricky turned around, leaning his hip against the window frame. "Now that we’ve got a proper place to run things, we need to settle something. What are we calling ourselves?"
Arthur looked up from where he was tying his bootlace, a slight smirk on his broad face. "What, like a gang?"
Frank shook his head, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. "Nah, we aren’t a gang. Gangs do the dark stuff—shaking down vegetable carts, robbing coal cars, splitting heads over a corner. We’re more... gray. We sell good stock to local shopkeepers for cheap. We’re more like a company."
"Well, maybe," John Caldwell offered, his flat English accent distinct in the room. "But we carry a twelve-gauge pump gun under the wagon bench and we’re dodging coppers and Dusters. We’re kind of a gang, mate."
Marek chuckled, offering a wide, easygoing smile from his crate. "Why don’t we ask the boss? He knows what we are."
All five of them turned their heads, their eyes landing on Ricky.
Ricky smiled, feeling a quiet, familiar nostalgia touch his chest. Back in modern Georgia, whenever he, Marcus, Dre, and Terrell were figuring out a new hustle or dodging trouble after a close call, his friends had always turned to him the exact same way. Ricky had never considered himself a genius, but growing up in a tight-knit, working-class neighborhood had forced him to think fast. He knew how to run logistics, how to manage risk, and how to stay three steps ahead of anyone looking to put a stop to their grind.
"We’re sort of both," Ricky said, his voice calm, conversational, and grounded. He looked at each of them. "In the future, we’re going to own all kinds of businesses—foundries, warehouses, shipping docks, real estate. And when the time comes, I’m going to put those businesses under your names. Yours, Arthur. Yours, Marek. John, Frank, Tom."
The boys blinked, exchanging startled, wide-eyed glances.
"In our names?" Frank asked, stunned. "Usually the boss holds everything in his own pocket."
"That’s how people get caught," Ricky explained, stepping closer to the group. "If one man owns everything on paper, a single crooked politician, a city inspector, or a rival syndicate can wipe out the whole board with one pen stroke. But if our trade is divided across dozens of names—locally, nationally, and internationally—it becomes impossible to trace the central hub. Every business is run independently on paper, but in truth, it all belongs to the group."
Frank frowned, his sharp mind testing the logic. "What if someone decides to split from the group, then? Or worse... tries to sell us out?"
Ricky’s smile shifted. The warm, relaxed expression vanished, replaced by a cold, heavy stillness that seemed to lower the temperature in the room. His gray eyes locked onto Frank with an unshakeable, quiet intensity.
"Trust goes a long way," Ricky said softly, his voice dropping into a low, deliberate tone. "But fear enforces it. It’s hard to run away when the company has eyes and ears on every block in Manhattan."
A heavy, absolute silence fell over the room. None of the boys spoke. Arthur shifted his weight slightly, and even John Caldwell straightened his back, feeling the sudden, formidable weight of Ricky’s authority. It wasn’t the wild, unpredictable temper of a street thug like Goo Goo Knox or One-Arm Sherman; it was the cold, calculated certainty of a man who intended to build an empire that could never be broken.
Ricky let the heavy moment settle for three seconds before he relaxed his posture, a small, genuine smile returning to his face.
"In any case," Ricky continued smoothly, "this group is going to last for centuries. It’s much easier to survive in these trying times when people don’t even know we exist as a single entity. We only exist in quiet, hush-hush tones among the shopkeepers. We exist to cut out the middleman, extinguish the unfairness of the big syndicates, and build a better future for the people who actually do the work."
He thought of his mother back in Georgia, exhausted after double shifts at the clinic, and the news reports of corporate layoffs while automated machines took away men’s livelihoods. He thought of the desperate working-class families of 1910, squeezed dry by corrupt Tammany Hall landlords and extortionist street gangs.
Tom listened, his dark eyes brightening with a sudden, deep respect. He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on his knees. "What do you think the future looks like, Arthur? A hundred years from now?"
Ricky smiled faintly, but he kept the truth to himself. He didn’t mention the global wars coming in four years, or the planes, or the skyscrapers that would dwarf Wall Street.
"Hell if I know," Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "I just hope it’s not worse than today. Hopefully no more wars."
"Oh, I bet we’ll have flying wagons," Frank chimed in, trying to lighten the mood. "Or flying motorcars!"
"We already have those, you idiot," John scoffed with a grin. "It’s called an aeroplane. Wright brothers flew one five years ago."
Marek tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he thought about it. "Maybe people will talk to each other across long distances. Not by letters, but... maybe you can see their faces in real time from across the ocean."
"It’s called a telephone, Marek," John said, smirking.
"No, not a telegraph telephone," Marek argued, gesturing with his hands. "Like a glass pane where you look right at them!"
Young Tom Murphy grinned from his spot on the pine bench. "Or maybe we’ll fly to the moon and live up there!"
Ricky laughed softly, watching them banter. He didn’t spoil their guesses, nor did he break their spirits with the harsh realities of the 20th century ahead.
"Whatever the future brings," Ricky said, his voice quiet and solid, "we’re going to make sure that no matter how many petty economic wars or gang feuds break out, people like us don’t have to suffer the aftermath. We build the foundation now so our people survive anything."
Arthur stood up from his crate, nodding slowly with a wide, approving grin. "I like that, Ricky. It’s like... we’re the founders of a future society or something."
Marek snapped his fingers, his eyes lighting up. "Founders! That’s it!"
John Caldwell smiled, nodding along. "The Founders. Has a proper ring to it."
Ricky looked around at his crew—Marek, John, Arthur, Frank, and Tom. Six men standing in a dusty attic loft on Washington Street, ready to capture the city’s supply lines.
"Alright," Ricky said, a sharp, confident smile breaking across his face. "From today onward, we are the Founder’s Syndicate."
Ricky held out his right fist into the center of the room.
Marek didn’t hesitate; he thrust his fist forward, pressing his knuckles against Ricky’s. John Caldwell stepped up next, followed by Arthur, Frank, and young Tom. Six fists joined together in the dim afternoon light.
"The Founder’s Syndicate," Arthur repeated softly.
Frank pulled his fist back, grinning as he patted his dark wool vest. "So... do we get a uniform or something?"