Chapter 59: The Agreement
The final fifty-pound sack of winter flour hit the floorboards of a Bleecker Street bakery with a dull, heavy thump. Jimmy dusted his hands on his trousers, flashed a quick, gap-toothed grin at the baker, and stepped back out into the cold mist. Caleb and Eli were already waiting on the spring-wagon. They rode the empty dray back toward the Gansevoort docks in silence, the iron rims grinding smoothly over the cobblestones.
When Jimmy pushed the heavy oak double doors of the storage shed open, the air inside was warm, smelling of fresh pine and the bitter, dark roast of chicory coffee. Ricky and Danny were sitting at a small wooden table near the back, a pair of tin cups resting between them.
Jimmy walked over, pulled up a stool, and grabbed the dented metal coffee pot, pouring himself a steaming cup.
"We found ’em on Bleecker," Jimmy said, taking a slow sip of the scalding brew. "Or rather, they found us. Stepped right out of the alley. I think they were waiting for us."
Ricky didn’t look surprised. He took a slow drag from his white paper cigarette, blowing a thin stream of blue smoke toward the rafters. "Of course they were."
Jimmy lowered his cup, raising an eyebrow. "You expected ’em to just stand in the street?"
"That guy doesn’t want a direct confrontation on our home turf," Ricky explained, leaning his elbows on the table. "He was waiting on Bleecker because he assumed we didn’t know about him or his men watching from Mrs. Stavorski’s place. With the internal cracks Danny’s been hearing about among Barney’s street captains, it makes me think this specific enforcer wants to work with us."
"You really think so, boss?" Jimmy asked, scratching his jaw.
"I don’t trust him," Ricky said flatly. "But if we use him, we might get an inside agent on the Dusters. His guys are starving. Wherever the money goes, they’ll follow. There’s no loyalty left there if their lieutenant is an asshole keeping all the coin."
Jimmy let out a low chuckle, resting his boots on the bottom rung of his stool. "Well, makes sense to me. Still... I told ’em we’d need a contract in writing for the protection fee. Just as insurance, like you said."
"It’s more like an agreement document," Ricky corrected mildly, tapping his ash onto a small tin plate. "But sure."
"Is a contract and an agreement different?"
"Yeah. A contract has a dozen conditions and clauses," Ricky said. "An agreement is short. All it says is that they promise to never touch our wagons, and anyone acting against us is treated as an independent entity acting without Duster authority."
Jimmy frowned, his sharp English features pinching in doubt. "Are you sure this Barney guy is gonna agree to sign his name to a written document over a simple protection fee?"
"I don’t care what Barney thinks," Ricky said, his voice dropping into a cold, practical register. "If we secure his signature, whatever happens to him, we’ll be safe from becoming a scapegoat. We pay them according to his established prices. If he ever gets killed by his own starving men for not sharing a single cent... that’s not our problem."
Jimmy grinned, a sudden flash of profound respect in his eyes. "I sure do hope so."
"Don’t worry about it," Ricky said, pushing his chair back and standing up. He stretched his shoulders, feeling the deep, familiar ache of a long shift. "You’ll make a good representative tomorrow morning, Jimmy. Just don’t scare the kid too much. I’m going to take a quick nap back at the office."
Ricky turned and walked toward the small side door.
"Hey," Jimmy called out, pausing with his tin cup halfway to his mouth. "You’re the one who told me to let ’em know we saw them spying on us from that third-floor window. Why’d you have me do that?"
Ricky stopped with his hand on the iron latch. He looked back over his shoulder, the dim lantern light catching the hard, unshakeable certainty in his gray eyes.
"It was necessary," Ricky said softly. "It’s a message that we are always watching. Sometimes, fear creates respect with the right people."
The heavy wooden door clicked shut, leaving the shed quiet except for the hiss of the lanterns. Jimmy stared at the door for a second, then looked over at Danny, who was quietly sipping his coffee.
"How come he’s a philosopher all of a sudden?" Jimmy muttered.
Danny just chuckled, shrugging his shoulders as he reached for the coffee pot.
The morning sun burned off the last of the river mist by ten o’clock, casting bright, hard light across the cobblestones near the Gansevoort docks.
Standing in the shadow of a brick cooperage across the street from the Syndicate’s storage shed, Peter, Mickey, and Billy watched the heavy oak doors. Outside the shed sat four young men. They didn’t wear the crisp, tailored black suits Peter had seen the night before. They wore heavy canvas work coats, thick trousers, and scuffed flat caps, looking like standard warehouse labor.
But they didn’t act like standard labor. They were quiet, their eyes constantly sweeping the avenue. One of them—a sturdy kid was already staring dead at Peter from across the street.
"Hey, Pete," Billy whispered, his voice tight with nerves. "Are you sure about this?"
Peter reached inside his coat, his fingers brushing against the folded piece of thick paper tucked into his inner pocket. The representation letter.
When Peter had returned to the saloon early that morning and pitched the "written agreement" to Barney, the lieutenant hadn’t even cared to read it. Barney was furious about the neighborhood gossip that four of his men had been beaten unconscious by a bunch of "kids playing merchant," and he was livid that Alvin’s crew had been out racketeering without kicking a cut up the chain. Barney had angrily scrawled his signature on the paper, demanding Peter bring back the twenty dollars or not come back at all.
Peter had looked at the brutal bruising on Alvin and Coley’s faces in the saloon earlier. He thought they should be glad the commission boys hadn’t gunned them down in the street.
"Now or never," Peter said, taking a slow, steadying breath.
He stepped off the curb, Mickey and Billy trailing nervously behind him. As they crossed the cobblestones and approached the heavy oak doors, the four warehouse men stood up. Mark stepped forward, casually resting a thick wooden bat against his shoulder, perfectly blocking the entrance.
"Hands away from your pockets," Mark said, his voice flat.
Peter kept his hands visible, raising them slightly. Joseph, Luke, and Sander stepped forward, thoroughly and professionally patting down the three Dusters, checking their waistbands, ankles, and coat linings for hidden steel or iron pipes.
Mickey swallowed hard, his eyes wide. How meticulous are they? he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. They’re more like a private army than a bunch of merchants.
Finding them clean, Mark gave a single, satisfied nod on Sanders. Sanders then turned and knocked twice, hard, on the oak door. The heavy iron deadbolt slid back with a loud, metallic clack. The door groaned inward.
"Go on," Mark said, stepping aside.
The three Dusters stepped over the threshold into the dim, cool air of the storage shed. The moment the heavy door slammed shut behind them, the pressure in the room hit Peter like a physical weight.
Seven men stood leaning against the brick walls of the shed, spaced exactly four feet apart. Every single one of them was dressed in a pristine black three-piece wool suit, black flat caps pulling shadows over their eyes. Their hands rested casually near their vests. It was a wall of silent, absolute intimidation.
Deeper in the shadows near the back of the shed, seven more men sat quietly on piles of pine crates and flour sacks, watching them without making a sound.
In the exact center of the room sat a single wooden table, illuminated by a hanging oil lamp.
Sitting at the table, leaning back in a wooden chair with his hands resting casually on the wood, was the young man from the wagon the night before. Jimmy offered a slow, sharp, gap-toothed grin as Peter approached.
The stares from the fourteen men bore into them from every angle. Mickey and Billy looked like they were ready to faint. But Peter forced his shoulders to relax, keeping his face entirely calm as he walked up to the table, determined not to let the intense pressure break him.