Chapter 42: Private Lounge
Later on, Arthur dragged the rest of the drunk boys, leaving Ricky to lock the shed. Ricky slid the heavy iron padlock through the double doors of the Gansevoort storage shed.
He had just turned the key when the sound of boots clicking against the wet stones echoed from the mouth of the alley. Ricky turned his head, his hand resting near his waist, as Marek, Tom Murphy, and Jimmy Williams walked into the lantern light. All three were wearing their clean black wool three-piece suits, looking sharp and unruffled after a full day on foot.
Marek pulled three small leather order notebooks from his vest pocket, handing them over to Ricky with a wide, satisfied grin.
"Hoping for good news," Ricky said, taking the notebooks and flipping through the pages under the yellow glow of the streetlamp.
"Fifty-four orders total for the day," Marek reported, taking off his black flat cap and dusting his sleeve. "Jimmy picked up twenty-one on his own. And... he even secured an order from old Mr. Henderson on Christopher Street."
Ricky stopped, looking up from the notebook in surprise. A short, quiet laugh escaped his lips. "Henderson? That grumpy old man?"
Jimmy stepped forward, smoothing the lapels of his black vest with an easy, cocky grin. "The very same, boss."
"How’d you pull that off, Jimmy?" Ricky asked, genuinely amused. "Marek couldn’t even stand in his doorway for a minute without getting cursed out."
Jimmy shrugged, tilting his head with a smirk. "I don’t know, boss. I think I was just persistent and annoying enough that he gave in just to shut me up. Told him he reminded me of my granddad."
Ricky chuckled, shaking his head. He pulled out his coin purse and counted out $2.30 in silver for Marek, Tom, and Jimmy—their full baseline pay plus overtime for the thirteen-hour shift.
"Good work, all three of you," Ricky said, handing over the silver coins. "Arthur, Frank and the others should be back home and should be sobering up by now. You three coming back to Aunt Molly’s for dinner?"
"Don’t mind if I do," Jimmy said eagerly, sliding his silver coins securely into his pocket. "Aunt Molly’s stew beats a five-cent saloon lunch any day."
As the four of them fell into step, walking down the quiet cobblestone lane toward Washington Street, Marek leaned in close to Ricky, his voice dropping into a low, cautious register.
"Ricky... there’s one more thing," Marek whispered. "Mrs. Gable over on Christopher Street told us some strange guys were asking around about us yesterday. Young fellows, doesn’t look like merchants either."
Jimmy nodded from Ricky’s other side. "Sounds like Hudson Duster lookouts to me. Their collectors usually hunt around when their extortion money runs low."
Ricky kept his pace steady, his boots striking the wet stones with a click as he considered the news. "It makes sense. We’ve taken over almost fifty percent of the commercial supply market in Greenwich Village over the last three weeks. Either the Dusters want a cut of our action... or our wholesale competitors got desperate enough to pay a street gang to do their dirty work."
"If the wholesalers hired the Dusters," Marek said, his brow furrowing with concern, "does that mean they’re going to try and disrupt our business?"
"It means they lost their market," Ricky said calmly. "And when businessmen lose their money, they get desperate. But look at the bright side—at least none of them have gone to the precinct coppers yet. Even if they did, the patrolmen on the beat would just assume it’s the Dusters running another distribution line."
"So uhhh.. do we give them hands if they step into the street?" Jimmy asked, his hand casually resting near his pocket where his weighted stick sat.
"We’ll stay cautious for now," Ricky said. "We keep our eyes open, stick to our squads, and keep the steel hidden unless we’re cornered. If a gang problem can be settled with a few silver dollars to keep our routes clear, we pay it for now. We don’t escalate things needlessly when we’re clearing sixty bucks a day."
Jimmy scoffed softly, offering a sharp, gap-toothed grin. "Hell, money always solves problems, boss."
Marek didn’t say anything, but his eyes stayed dark and doubtful as he looked down the quiet, gas-lit avenue. He had seen what gangs did when money wasn’t enough.
Twenty minutes later, the warm, noisy kitchen on the second floor of Aunt Molly’s building was packed to capacity.
All of them were squeezed around the long wooden table. The room smelled divinely of roasted ham, boiled cabbage, hot potatoes, and fresh rye bread.
Aunt Molly moved around the table with a wooden spoon in her hand, scolding the Murphy and Williams brothers every time they reached for another piece of bread before the platters were set down.
"Look at the size of you gluttons!" Aunt Molly grumbled, though her sharp gray eyes were bright with genuine happiness. "Eating like a pack of starved wolves! I swear to God I didn’t cook half enough food for ten grown men!"
"Aunt Molly, your ham is the best thing on Washington Street," Frank Murphy praised with his mouth half-full, dodging as she tapped his shoulder lightly with her wooden spoon.
"Watch your manners, Frank!" she barked, though a small, proud smile broke through her sharp face.
Ricky sat at the head of the table beside Marek, enjoying the warm, chaotic chatter. He set his fork down, tapping his glass with his knife to get the room’s attention.
"Listen up for a second, gents," Ricky announced, his voice practical and direct. "Starting this week, company policy is that we close all operations on Sundays. Everyone gets a fully paid day off."
The table went silent for a second before Frank and Sean Williams let out enthusiastic cheers, clapping Arthur hard on the back.
"A paid Sunday?" Tom Murphy breathed, his eyes wide. "Shit, Ricky, that’s amazing."
"It’d be nice," Ricky added with a small smile, "if we had a local tavern nearby where we could hang out, drink a quiet beer, and relax on our night off."
John Caldwell, Arthur, and Frank looked at each other, while Aunt Molly let out a loud, mocking snort from the stove.
"A tavern?" Aunt Molly scoffed, setting a heavy bowl of potatoes on the table. "Ricky, son, there’s a basement saloon right across the street! You can’t see it from the sidewalk because the stairs lead straight down into the cellar, but half the parish drinks there every Saturday night."
Ricky raised an eyebrow, looking at Arthur. "Really? Right across the street?"
Aunt Molly pointed her wooden spoon accusingly at Arthur and Frank. "Aye! And I’ve had to drag these two useless nephews of mine out of old Henry’s basement more times than I care to count! They used to leave enormous unpaid tabs down there!"
Arthur Murphy rubbed his neck, a sheepish, embarrassed grin cracking his broad face. "Aunt Molly, come on... you’re exaggerating. We paid him back."
"You paid him back because I forced you to!" she snapped, glaring at Arthur. "Old Henry was bothering me on my stoop for almost a year because you two drank his gin on credit!"
Jimmy and Sean Williams burst into loud, roaring laughter, while Arthur and Frank looked down at their plates with thoroughly embarrassed smiles.
Ricky smiled, leaning forward on his elbows. "Can we buy Henry’s business, Aunt Molly? So the company has a private spot to relax?"
"Old Henry won’t sell," Arthur said, shaking his head as he sat down at the end of the bench. "The old man doesn’t have a family left, and he likes the noise. Running that cellar is the only thing keeping him out of the grave."
"Then why don’t you rent my basement, Ricky?" Molly said, her sharp eyes lighting up with a sudden, shrewd idea. "The cellar beneath this very building is sitting completely empty. It just needs a good sweep, a coat of whitewash, and some furniture. You can turn it into your own private lounge."
Sean clapped his hands together eagerly. "That’s a brilliant idea, boss! We can drink, play cards, roll dice, and nobody’s going to throw us out!"
The rest of the crew chimed in with enthusiastic agreement.
Ricky looked at Aunt Molly, a clean, practical smile touching his lips. "How much for the basement rent, Aunt Molly?"
"Ten dollars a month," she said smoothly, holding her hand out. "Provided you save me the trouble of cleaning out the old cobwebs yourselves."
"Deal," Ricky said without a second’s hesitation. He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill, and handed it directly to her.
Aunt Molly beamed, the money disappearing into her apron pocket with practiced speed. "Pleasure doing business with a real gentleman, Ricky."
Once dinner was finished and the table cleared, the team split into their designated evening assignments.
Arthur, Frank, John Caldwell, Sean, Michael, and Patrick headed out to the Gansevoort storage shed to hitch the horses and launch the night-shift wagons, ready to deliver the day’s fifty-four client drops across Greenwich Village.
Meanwhile, Ricky, Marek, Jimmy Williams, and Tom Murphy grabbed four oil lanterns, two heavy straw brooms, and a pair of wooden buckets, heading down the dark, narrow wooden stairs into the basement beneath Aunt Molly’s building.
The basement was cool and damp, smelling of old earth, dry cedar, and aged bricks. The floor was solid, flat stone, and the high brick arches supported the floorboards above with incredible strength.
Ricky set his lantern on an empty wooden crate in the center of the large room, looking around the spacious, shadowed cellar.
"It’s solid," Ricky said, his voice echoing softly against the brickwork as he picked up a broom. "A little whitewash on the walls, a couple of card tables and a crate of Irish whiskey in the corner... and we’ve got ourselves our own private lounge."
Jimmy Williams spat on his palms, taking his broom with a broad, eager grin. "Let’s get to work, boys. I want this place ready for Sunday."
Working together in the flickering amber light of the oil lamps, the four young men began sweeping away forty years of dust, building the hidden heart of the Founder’s Syndicate.