Chapter 24: Steel & Paper
Ricky led the group out through the narrow side door of the storage shed into the shadowed rear alley.
Tucked under the dark wooden overhang stood a second spring-wagon, its black-painted boards clean and freshly greased. Hitched to the front was a sturdy, thick-chested black draft horse that stomped one iron-shod hoof against the cobblestones, letting out a low, warm huff in the cool river air.
Ricky gestured toward the rig with his chin. "We bought another set. We had to. The orders are piling up faster than one wagon can carry."
He turned to look at Marek, then at the rest of the crew. "Marek will be leading the new wagon. He knows the merchants, he knows the routes, and he knows how to talk to the shopkeepers." Ricky paused, his eyes moving over the team. "John and Tom, you’ll be with Marek on the new dray. Frank and Arthur, you’re with me on the original rig."
Marek gave a single, firm nod of approval, stepping over to pat the black horse’s dark neck. John nodded quietly, while young Tom Murphy grinned, eager to be on the road.
"As usual," Ricky continued, his voice practical and conversational, "all of you will have the chance to step up and lead a route as we expand. We’re going to teach you everything we know about handling clients, pitching stock, and closing deals. And when you’re leading a route, your base pay bumps up to three dollars a day."
Frank let out a low whistle, and Tom’s eyes widened. "Three bucks?" Tom breathed. "Shit, that’s real coin."
"That’s down the line," Ricky said, keeping his tone grounded. "For now, that’s the basic mechanics. As the business grows, there’ll be other benefits. But right now, our biggest issue is security. We’re moving heavy payloads through streets controlled by gangs, which is why I asked John to find men who know how to handle themselves."
Frank crossed his thick arms over his chest, looking at Ricky. "Are we expecting a fight with the Dusters?"
"No," Ricky said. "Not if we can help it."
John frowned slightly, looking between Arthur and Ricky. "If we’re not fighting ’em, what are we hiring muscle for?"
"Our group is still small," Ricky explained smoothly. "We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, and we definitely don’t want to start a street war. Our rules of engagement are strictly defensive. We protect our wagons, our horses, and our crates against thieves and alley ambushes. That’s it."
Frank and Tom still looked a little uneasy, shifting their weight on the damp stones.
"Don’t worry," Ricky added, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Each wagon is going to carry a little extra deterrence, just in case someone gets wild ideas about numbers."
He walked over to a heavy wooden crate resting on the rear floorboards of the new wagon. Prying the loose lid open, Ricky reached inside and pulled out a long, dark steel weapon, holding it horizontally across his chest.
It was a Winchester Model 1897 twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun. The polished walnut stock gleamed dull in the alley shade, the heavy tubular magazine sitting clean beneath the steel barrel.
Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. Frank gasped, stepping closer to inspect the receiver.
"Holy hell," Frank muttered. "A pump gun."
Marek’s grin widened from the horse’s head; he’d already seen what Ricky could pull out of his invisible catalog, but seeing the steel in broad daylight still gave him a thrill.
"I don’t know if any of you have fired one of these," Ricky said, keeping his thumb resting near the safety. "Honestly, I’d prefer if we never have to pull the trigger."
Arthur stepped forward, reaching out a thick, calloused hand to lightly touch the cold steel receiver. He let out a dry, quiet chuckle. "Doesn’t look much different than my old man’s double-barrel goose gun. Just holds more lead."
Ricky turned to John. "What about you, John? You’re going to be the main security on Marek’s transport. Can you handle a long gun?"
John hesitated for a fraction of a second, staring at the Winchester before giving a small, sharp nod. "I’ve fired a pocket pistol back in Birmingham. Never held a pump shotgun, but I reckon I can manage the action if I have to."
"That’s more than enough," Ricky said, handing the heavy shotgun over to John, who took it with careful, respectful hands. "If push comes to shove, a single rack of the slide or one shot into the air should be enough to turn back any crowd looking for an easy snatch. But these stay wrapped in canvas under the bench at all times. Out of sight."
He looked at all five of them. "It’s uncommon for a delivery company to carry heavy gauge steel on the bench, but I don’t like surprises. It keeps us secure."
Frank grinned, flexing his broad shoulders. "Hell, I feel secure already."
The boys let out a chorus of quiet chuckles, the sudden presence of the Winchester cutting right through the morning tension.
Arthur stepped back, resting his hands on his hips. He looked at Ricky thoughtfully. "Is it alright if we bring a few more of our guys into the fold?"
Ricky shook his head gently. "We’d love to have more men eventually, Arthur, but not yet. Not until you guys know how to run the routes and manage the shopkeepers on your own. Right now, six of us is the right size for two wagons."
Marek stepped up beside Ricky, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. "Ricky... what about the apartment? You said yourself Commerce Street has been looking a bit exposed lately with all the orders coming in. Shouldn’t we have a couple of eyes watching Mrs. O’Connell’s block?"
Ricky considered it for a second. Marek was right. Their fourth-floor room was where they slept, and having random lookouts or Duster scouts tailing them back to their boarding house was a vulnerability he couldn’t afford.
"Yeah," Ricky muttered quietly back to Marek. "A few extra eyes wouldn’t hurt."
Ricky looked back at Arthur. "Alright. We don’t need more drivers yet, but I do need three or four reliable guys to keep watch around our main quarters on Commerce Street. Nothing crazy—they don’t need to fight or start trouble. They just sit on the stoops, keep their eyes open, and let us know if any unfamiliar faces start asking questions about where we live."
Arthur’s face broke into a broad, knowing smile. "I know the exact bastards for the job. A couple of lazy corner-boys from Christopher Street. They sit on their rear ends all day anyway; might as well get paid for it."
"Base pay for watchmen is a dollar a day," Ricky said. "Ten cents an hour for overtime past eight hours. Is that going to be enough for them?"
Arthur let out a loud, bark-like laugh. "Dollar a day just to sit on a stoop and smoke paper cigarettes? Ricky, they’ll think they died and went to heaven. That’s a gift compared to hauling coal."
"Shit," Frank chimed in, shaking his head. "If word gets out you’re paying a buck a day just for sitting around, you’re going to have a line from here to Washington Square."
Young Tom looked up from where he was checking the new horse’s harness. He hesitated for a second, rubbing his nose. "Uh... Ricky? Can I ask something?"
"Fire away, Tom," Ricky said.
"Are... are these goods legal?" Tom asked, his voice low and careful, trying not to sound rude. "I mean, if the coppers stop us on the avenue and demand to see an invoice... what happens?"
The alley went quiet for a moment. John and the younger Murphy brothers looked at Ricky, waiting for an answer.
Ricky paused, pulling his silver cigarette case from his vest pocket. He tapped a white paper cylinder against his thumbnail. "It’s complicated, Tom. They aren’t legal in the traditional sense, but they aren’t stolen either. Nobody’s missing a crate from a warehouse, and nobody’s reporting a robbery."
Arthur tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "So... they’re smuggled?"
Marek stepped in, taking the lead on the explanation. "Technically, yeah. The stock comes through a private line out of Jersey. There are no shipping manifests, no customs stamps, and no paper trail. That’s why our prices are so low. But it also means we avoid the precinct patrolmen whenever we can."
Arthur rubbed his jaw, his mind working through the logistics. "If the goods have no papers, wouldn’t it be safer if we delivered at night? Most of the coppers on the beat are drinking tea in the bakeries after dark, and the street sweeps aren’t out."
Ricky stopped, his match hovering an inch from his cigarette. He looked at Arthur, his modern analytical brain instantly processing the idea.
Night drops. It solved two problems at once—it avoided NYPD precinct inspections, and it kept their high volume off the sunlit streets where rival wholesale houses could track their wagons.
"Actually..." Ricky said, striking the match against the brick wall and lighting his cigarette. He blew a quiet stream of blue smoke into the air, looking at Marek. "That works really well for our visibility issue."
Ricky turned back to the crew, his voice rising slightly. "Starting next week, we’re going to limit our daytime bulk sales under the front of ’supplier delays.’ We’ll tell the shopkeepers our international steamer lines are backed up. But for the clients who are really desperate—the ones who need flour or steel nails right now—we offer exclusive night deliveries."
He looked at Arthur, offering a genuine nod of respect. "A night shift keeps us invisible. The merchants get their emergency stock, we charge a small premium if we want, and nobody sees where the dray comes from."
The Murphy brothers and John exchanged approving looks.
"Works for me," Frank said. "Less traffic on the stones anyway."
Ricky clapped his hands together with a clean, sharp sound. "Alright. That covers the setup. This storage shed is our staging area for both wagons. Get familiar with the layout, get the horses settled in Reinhardt’s barn, and be ready at five sharp tomorrow morning."
Ricky paused, looking around at his six-man crew before adding one last thought.
"And one more thing... if any of you know someone who knows how to forge shipping manifests or clerk papers... let me know. It’s time we start building our paper trail."