Chapter 47: Roles & Promotions
The chatter and clinking of glasses in the basement lounge gradually softened as Ricky descended the wooden stairs.
Seventeen pairs of eyes turned toward him. The room was packed—the original crew, the Williams brothers, Danny’s Orphan lookouts, and the new faces brought in by the Murphy brothers. Caleb and Eli Morgan stood out immediately near the bar, both tall and heavily built, though Caleb maintained a cold, watchful posture while Eli laughed with Sean Williams. Near the corner table sat Phill and James McClain, their dark-rimmed eyes tracking Ricky with cautious curiosity.
Ricky didn’t falter under the sudden wall of stares. Growing up on the streets of Georgia and managing high-stakes hustles with Marcus, Dre, and Terrell had taught him how to hold a room. Confidence wasn’t about shouting; it was about presence.
Ricky stepped off the bottom stair, stopping beside the main wooden post in the center of the lounge.
"Gentlemen," Ricky began, his voice calm, clear, and grounded, easily cutting through the quiet cellar. "Most of you know me, but for the new faces, my name is Richard Stevenson. Most folks call me Ricky. I’m originally from a small town down in Georgia, and I came to New York for personal reasons I keep to myself."
With a quick flick of his fingers over his shoulder, Ricky signaled toward the stairs behind him.
A moment later, Evelyn stepped down into the warm lantern light. She wore her crisp dark wool skirt and white blouse, holding a thick stack of paper folders in her arms. She walked calmly across the stone floor, distributing one folder to every man at the tables. The tough dock hands, forgers, and street lookouts stared at the clean, printed paper folders with a mix of confusion, curiosity, and sudden respect.
Once every folder was handed out, Evelyn stepped back, standing quietly behind Ricky’s right shoulder with her ledger resting against her waist.
Ricky gestured toward the papers. "Before I explain what’s inside those folders, let me officially welcome you to the Founder’s Syndicate."
He looked around the room, taking in every face. "We are a commercial outfit. Our sole focus is supplying local shopkeepers and merchants with cheap, high-quality goods—flour, sugar, steel, clothing, and spirits. We don’t shake down vegetable carts for protection money, we don’t rob coal cars off the tracks, and we don’t sell narcotics."
A murmur passed through the room. Caleb Morgan’s thick, dark eyebrows raised slightly, his broad arms staying crossed over his chest as he listened intently.
"The only reason our trade is considered illegal," Ricky continued smoothly, laying out the front, "is because our supply line bypasses Tammany Hall bureaucracy, government trade inspections, customs bribes, and inflated import tariffs. Our main distribution network—which operates through private, exclusive international shipping channels—buys goods at original factory costs from around the globe and ships them directly to credited regional managers like me to sell for cheap."
Ricky paused, letting his voice drop into a firmer, heavier register. "Our organization exists to fight the corrupt economic monopolies and artificial price hikes that squeeze working families dry. And if we’re going to be a shadow commercial organization... we’re going to be a proper one."
Mixed reactions rippled through the lounge. Frank Murphy grinned behind the bar, while Sean and Jimmy Williams nodded eagerly, fired up by the speech. Phill and James McClain looked visibly relieved, realizing they hadn’t just joined a crude street gang.
Beside the bar, Marek Kowalski leaned his shoulder against a wooden post, hiding a small, amused smirk behind his beer mug. An exclusive international shipping channel, Marek thought, chuckling silently to himself. He knew the goods came straight out of Ricky’s invisible "magic shop," but he admired how seamlessly Ricky spun a believable corporate story for street-hardened men.
Caleb Morgan didn’t say a word, but the tight tension in his jaw relaxed. A subtle flicker of genuine respect showed in his dark eyes. Smuggling or not, a boss who stood for honest trade rather than street extortion was a man Caleb could respect.
"In front of you," Ricky explained, "is a formal employment contract. It includes a strict Non-Disclosure Agreement. Signing it means you agree to join the Founder’s Syndicate, bind your loyalty to this company, and never utter a word about our internal logistics to the public, the coppers, or rival gangs."
He pointed to the terms on the first page. "Every role comes with a clean base wage, eight-hour shifts, and thirty cents an hour for overtime. Base pay increases as you take on more responsibility and earn promotions."
Ricky leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the back of a wooden chair. "The core backbone of our field operations is the Commission Agent. An agent visits storefronts, checks dry-goods inventory, asks what items sold quickly, suggests replacement orders, introduces new stock lines, records quantities, reports competitor pricing, and brings the order sheets back to his Squad Leader."
He looked at the former coal haulers and lookouts. "It’s fine if you can’t read or write yet—we don’t discriminate, and we’ll teach you. But literacy is required if you want to advance to higher managerial roles. An average field agent makes fourteen to twenty-five dollars a week, including overtime."
Ricky paused, a sharp, confident smile breaking across his face as he delivered the real hook. "And starting today... I am implementing a direct two-percent commission bonus for every agent."
The room went dead silent.
"A commission bonus?" Jimmy Williams blurted out, leaning forward off his stool. "What’s that mean, boss?"
"It means," Ricky explained clearly, "that if you’re on a route that clears $200 in total sales for the day, every agent on that squad gets an extra $4.00 cash bonus on top of their $3.20 daily wage and overtime."
Silence held for one second—and then the basement erupted.
Jimmy, Sean, Michael, and Patrick Williams stood up from their stools, letting out loud, victorious roars, slapping their hands against the wooden table. Four extra dollars a day in commission bonuses meant a field agent could walk away with over thirty dollars a week in clean silver—more money than a precinct police captain made in a month!
"Holy hell!" Frank Murphy yelled from behind the bar, laughing out loud as he slammed his fist on the counter.
Even Caleb Morgan blinked in utter shock, looking down at the numbers on the paper in his hand. $3.20 base pay plus a $4.00 commission... his little brother Eli would be earning a fortune for simply walking and taking notes.
Ricky raised his hand, calming the enthusiastic noise in the room. The boys settled down instantly, their eyes glued to him, hanging on his every word.
"Now," Ricky continued, "when an agent proves his value and masters the route, he gets promoted to Senior Commission Agent. The base pay jumps to $2.40 a day, and his primary responsibility shifts to guiding junior agents and managing territory security."
He flipped a page on Evelyn’s clipboard. "Above Senior Agent is the Squad Leader—or Route Leader. A Squad Leader manages two or more agents on an active route. His job is part administrative and part sales. He organizes the route, resolves customer disputes, negotiates bulk discounts within his authority, reports market conditions, and decides which storefronts get priority. He is the bridge between field operations and executive management."
Ricky looked up. "Route Leaders earn a $3.00 base pay, overtime, the two-percent commission split, plus a weekly performance bonus based on monthly targets."
The air in the room vibrated with competitive energy.
"Right now," Ricky announced, "the primary candidate for top Squad Leader is Marek Kowalski."
The lounge broke into immediate, loud applause. Frank whistled, and Arthur clapped hard on Marek’s back. Everyone in the room knew Marek was the undisputed master of client relations—he’d built Bleecker Street from scratch alongside Ricky.
Marek flushed red, offering a sheepish, embarrassed smile as he looked down at his shoes, unaccustomed to men cheering for him.
Ricky smiled, clapping along before continuing. "Our second candidate for Squad Leader... is Tom Murphy."
Arthur and Frank gasped, instantly grabbing their sixteen-year-old brother in tight headlocks, rubbing their knuckles over his head as Tom grinned broadly, completely shocked by his promotion.
"And our third candidate for Squad Leader," Ricky added, raising his voice over the laughter, "is Jimmy Williams."
Jimmy stood up from his stool, taking a bow with supreme swagger as his three brothers cheered wildly. Everyone had seen Jimmy conquer old Mr. Henderson on Christopher Street—his aggressive, fearless sales style made him a natural leader for expanding into new streets.
"Now," Ricky clarified, "Sean, Patrick, and Michael Williams are also prime candidates for Squad Leadership down the line. But right now, we only have three active route slots open. As we buy more wagons and expand into new neighborhoods next week, new Squad Leader positions will open up."
Ricky looked over at Arthur, Frank, John Caldwell, Michael, Sean, and Patrick. "For now, Arthur, Frank, John, Michael, Sean, and Patrick will serve as our senior commission field staff."
He glanced toward the corner where Danny sat with the Orphan lookouts. "Danny, I know you were away for two weeks during our relocation, so I apologize that you aren’t on the senior agent roster yet."
Danny offered a relaxed, easygoing smile, waving his hand dismissively. "No worries at all, boss. I’m just glad to be back on the payroll."
"Don’t worry," Ricky said, offering Danny a respectful nod. "Next week, as we put new wagons on the road, we’ll be promoting several of the Orphan lookouts into full commission agents, which means another Squad Leader slot will open up."
Sean and Patrick Williams exchanged a fierce, competitive grin, both determined to capture that next leadership slot before the week was out.
Ricky looked over the men assembled in the warm, golden light of the basement lounge—his enforcers, his agents, his clerks, his lookouts, and his forgers.
"Sign your contracts, gents," Ricky said softly, a sharp, unshakeable smile breaking across his face. "Tomorrow... we take over the rest of Manhattan."