Chapter 49: Fresh Deck of Cards
With the weapons distributed and the black three-piece wool suits safely gathered by the men, Ricky leaned back against the center wooden post, letting his gray eyes sweep across the basement lounge.
"Now for the last agenda on my list," Ricky announced, his voice calm, clear, and grounded. "The new roster assignments to match our expanded team."
The room quieted down immediately, every man leaning in to listen.
"Last shift, Marek, Tom, and Jimmy handled the daytime order route," Ricky began. "Since Marek, Tom and Jimmy are now designated Squad Leaders, Tom and Jimmy will be transferring to the night delivery routes along with their crews starting tonight. Jimmy will take our newly purchased third wagon and draft horse—they’re already bedded down in Reinhardt’s Barrow Street barn beside the others."
Jimmy Williams grinned broadly, slapping his knee in triumph.
"Jimmy’s Squad," Ricky continued, "consists of Caleb Morgan and Eli Morgan as his field agents."
Caleb Morgan gave a single, solid nod, his thick arms crossed over his chest, while Eli grinned broadly at Jimmy, eager to get to work.
"Tom’s Squad," Ricky turned toward sixteen-year-old Tom, "will lead the second night wagon, with Arthur and Patrick as his field agents."
Arthur clapped his little brother hard on the back, laughing as Tom flushed with pride.
"John," Ricky said, looking toward the Englishman, "you’ll lead the third night wagon, with Frank and Danny."
John Caldwell took a slow drag from his paper cigarette, offering a sharp, satisfied nod. "Got it."
"Phill and James McClain," Ricky added, looking over at the two forgers sitting near the corner table, "you report directly to the fourth floor as Specialists attached to the office staff under Evelyn. You’ll have your own desks and print equipment."
Phill McClain let out a long, quiet breath of relief, nodding in agreement.
"And finally," Ricky concluded, turning to Marek, "Marek takes the daytime order route. His squad will consist of Sean and Michael."
A quiet hum of competitive energy rippled through the Williams brothers. Sean and Michael exchanged a fast, grinning look. Both knew that with Tom Murphy and Jimmy Williams already holding Squad Leader spots, the next route leader promotion would come down to performance on Marek’s daytime order squad.
Arthur and Frank Murphy didn’t mind being passed over for route leadership. They knew their own strengths—they were tough, reliable drayage drivers and enforcers who didn’t prefer administrative paperwork and sales pitches. Managing route sheets and handling client disputes would only stress them out. They respected Ricky for recognizing their preferences and keeping them in senior field positions where they excelled.
Ricky had chosen Marek for the daytime order shift for a specific reason. Marek was easygoing, charming, and possessed natural social intelligence. He was the ideal mentor to train Sean and Michael into top-tier commission agents, capable of handling any shopkeeper on the West Side.
"That’s the roster," Ricky said, looking around. "Any questions?"
Eli raised his hand like a schoolboy, looking down at the crisp black three-piece wool suit draped over his knees. "Umm... Can we get extra pairs of these uniforms? I really like ’em, and they look sharp as hell."
Ricky chuckled, waving a hand. "Each man can get up to three tailored pairs through the HR office upstairs. The cost is heavily discounted against your pay. In fact, anything regarding uniform replacements, workplace complaints, squad transfer requests, shift swaps, or wage questions goes directly through Clara and Charles in HR."
Ricky paused, remembering an administrative detail. "And before I forget—if you have official identification papers, union cards, or immigration certificates, turn them in to HR tomorrow morning so we can keep your personnel files clean."
Phill McClain raised his hand from the corner table. "Ricky... Arthur took me through the storage shed earlier, but I noticed something. Are you planning on putting brands on our goods? Especially the liquor?"
Ricky raised an eyebrow. "Branding?"
"Yeah," Phill explained, leaning his elbows on the wooden table. "Right now, the crates and whiskey bottles we’re dropping at the saloons have completely no labels. That’s fine for neighborhood joints like Brian’s saloon, but if we’re planning on supplying high-end hotels or restaurants uptown down the line, generic blank bottles look like cheap moonshine. Having authentic-looking brand labels and tax stamps makes our stock look imported, high-class, and far less suspicious if a precinct inspector glances at a shelf."
Ricky considered the point. Up until now, goods materialized from the Ledger Shop arrived completely with no label which had worked to their advantage by preventing police from tracking specific legal manufacturers. But as their reputation grew, having pristine, high-class brand labels would allow them to command premium prices while blending seamlessly into legitimate luxury markets.
"You make a good point, Phill," Ricky admitted, nodding thoughtfully. "People don’t just buy liquor for the taste; they buy the label because it makes them feel superior. I’ll talk to our international supplier about custom factory labeling. But if you and James can help us design and print authentic brand stickers and tax seals in your print office, let me know."
Phill offered a quiet, professional smirk. "Give us two days and some good paper, and we’ll give you labels that look imported straight from Dublin."
"Good," Ricky said. "Anything else?"
Jimmy Williams leaned forward on his stool, his sharp eyes bright. "Where are we expanding next, boss? Are we pushing north into Hell’s Kitchen or east toward the Bowery?"
Ricky’s expression turned focused and calculating. "Once we fully secure Greenwich Village without a single hiccup in our supply chain, we expand east. Straight into the Lower East Side."
Frank Murphy raised his eyebrows. "The Lower East Side? That’s Eastman Gang turf."
"We move under their noses," Ricky stated firmly. "Not as a rival gang picking street fights, but as quiet, impeccably dressed commercial merchants supplying their local shopkeepers with cheap flour, sugar, and linen. By the time the Eastmans realize who’s running the drayage, every grocer on the East Side will depend on our stock—and you’ll all have authentic-looking freight manifests in your coat pockets courtesy of the McClain brothers."
A wave of quiet, confident grins spread across the basement lounge.
Ricky stepped toward the stairs, looking back over his shoulder at the seventeen men sitting in black three-piece suits.
"Get some rest, gents," Ricky said softly. "Tonight, the night shift takes the city."