Chapter 76: Miami Connections
After Ricky finished his administrative duties on the main office, he decided to check on the warehouses. Minutes later, he arrived at the gaansevort street.
Ricky stepped through the side entrance, instantly noticing the difference in the room’s rhythm. The chaotic, back-breaking scramble of their early days was completely gone. In its place was a smooth, mechanical assembly line. Five of the new warehouse recruits from the Minetta block were moving in perfect synchronization, hauling crates from the neatly organized staging piles and passing them directly to the loaders at the back of the black spring-wagons.
At the third wagon, Jimmy Williams was securing a thick hemp rope over a tarp, his flat cap pushed back on his head. When he saw Ricky approaching, a wide, gap-toothed grin split his face.
"Boss!" Jimmy called out, tying off the knot with a sharp yank. "Glad to have you back on the ground. It was getting a bit too quiet around here without you."
"Good to be back, Jimmy," Ricky said, stepping up to the wagon bed. "Looks like you’re handling the new rig just fine."
"She pulls like a dream," Jimmy said, giving the black draft horse an affectionate pat on the flank.
Beside the wagon, Caleb and Eli Morgan were easily hoisting fifty-pound sacks of flour into the remaining gaps. Eli flashed Ricky a bright, energetic wave, but it was Caleb’s reaction that caught Ricky’s attention. The eldest Morgan brother set his heavy sack down, dusted his large hands on his trousers, and turned to Ricky.
The usual cold, defensive wall Caleb kept up was gone. To Ricky’s surprise, a faint, genuine smile actually touched the big man’s soot-stained face.
"I’ll admit it, boss," Caleb said, his deep, raspy voice carrying a quiet, solid respect. "I had my doubts about this outfit. But I’m glad you offered us the job. The pay is clean, the work is honest enough, and it beats the hell out of dying in the coal yards."
"I’m glad you’re here, Caleb," Ricky said, offering a firm nod. "We need reliable men."
Michael Williams, who was carrying a small crate of tin hardware to the second wagon, caught Ricky’s eye and offered a quick salute. "Good to see you, boss!"
Ricky returned the salute with a smile and walked deeper into the shed, heading toward the main staging table.
Danny stood near the lanterns, a wooden clipboard resting on his forearm as he tracked the inventory. He was dressed sharply in a clean vest, looking every bit the proper Warehouse Manager.
"Hey, boss," Danny said, looking up from his paper as Ricky stepped up to the table. "You seeing this? Thanks to Evelynn’s new recruitment drive, we’ve got the floor divided up perfectly. The loaders don’t have to search for the stock, and the drivers don’t have to lift. We’re packing a full wagon in less than ten minutes flat."
"I noticed," Ricky said, looking over the bustling floor. "It’s running like a factory."
Danny lowered his clipboard, his easygoing smile softening into something much more sincere. He looked over at the young boys from the Minetta tenements, who were laughing quietly as they stacked crates.
"It’s good for them, boss," Danny said quietly. "Those boys... they didn’t have a damn thing to do but freeze on the stoops or pick pockets for nickel scraps. You gave ’em real jobs. Fair wages. For the first time, there’s actual hope in the neighborhood. I’m grateful for that. They all are."
Ricky stepped closer, giving Danny’s shoulder a firm, reassuring pat. "We look after our own, Dan. And we’re going to keep helping them. As long as this syndicate stands, nobody on our payroll starves."
Danny nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, and quickly tapped his pencil against the clipboard to bring things back to business.
"Anyway," Ricky said, changing the subject as he leaned his hip against the table. "I’m going to need you to set aside a specific haul for me. I need a few of your best hands to help me deliver some heavy cargo to the Hudson pier on Thursday morning. It’s a private drop for Don Martinez."
Danny paused, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. "Don Martinez? Is that one of clients you’re dealing with, uptown?" Danny let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Well, look at that. Seeing now that you’re dealing with Don’s and Donya’s and you’ve only been gone a week, you’ve already reached high-society status. I figured you’d be sipping champagne in a silk robe by now."
"Technically, I am in that circle now," Ricky scoffed, crossing his arms. "But I’ll be staying right here with you guys. Honestly? Living like a rich man uptown is boring as hell. Aside from drinking, making small talk in velvet chairs, and staring down at the city from a high window, there’s absolutely nothing to do. I’d rather be down here where the action is."
Danny chuckled warmly, clearly relieved. "Well, I’m glad to have you back in the dirt with us, boss. So, what’s the order for this Don Martinez? How many crates are we staging?"
Ricky didn’t blink. "Three hundred crates of the Three Piece. And twenty crates of the Royal Spades."
Danny’s pencil slipped, clattering against the wooden clipboard. He stared at Ricky, his jaw dropping open.
"Three... three hundred?" Danny gasped, his voice cracking slightly. "Boss, that’s thousands of dollars in a single drop! That’s going to take a small fleet of wagons just to move it to the pier!"
"It’s just the initial order," Ricky said smoothly, a calm, calculated smile touching his lips. "If his buyers like the stock, I expect to receive a call from him in a week or two for triple that amount."
Danny rubbed his face with his free hand, completely overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the numbers. He looked at Ricky, his eyes wide. "Jesus Christ, boss... who is this Don Martinez anyway? If he can afford that much top-shelf luxury liquor without blinking, he can’t just be some hotel manager."
Ricky leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table as his smile sharpened into something cold and formidable.
"Don Martinez isn’t a hotel manager, Danny," Ricky said quietly, letting the weight of the connection settle into the room. "He’s the boss of an outfit that controls the entirety of Miami."
Danny froze. The color drained slightly from his face, his eyes going perfectly round as the reality of Ricky’s uptown trip finally hit him. They weren’t just supplying local grocers anymore. The Founder’s Syndicate had just linked directly with a massive, out-of-state cartel.
Ricky just smiled, picking up his master ledger. "Make sure those crates are ready by Wednesday night, Dan." He said turning to the door patting his back.