Chapter 65: Rats & Golds
The air inside the abandoned warehouse in the Hudson Docks was freezing and smelled heavily of rotting timber and stagnant river water. Ten men sat scattered across a pile of empty shipping crates in the near-pitch darkness, the glowing orange cherries of their paper cigarettes the only lights in the room.
"Isn’t this bad?" one of the younger men muttered, pulling his frayed coat tighter around his neck. "We’re working for a fucking copper. That’s what this is. Working for a businessman is one thing, but a copper?"
"Shut up and stop complaining," a thick-set man near the center hissed, flicking a pile of ash onto the floorboards. "We’re getting paid, ain’t we?"
"Yeah," the younger one shot back, his voice tight with nerves. "But if anyone on the street finds out other than us that we’re snitching to the cops... we’re fucking dead. The gangs’ll gut us."
"Quiet," the man in the center snapped, sitting up straight. "Here they are."
Across the dark warehouse, the heavy iron side door groaned open. A sliver of pale moonlight cut across the floor, framing three silhouettes. The man in the lead wore a crisp NYPD sergeant’s uniform, the brass buttons of his heavy wool coat gleaming faintly in the dark. He was flanked by two other patrolmen in plainclothes, their hands resting casually near their waistbands.
The ten informants stood up slowly, the loose floorboards creaking under their boots.
Sergeant William Kearney stopped a few feet away, his sharp eyes looking the men up and down. He gave a short, satisfied nod.
"Hello, gentlemen," Kearney said, his voice flat and authoritative. "I am Sergeant William Kearney of the New York Police Department. Mr. Samuel Hargrove tells me you boys have reliable eyes on the West Side."
The thick-set leader of the informants scoffed softly, crossing his arms. "Well, we have eyes, I can tell you that."
"Good," Kearney said. "I need you gents to look into a specific group for me. I need to know exactly where they stage their drayage, where their main office is, and exactly how many men they have."
"Who are we looking for?" the leader asked, his eyes narrowing.
"They go by the name of the ’commission boys’," Kearney said. "At least, that’s what the people call them."
A low murmur rippled through the ten men.
"Well, everyone below 14th Street knows who they are," the leader said, scratching his jaw. "Although nobody actually knows where they stage from, or where their boss sits. They’re ghosts until the sun comes up."
"And there is your mission," Kearney stated firmly. "Gather that information. Find their staging ground."
The younger man who had been complaining earlier let out a sharp, cynical laugh. "I don’t know if you know this, copper, but this mission you’re asking for is nut hard. We’re going to be risking our lives out there. It’s not the same as tailing one specific guy to a saloon. This is an entire group, and from the street talk, they’re expanding fast. We’re not getting paid nearly enough to do this kind of shit."
Several of the other men muttered in agreement, stepping closer together to form a solid, uncooperative wall.
Kearney didn’t flinch. He glanced over his shoulder at the older, veteran plainclothes officer standing behind him. "What do you think, Morris?"
Morris chewed on a toothpick, eyeing the informants with a bored expression. "At least we know these kids are complaining about the risk, Sergeant. Means they actually know what they’re up against and they’re good at their jobs."
"They’re the perfect ones to do it," the second officer added quietly. "Police officers stick out like sore thumbs on those blocks. These kids blend right into the alleys."
Kearney nodded slowly. He turned his attention back to the ten men. "Alright, gentlemen. I have decided we will employ your services. We will pay all of you appropriately when the mission is complete and the information is verified."
A chorus of dry, mocking chuckles broke out among the informants.
Kearney frowned, his posture stiffening. "What’s funny?"
"I don’t know how you run your precinct, officer," the leader said, stepping forward with a cocky grin, "but out here on the cobbles, we don’t work a single hour unless we’re paid first."
"And how will I know you won’t just run away with the money?" Kearney demanded, his voice hardening. "Or that you’ll even do the job properly?"
"Listen, copper," the leader said, his tone losing all its humor. "We don’t care what you think. It’s been our rule for everyone who hires us. We get paid first, or you can go knock on doors yourself."
Kearney let out a long, irritated sigh. He knew he didn’t have a choice. Hargrove and the Soho merchants had given him an advance budget specifically for this. "Alright. How much?"
"With the kind of danger you’re asking us to step into?" the leader calculated quickly. "You’ll have to provide thirty-five dollars for each of us. We’ll have to constantly follow and watch these guys all day and night. We don’t know how long it’ll take to crack their staging ground. So, thirty-five dollars each. In advance."
Kearney’s eyes twitched at the steep price, but he reached inside his heavy wool overcoat. He pulled out a thick, sealed envelope provided by the Soho merchants and tossed it onto an empty crate in front of the leader.
"I will return to this spot in two weeks for the information," Kearney said coldly. "See to it that it’s accurate. If you cheat me, you’ll find out what happens when the NYPD actually does its job."
Kearney turned on his heel and walked out the iron door, his two officers trailing silently behind him. The door clicked shut, leaving the informants alone in the dark.
The leader immediately ripped the envelope open, his eyes widening at the thick stack of bills inside.
"Why do you think the coppers need us to watch the commission boys?" the younger man asked, looking at the door.
"I don’t know," the leader murmured, counting the money. "Whatever it is, it’s not normal police work. The fact that a sergeant has to sneak into a dark warehouse to hire street rats means he’s got something to hide from his own captain."
One of the other men smirked, leaning against a post. "Should we just sell this information to Danny? I heard Danny and the Orphan boys are on the commission boys’ payroll now."
The leader paused, looking at the cash, a slow, cunning smile spreading across his face. "Let’s see how this goes first. I’m interested to see what these commission boys are really up to. If we get caught tailing them... we just tell ’em we were hired. And we sell them the information of exactly which copper paid us."
The men around him chuckled, shaking their heads. "You’re so fucking evil, man."
"If I was evil," the leader smirked, dividing the cash into ten equal stacks, "I would’ve asked that copper for a hundred dollars each. But I know they’d work us to the bone for that kind of silver. I just asked the right price."
By dusk, the chaotic, horse-manure-scented grit of the West Side had entirely vanished, replaced by the smooth asphalt and glowing electric streetlamps of Midtown Manhattan.
Ricky sat on the bench of the spring-wagon, holding the leather reins as Bartek’s hooves clopped steadily down 34th Street. He pulled the wagon to a gentle halt in front of a massive, towering structure of red brick, white limestone, and glowing, palatial windows.
It was the Waldorf-Astoria.
Ricky looked up at the towering, opulent facade, a profound, surreal sense of fascination washing over him. To the wealthy elite of 1910 walking the sidewalk in top hats and fur coats, this hotel was the absolute pinnacle of high society. But to Ricky, looking through the lens of a kid from 2026, it was a ghost. He knew that in less than twenty years, this magnificent, world-famous building would be completely demolished to the ground, its foundation ripped out to make way for the Empire State Building.
Beside him on the wagon bench, Marek wasn’t thinking about history. Marek was practically vibrating with nerves.
Even though Ricky had used the System Shop to dress them both in flawless, high-end, tailored silk-blend evening suits, Marek felt entirely exposed. The Polish boy kept adjusting his crisp white collar and smoothing his expensive lapels, his eyes darting anxiously at the wealthy couples stepping out of polished motorcars and gleaming black carriages around them.
"Ricky," Marek whispered, his voice tight. "We shouldn’t be here. Look at these people. They’re gonna know we don’t belong. I’ve never even seen a hotel with glass doors before."
Ricky smiled, his demeanor entirely relaxed and grounded. He patted Marek’s shoulder. "Calm down, man. You’re wearing a suit that costs more than what most of these guys make in a month. Just keep your head up and act like you own the pavement. Let’s go."
Ricky hopped down from the wagon, his polished leather shoes clicking against the pristine curb.
A uniformed hotel valet stepped forward immediately. The valet looked slightly confused by the sight of a plain black delivery-style spring-wagon pulling up to the grand entrance, but the flawless, incredibly expensive cut of Ricky’s suit overrode his hesitation. Money talked louder than carriages.
Ricky reached into his pocket and handed the valet a clean fifty-cent silver piece. "Keep the rig at the livery stable around the corner. We’ll send for it when we’re finished."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," the valet said, tipping his hat respectfully as he took Bartek’s reins.
Marek swallowed hard, stepping down onto the curb and grabbing the two small, polished wooden sample cases from the back of the wagon. The cases were filled with the System’s finest luxury contraband—Branded premium whiskeys, premium Havana cigars, and uncut bourbon wrapped in authentic-looking foil labels that Phill and James McClain had flawlessly forged that very afternoon.
Ricky led the way up the carpeted front steps and pushed through the heavy brass-and-glass revolving doors.
The moment they stepped over the threshold, the sheer, staggering opulence of the Waldorf-Astoria lobby hit them like a physical wave. The air inside was warm and smelled of expensive Cuban tobacco, roasted meats, and heavy, sweet floral perfumes. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from soaring, frescoed ceilings, casting brilliant, diamond-bright electric light across acres of polished marble floors.
Wealthy men in black tuxedos and crisp white bowties stood in small clusters near the mahogany front desk, smoking cigars and laughing quietly. Women in long, sweeping silk gowns dripping with pearls and diamonds glided across the Turkish rugs, their voices a soft, elegant murmur beneath the ambient strains of a live string quartet playing softly from a balcony above.
Marek stopped dead in his tracks just inside the doors, his breath catching in his throat. He clutched the sample cases so tight his knuckles turned white. To a boy who had spent his entire life shoveling coal and sleeping on cardboard, the lobby looked like the inside of a king’s palace.
Ricky, however, didn’t freeze. He had seen luxury hotels in movies and high-end downtown districts back in the modern world. He just adjusted his cuffs, his gray eyes scanning the room not with awe, but with the cold, calculating gaze of a predator mapping out a new hunting ground.
"Remember what I told you," Ricky murmured quietly, stepping smoothly into the flow of the lobby. "We don’t ask for permission. We just find the manager."