Chapter 43: Moving Up
3 Days have passed. The former dusty fourth floor had been completely transformed. The plaster walls were fresh with white lime paint, smelling cleanly of turpentine, linseed oil, and pine soap. Two sturdy doors stood on either side of the wide corridor: one marked Accounting, the other Human Resources. Inside, wooden desks and drawer cabinets—purchased cleanly through the Ledger Shop—were arranged in neat rows.
In the HR office, Charles Miller and Clara Higgins were busy filling out thick paper personnel files for all ten members of the Founder’s Syndicate, cross-referencing background references and neighborhood histories. Across the hall in Accounting, Walter Ross and Maeve Sullivan were dipping steel pens into inkwells, writing ledger entries under the quiet scratching sound of nibs on heavy paper.
Ricky sat at his executive desk at the far end of the hallway, a clean ledger open before him.
A gentle knock sounded on the wooden frame, and Evelyn Vance stepped up to his desk. She wore a dark blue wool skirt and a crisp white blouse, her dark hair pinned back neatly. She carried a leather-bound treasurer’s notebook and a small canvas bag jingling with silver and gold certificates.
"Morning, Mr. Stevenson" Evelyn said, her voice cool, calm, and professional. She set the canvas bag and her open notebook on his desk. "Here is the remittance from last night’s routes."
Ricky looked down at her neat, elegant handwriting. "How much did we pull in last night, Evelyn?"
"Total cash received across both night wagons was $186.00," Evelyn reported, leaning her hands lightly on the edge of the desk.
Ricky looked at the figure, leaning back in his swivel chair with a quiet, contemplative hum. 186 dollars in a single night.
Evelyn watched his face, her green eyes showing a faint flicker of confusion. "You don’t seem very satisfied, Mr. Stevenson. When Aunt Molly brought us in for interviews, the rumor on the block was that your drayage firm clears about sixty dollars a day. But according to the actual route sheets, you’re making three times that."
Ricky offered a small, knowing grin. "It’s always better to lowball the numbers when you’re talking to the public, Evelyn. Rumors and gossip spread fast in Greenwich Village. If the neighborhood thinks we make sixty a day, they think we’re doing well. If they knew we were pulling in $180 to $200 a day, every syndicate from Brooklyn to Soho would be standing on our stoop with guns."
Evelyn’s brow raised slightly, but she didn’t argue with the logic. "Most of the spike is coming from the wholesale spirit drops to the saloons," she noted, pointing her pencil at a column. "Brian’s saloon alone paid forty dollars for bulk gin and wine."
She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "If I’m going to document our daily net profit accurately for Walter in Accounting, I’m going to need your wholesale supplier prices. What do we pay our Jersey distributor per crate?"
Ricky paused, his mind running a quick, silent diagnostic.
Truthfully, he had been lazy about recording supply costs because the profit margins were absurd. Through the System Shop’s permanent anti-inflation factory pricing, a crate of high-grade European whiskey cost him roughly eighty cents ($0.80), which the Syndicate then sold to saloons for eight dollars ($8.00)—an 800% to 900% profit margin.
If Evelyn or the accounting clerks saw the actual procurement costs from his "invisible bank," the impossible math would immediately blow their cover.
I need a believable front, Ricky thought.
"I’ll give you a master price sheet later today," Ricky said smoothly, keeping his posture relaxed and conversational. "Our Jersey distributor gives us heavy volume discounts, but for your internal ledgers, calculate a standard thirty-five to fifty percent wholesale markup. That will keep the net profit figures clean and believable."
Evelyn nodded, writing a quick note on her pad. "Understood."
Before turning back toward her desk, she paused, looking at Ricky. "Oh... before I forget, Marek mentioned something when he brought his morning notes in. He said a middleman—a broker —approached him again at Brian’s saloon."
Ricky’s eyes sharpened slightly. "The guy offering uptown introductions?"
"Yes," Evelyn said. "He offered to introduce our firm to the managers of 3-star and 5-star hotels and luxury dining halls uptown. For a fee of two hundred dollars per establishment."
"Two hundred," Ricky repeated softly, leaning his chin on his fist as Evelyn gave a professional nod and walked back into the Accounting office.
Ricky looked out the window at the morning sky over Washington Street.
The offer was tempting. Supplying high-end uptown hotels and Broadway restaurants with pristine, System-generated luxury goods—aged French brandy, fine cigars, Chinese raw silk, and imported wine—would make their daily profits skyrocket into the thousands. The System Shop’s quality was flawless; it would easily pass as top-shelf luxury stock.
But the risk is too high, Ricky analyzed coldly.
Uptown Manhattan and Broadway weren’t quiet neighborhood streets like Bleecker. They were controlled by old, deeply entrenched, and incredibly dangerous syndicates—the Morello family in Harlem, the Five Points downtown, and the White Hand on the Brooklyn docks. Pushing unmanifested luxury contraband into uptown hotels without a massive army or established political protection was asking for a gang war before the Founder’s Syndicate was even ready to walk.
Ricky shook his head, a decisive smile touching his lips. Slow and steady. He wasn’t going to rush. They would dominate Greenwich Village first, build an unshakeable reputation among the local merchants, recruit more reliable men, buy more wagons, and expand their shadow network step by step.
Ricky stood up from his desk, smoothing the lapels of his dark wool vest. He walked into the Accounting room, where Evelyn was organizing cash stacks into neat piles.
"Evelyn," Ricky said, leaning against her doorframe. "If you need me for anything over the next hour, I’ll be down in the basement lounge taking a break."
Evelyn looked up from her ledger, giving him a clean, professional nod. "I’ll let you know if any route leaders come in, Mr. Stevenson."
Ricky walked down the dark wooden stairs, past the second floor, and descended into the cool, stone-walled cellar beneath Aunt Molly’s building.
The basement had been completely transformed. The damp stone floor was swept clean and dried, and the high brick arches were lit by three hanging brass oil lamps that cast a warm, golden glow across the space.
Against the far wall stood a long, dark wood bar counter with several small cupboards hanging above it, salvaged from Aunt Molly’s top-floor junk rooms. On the counter sat a heavy wooden keg of cold beer fitted with a brass faucet, alongside several glass bottles of Irish whiskey, gin, and wine that Ricky had brought over from the storage shed. Three sets of round wooden card tables and sturdy stools were arranged across the floor.
Since Marek, Tom, and Jimmy were out on foot taking daytime orders across the Village, the basement lounge was occupied by the night-shift crew—Arthur, Frank, John Caldwell, Sean, Michael, and Patrick. Having finished their grueling late-night delivery runs at two in the morning, the night shifters were enjoying their off-hours before their next shift at eight in the evening.
Arthur Murphy stood near the bar counter in his suspenders, holding a newly opened bottle of champagne, pouring a pale, bubbling stream into a glass. Frank, John, Sean, Michael, and Patrick were sitting around the center wooden table, playing a relaxed game of cards and sipping cold beer.
When Arthur saw Ricky step off the stairs, his broad face flushed with a wide, welcoming grin. "Boss! Come sit down!"
Arthur walked over and handed the glass of champagne to Ricky as he stepped up to the table. "Try this. Sean brought a bottle up from the cellar stock."
Ricky took the glass, taking a slow, appreciative sip. The champagne was crisp, cold, and dry—another pristine item from the System catalog. He looked around the lounge, evaluating the space.
"It looks great, boys," Ricky said, sitting on a stool at the end of the table. "We still need to put a fresh coat of dark paint on the brickwork, get better wall sconces, and maybe put a couple of soft wool sofas near the corner."
Frank Murphy, who was sitting across from John looking slightly buzzed despite it being mid-morning, held up his tin mug with a wide, incredulous laugh.
"Soft sofas?" Frank chuckled. "Shit, Ricky, you’re building a palace! Is all the drink down here really free for us?"
Ricky laughed, shaking his head gently. "Yeah, Frank. The lounge is free for all members and workers of the Syndicate. But let me make one thing clear—if I catch anyone drunk while they’re on an active delivery shift, I’m reporting you to Aunt Molly and the squad leaders for disciplinary action."
Sean and Patrick Williams burst into loud, roaring laughter, while Frank held his hands up in mock surrender. "Don’t worry, boss! A bowl of Aunt Molly’s cabbage soup and a hot coffee is all I need to stay straight on the bench before eight o’clock!"
Sean Williams leaned over his cards, looking at Ricky thoughtfully. "Hey, Ricky... speaking of workers... can we bring a few more guys down here? We know a couple of reliable lads from the neighborhood who’ve been asking if we’re hiring."
Ricky set his champagne glass down, his posture turning grounded and attentive. "Only if they’re men you trust, Sean. Guys who can keep their mouths shut, work hard, and defend themselves if things get ugly."
"They fit the bill, boss," Sean insisted eagerly. "The Morgans and the Orphan brothers. They’ve been hauling coal sacks down at the river docks for twelve hours a day for a dollar, and they’re desperate for clean work."
Arthur Murphy nodded slowly from the bar. "I know a little about the Morgans, but they’re hardworking men. They don’t cause trouble, but they fucking break someone’s neck if someone’s gonna try them.
Frank sneered playfully at Arthur. "Of course you don’t know ’em well, Art! You were always too busy rolling dice in the alley while the Morgans were actually lifting coal!"
"Shut up, Frank!" Arthur laughed, tossing a cork at his brother’s head.
Ricky looked at Sean. "What about the Orphan brothers?"
"That’s Danny and his crew," Arthur clarified, turning back to Ricky. "The lookouts we hired a couple of weeks ago to watch Mrs. O’Connell’s stoop on Commerce Street."
Ricky’s memory clicked instantly. "Danny’s crew. They did good work spotting those Duster scouts."
Ricky tapped his fingers against the wooden table, laying out the new hires in his head. "Alright. Bring ’em in. The Orphan brothers stay on as our permanent neighborhood lookouts and informants—a dollar a day base pay, plus cash bonuses whenever they bring us useful intelligence about rival gangs or police movements. As for the Morgan brothers... they join the roster as commission drivers on the wagons."
Sean and Michael Williams beamed, clapping their hands together. "Awesome! Thanks, Boss!"
Arthur leaned against the bar counter, resting his chin in his hand as he looked at Ricky. "If we’re taking in new blood, I’d also like to bring in the McClain brothers too."
Frank Murphy looked up from his cards, his eyes brightening. "The McClain boys? Damn, I forgot about them!"
Ricky looked between Arthur and Frank. "Who are the McClain brothers? What’s their trade?"
"They’re clerks or was." Arthur explained, a sharp, knowing grin breaking across his broad face. "Their old man was a print-shop engraver before he passed. Phill and James McClain can copy any document, signature, or official seal you put in front of them."
Ricky’s gray eyes widened slightly. Forgers.
"They can forge official papers?" Ricky asked, his voice dropping into a quiet, intense register.
"Cleanest work on the West Side, last I hear." Frank boasted. "Give ’em an hour with a bottle of ink and some heavy linen paper, and they’ll give you a shipping manifest or a customs stamp that would fool a precinct captain."
A sharp, satisfied grin spread across Ricky’s face.
Forged shipping manifests were the exact missing link his shadow logistics network needed. If the NYPD or Tammany Hall inspectors ever stopped a Syndicate wagon on the avenue, having authentic-looking freight papers and customs stamps on the bench would make their System-generated inventory look 100% legal.
"Bring the McClain brothers in immediately," Ricky declared, offering Arthur a firm, respectful nod. "They report directly to my office tomorrow morning."
The night-shift crew cheered, raising their glasses in the warm, golden light of the basement lounge.