Chapter 28: A Proper Thug
The heavy oak front door of the Washington Street building burst open with a loud, wooden slam.
Arthur, Frank, and Tom came tumbling backward out onto the stone stoop, their hands raised in front of their faces as if shielding themselves from a hail of gunfire. Right behind them, shouting at the top of her lungs, was a thin, bird-like woman in her mid-fifties.
She had short, graying hair pinned back haphazardly, a faded flour-sack apron tied around her waist, and a long, lethal-looking bone-handled kitchen knife clutching in her right hand.
"Out! Get out, you lazy, good-for-nothing street rats!" she shrieked. Her voice was sharp enough to slice through the heavy roar of the Washington Street drayage traffic. She pointed the knife directly at Ricky, Marek, and John, who were sitting up on the bench of the spring-wagons. "And take your thug friends with you! I won’t have more of your corner-boys turning my hallway into a tavern!"
"Aunt Molly, please!" Arthur yelled, backing down the shallow steps with his hands held wide. "Just hold on a second! Let me explain!"
"Explain?" she spat, her face turning a bright, blotchy red. "Explain what? That you brought three more hooligans to drink my gin and gamble on the stairs?"
"They aren’t hooligans, Aunt Molly!" Frank pleaded, dodging as she reached into a wooden crate by the doorway, pulled out an empty glass beer bottle, and hurled it at his chest.
The bottle shattered against the cobblestones with a sharp, explosive pop.
"He’s a merchant!" Frank shouted, pointing a frantic thumb toward Ricky. "Ricky’s a proper commission merchant!"
Aunt Molly stopped on the top step, her sharp gray eyes darting toward Ricky. She took in his neat wool vest, his flat cap, and the calm, grounded posture with which he sat on the wagon bench. Then, she let out a loud, mocking snort and reached for a second bottle.
"A merchant?" she scoffed, hurling the bottle straight at Arthur’s feet, forcing the eldest Murphy brother to hop sideways. "He looks like a pocket-picker who stole a decent coat! You can’t fool me, Arthur Murphy! Every week it’s the same story! You bring a pack of thugs into my house, you bring the coppers to my stoop, and then you run off without paying a single copper for the mess you leave!"
Ricky stepped down from the wagon bench, his boots clicking smoothly against the wet stone. He kept his hands out of his pockets, holding them visible at his sides as he stepped toward the stoop.
"Ma’am," Ricky said, his voice quiet, steady, and entirely conversational. "I really am a merchant. We run a delivery—"
"Shut your trap, boy!" Aunt Molly snapped, pointing the kitchen knife right at his chest. "I don’t care if you’re the Mayor of New York! I’m done with the whole lot of you!"
Ricky froze, taking a slow breath. Beside him, Arthur caught Ricky’s eye, giving him a quick, desperate shake of his head—a clear signal that arguing with his aunt when she had a knife in her hand was a losing proposition.
Marek leaned out from the side of the wagon, his voice a low whisper. "Ricky... what do we do? She’s crazy."
Young Tom Murphy wiped a smear of sweat from his forehead, looking thoroughly embarrassed. "Maybe... maybe we should find another building, Ricky. She’s been like this since Tuesday."
Ricky didn’t move. He looked at the fierce, exhausted old woman standing on the stoop, taking in the frayed cuffs of her dress, the thinness of her wrists, and the deep, dark circles under her eyes. She wasn’t crazy; she was just a tired, broke landlord drowning in debt and terrified of losing her building.
Ricky reached into his inner vest pocket. He pulled out his silver bill-fold, extracted a crisp, orange-backed United States Gold Certificate, and held it up between his two fingers.
Twenty dollars.
The bright orange back of the bill caught the pale afternoon sun.
Aunt Molly’s tirade died instantly in her throat. Her jaw snapped shut mid-curse. Her eyes locked onto the bill, widening until they looked like silver coins. The hand holding the kitchen knife slowly lowered to her side.
Silence settled over the stoop, save for the distant clop-clop of dray horses on the avenue.
"We’d like to rent the top floor, ma’am," Ricky said softly, his voice practical and respectful. "Twenty dollars. Six weeks of rent in advance."
Aunt Molly stared at the orange bill, then looked up at Ricky’s calm gray eyes. The fierce, terrifying scowl vanished from her face so fast it was almost dizzying, replaced by a sudden, incredibly sweet smile.
She tucked the kitchen knife neatly into her apron pocket, wiped her hands on the cloth, and stepped down the stoop, holding her palm out.
"Well," she said, her voice turning as smooth as cream. "Why didn’t you say you were a proper gentleman, son? Twenty dollars... yes, that will cover six weeks quite nicely. Come right inside! Watch your step on the second landing, the floorboards are a bit creaky."
She snatched the gold certificate with practiced speed, tucking it securely into her brassiere before gesturing warmly toward the open hallway.
Arthur and Frank stood on the sidewalk, their mouths hanging wide open, completely stunned.
John Caldwell walked up from the rear wagon, shaking his head with a dry, quiet chuckle. He clapped Arthur hard on the back. "Told you, mate. Sometimes silver—or gold—is the only language people hear."
Tom Murphy let out a long, relieved sigh, following Ricky, Marek, and John as Aunt Molly led them up the dark, narrow wooden stairs into the building.
"Is this where you guys grew up?" Ricky asked Tom quietly as they climbed past the second floor.
Tom nodded, his long legs taking two steps at a time. "Yeah. My dad bought the lease on the building fifteen years ago. The top floor’s been mostly empty since he died. Aunt Molly uses the first two floors for her rooms, but we used to use the attic as a temporary gambling space... and to hold a few crates of stolen goods whenever the coppers were hot on the docks."
Tom caught himself, glancing nervously at Ricky before adding, "Not anymore, though! We cleared all that out!"
Ricky offered a small, reassuring nod. "What about the yard out back?"
"Abandoned coalyard," Tom explained, pointing toward a dark window at the end of the hall. "Used to belong to our dad’s drayage business. Now it’s just full of broken wagons and scrap timber that’s beyond repair."
Ricky looked out the dirt-streaked glass. Below sat a wide, brick-walled yard tucked behind the building, completely hidden from Washington Street. It was filled with old wooden cart frames and rusted iron wheels, but the space was massive—easily large enough to park four wagons and build a private loading dock.
"Your father owned a drayage company?" Ricky asked.
"Tried to," Tom said softly, looking down at his boots. "He took out a heavy bank loan to buy six draft teams and three big wagons. Worked himself to the bone trying to pay it off, but the big carting syndicates squeezed him out. He managed to pay off half the debt before the pneumonia took him three years ago."
"I’m sorry to hear that, Tom," Ricky said quietly.
"Here we are!" Aunt Molly called out from the top of the fourth-floor landing, pushing open a heavy pine door.
They stepped into the attic loft.
It was noticeably smaller than Mrs. O’Connell’s fourth floor, but unlike Commerce Street, there were no blackened fire marks on the plaster. The roof was tight and dry, and the three small side rooms were structurally sound, though every surface was covered in a thick layer of grey dust, broken wooden chairs, and discarded tin cans.
Aunt Molly smoothed her apron, offering Ricky a slightly embarrassed smile. "It’s a bit dusty, I’m afraid. I wasn’t expecting a proper tenant today, or I would have had young Tom sweep the floorboards."
"It’s fine, ma’am," Ricky said, looking around the space. His mind was already dividing the three rooms into functional zones: one for sleeping, one for an office, and one for private inventory staging. "It’s exactly what we need."
Aunt Molly stepped closer to Ricky, her sharp eyes scanning his clean clothes. She lowered her voice into a quiet, shrewd whisper. "Frank says you’re running a commission trade, son. If you’re looking for extra hands... local boys who know how to keep their mouths shut and work a ledger... you just tell me. I know everyone on this block."
Ricky smiled, adjusting his vest. "I actually do need help, Aunt Molly. I need people who can read, write, and handle numbers cleanly. I’m looking for two accountants and a treasurer to manage our master ledgers."
Arthur, who had just carried a crate up the stairs behind them, spoke up from the doorway. "I know a couple of guys over on Christopher, Ricky. Good lads—"
"Oh, hush up, Arthur!" Aunt Molly snapped, turning to glare at her nephew. "Every ’good lad’ you know is a dock thug who couldn’t count past ten without taking his boots off! You stay out of this!"
Arthur closed his mouth, leaning against the doorframe with a defeated sigh.
Ricky offered Aunt Molly a sheepish, diplomatic smile. "I’ll leave the local recruiting up to you, ma’am."
Aunt Molly’s face lit up again. She stood there, her hands folded over her apron, her eyes lingering on Ricky with a clear, expectant look. She didn’t move an inch.
Ricky paused, his modern business instincts clicking instantly. A recruitment fee.
He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out three clean silver dollars, and placed them into her open palm. "For your trouble, ma’am."
Aunt Molly beamed, the silver disappearing into her apron pocket with a sharp clink. "You’re a bright boy, Ricky. I’ll have three clean, educated candidates standing in your office by Monday morning."
"Thank you, ma’am," Ricky said.
She turned and headed back down the dark wooden stairs, her boots tapping a cheerful rhythm against the steps.
Ricky let out a long, quiet sigh, leaning back against the dusty window frame as her footsteps faded into the lower floors. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his silver cigarette case, and lit a paper cigarette with a wooden match.
He took a slow drag, looking over at Arthur through the blue smoke.
"Arthur," Ricky said quietly. "When your aunt brings those candidates up here on Monday... I want you to check them out first. Make sure none of them have any ties, debts, or connections to the Hudson Dusters."
Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "You don’t have to worry about that, Ricky. Aunt Molly knows every family, every debt, and every copper on the West Side. She can spot a Duster scout from three blocks away. She hates those bastards more than I do."
Ricky blew a trail of smoke toward the high rafters, a quiet, relieved smile touching his lips.
"Good," Ricky said dryly. "She’d make a hell of an HR manager."