Chapter 63: Chasing Luxury
The heavy, fibrous smell of fresh ink and hot wax hung over the executive desk on the fourth floor of Washington Street.
Ricky picked up the thick sheet of linen paper, holding it up to the morning light filtering through the window. The document was flawless. The letterhead read Atlantic & Pacific Trading House, complete with an intricate, embossed corporate seal, a series of stamped customs clearances, and a forged signature from a fictional port commissioner.
Phill McClain stood on the other side of the desk, wiping a smudge of black ink from his thumb with a rag. His dark-rimmed eyes looked heavy, but a proud, exhausted smirk touched his lips. "Give it to a Tammany Hall tax inspector or a precinct patrolman, Ricky. I swear to God, they won’t even blink. The watermarks are authentic, and James cut the brass stamps by hand."
"It’s perfect, Phill," Ricky said, feeling a massive, cold wave of relief wash over him. He set the manifest down with a satisfying slap. "The timing is a miracle."
Ricky looked up at the rest of the crew gathered in the hallway. Over the last four days, the atmosphere in the loft had grown tense. Arthur, Tom, and young Simon had barely walked away from an armed ambush on Greenwich Street, and the reports from Danny’s lookouts confirmed that the rogue Duster elements were getting bolder after dark. Running unmanifested wagons through the pitch-black alleys was turning into a deadly gamble.
"Alright, listen up," Ricky announced, stepping out from behind his desk. The chatter in the hall died down instantly. "The night drops are finished. As of this morning, we are moving the entire operation back into the daylight."
A collective murmur of surprise rippled through the boys. Frank Murphy crossed his thick arms, looking at the papers on Ricky’s desk. "In the daylight? Boss, the wholesale spotters and the coppers—"
"Are going to see perfectly legal delivery wagons carrying fully manifested freight," Ricky interrupted smoothly, tapping the forged documents. "Phill and James just made us bulletproof. We don’t need to hide in the dark anymore. The daylight keeps us safe from the alley rats, and these papers keep us safe from the law."
Ricky walked over to the wooden staging table, where two new sets of leather wagon reins and two fresh route ledgers sat waiting. Over the weekend, Evelyn had finalized the purchase of two additional spring-wagons and two fresh draft horses from Reinhardt’s stable, bringing their fleet to a total of five working rigs.
"With five wagons on the cobblestones, we can cover the entirety of the Village before noon," Ricky said. He picked up the two new route ledgers and turned to the Williams brothers. "Michael. Sean. Step up."
The two brothers froze, their eyes widening in shock before they practically shoved each other out of the way to reach the table. Ricky handed each of them a ledger.
"You’re both promoted to Squad Leaders," Ricky said, his voice carrying solid, grounded authority. "Danny sent up four new field agents from the Minetta block this morning. They’re waiting in the storage shed. You each take two men and a new wagon. Stick to the routes, keep the prices flat, and if anyone asks, you’re driving for the Atlantic & Pacific Trading House."
Sean and Michael gripped the ledgers like they were made of solid gold, their faces split by massive, victorious grins. "You got it, boss!" Sean beamed.
Ricky turned his attention to Marek. The Polish boy was leaning against the wall, a slightly confused frown on his face as he realized his name hadn’t been called for a wagon route.
"Marek," Ricky said. "You’re with me. You don’t have a route today."
"I don’t?" Marek asked, pushing himself off the wall. "What are we doing?"
"We’re going to Chelsea. And then Midtown," Ricky said calmly. "We’re going to introduce our luxury brands to the hotel managers and restaurant owners."
Ricky had initially considered sending Jimmy or Sean Williams to run the uptown pitches, given their fearless hustle. But after watching them operate, Ricky knew their loud, aggressive street style would backfire instantly in a high-class establishment. Midtown wasn’t Bleecker Street. Rich hotel managers didn’t care about saving a nickel on lard; they cared about presentation, class, and exclusivity. Marek, with his quiet, polite professionalism and easygoing charm, was the only one smooth enough to handle the transition.
Ricky turned to Evelyn, who was standing quietly near the doorway of the Accounting office with her clipboard. "Evelyn, I’m leaving the administrative decisions to you while we’re gone. If any underground matters pop up, or if the Dusters try to press the routes, you hold a meeting in the basement lounge with Arthur and John. You have the floor."
Evelyn gave a crisp, unshakeable nod. "Understood, Mr. Stevenson. The routes will hold."
Arthur shifted his weight, rubbing his jaw with a slightly uneasy look. Frank and Jimmy exchanged nervous glances. The idea of Ricky stepping away from the daily grind and leaving them to run the massive operation on their own was daunting.
"Don’t worry," Ricky said, catching their hesitation. "You boys know how to run the streets. Just trust the system."
The next morning, the heavy wooden wheels of a hired, enclosed carriage rattled smoothly over the paved avenues of Chelsea, leaving the chaotic, manure-scented cobblestones of the lower West Side far behind.
Inside the plush leather cab, Ricky and Marek sat opposite each other, both dressed to the nines. Ricky had materialized two high-end, tailored wool suits from the System Shop—complete with silk ties, crisp collars, and polished oxford shoes. Stacked neatly on the floorboards between their boots were three pristine wooden crates filled with custom-labeled bottles of Royal Spades, Three Piece, and Black Cap whiskey, alongside a cedar humidor of premium Havana cigars.
Marek nervously adjusted his silk tie, looking out the glass window at the towering, elegant brick facades of the Midtown hotels.
"Ricky," Marek said, his voice tight. "Why didn’t we just contact that broker? Vance, the guy from the saloon. Two hundred dollars for an introduction isn’t that much money for us anymore. He could just point us to the buyers and be done with it."
"It’s not about the two hundred dollars, Marek," Ricky said, leaning back into the leather cushions. He kept his voice relaxed, watching the city roll past. "I can afford his fee without blinking. But if we rely on a middleman right now, early in the game, we become dependent on him. He controls our access. If he decides to double his fee or sell us out to anyone. We’re in the blind."
Ricky turned his head, looking directly at Marek. "We need the experience. We need to learn how the rich talk, how they drink, and how they negotiate. At some point, we aren’t just going to be dealing with grocers. We’ll be sitting at tables with corporate elites, Tammany politicians, and bank managers. First impressions in this part of town are everything."
Marek swallowed hard, picking at a piece of lint on his trousers. "How do you talk to rich people, then? I’ve never spoken to a man who wears a silk hat."
"You play the role," Ricky explained smoothly. "We’re middle-class import merchants. We don’t act like we’re billionaires, but we don’t act like beggars either. You have to be patient. Rich people like to be treated like they’re the center of the universe. You feed their ego, you let them talk, and you never speak out of line. You just show them the quality of the product, and you let their greed do the rest."
Marek nodded slowly, processing the psychology. "I think I understand a little."
"You’ll learn," Ricky smiled. "Just follow my lead."
"How long are we going to be away?" Marek asked, glancing back toward the south. "A week? What if the Dusters make a move while we’re gone?"
"We’ll be out for a week, maybe a month depending on how the accounts settle," Ricky said. "But the boys will be fine. Evelyn’s sharp, and with five wagons running during the daylight, we cover too much ground too fast for the Dusters to easily corner us. Plus, Danny doubled the lookouts around the storage shed at night."
Ricky reached into his coat pocket, pulling out his silver cigarette case. "I also gave Danny a bonus for the night watchmen to keep morale high. Three bottles of the generic Irish whiskey every Friday."
Marek let out a sudden, dry scoff, shaking his head. "Generic Irish? Ricky, ever since you brought out the branded stuff in the lounge, the boys won’t even touch the generic barrels. It’s like asking a man to choose between a hot steak and a cold potato. They’re spoiled."
Ricky chuckled, lighting a paper cigarette. "They can drink the generic or they can drink water. The Royal Spades stays off-limits except for once a week, or on special occasions. Like my birthday next month."
Marek blinked, looking over in surprise. "Wait... your birthday is next month? You didn’t tell me that."
"October 14th," Ricky said, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the carriage window.
Marek counted silently on his fingers. "That’s... that’s only seventeen days away. How old will you be?"
"Nineteen," Ricky said. "And I intend to buy myself a car."
Marek’s eyes widened, a bright, disbelieving smile breaking across his face. "A car? Jesus, Ricky, you really are getting rich. A real motor-car." His smile faltered slightly, turning skeptical. "But... why? Horses don’t break down on the avenue. I heard from a baker on Barrow Street who bought a motor-wagon that the damn things break down every two miles. He has to hire a mechanic just to keep it running."
"Cars just came out, Marek," Ricky said, a profound, quiet amusement touching his chest. He looked out the window, watching a solitary, sputtering Ford Model T navigate through a sea of horse-drawn carriages on 23rd Street. "They’ll get better. Trust me."
"I’ll stick to Bartek," Marek muttered, leaning back into the cushions.
Ricky just smiled, taking another slow drag from his cigarette. It was one thing to read about the industrial revolution in a high school history book back in Georgia. It was another thing entirely to sit in a tailored suit, a pocket full of gold, and watch the history of the modern world unfold right outside his window.