Chapter 83: The True Boss
Ricky stood by the dirt-streaked window of the fourth-floor loft, gazing down at the bustling thoroughfare of Washington Street. The late morning sun cast long, hard shadows over the cobblestones. Below, the heavy, constant flow of massive drayage carts and horse-drawn wagons ground along the avenue.
Among the sea of horses and timber carts, Ricky counted only three motor-cars—boxy, high-wheeled machines that coughed thick black smoke and sputtered loudly as they fought for space on the road.
Maybe I should get one, Ricky thought, leaning his shoulder against the window frame. His modern mind craved the speed and mechanical reliability he was used to. He knew the early 1910 motor-cars weren’t anywhere near as fast or reliable as the vehicles back in 2026, but having a motorized carriage would make the long trips uptown to Midtown significantly easier than riding a jolting spring-wagon.
More importantly, it was about projection. The rich and influential hotel managers and politicians he needed to court in Midtown judged a man by his shoes, his suit, and his carriage. Pulling up to the Plaza Hotel in a motor-car would instantly command a level of respect that a draft horse never could.
Hmm... maybe I’ll hold back for now, Ricky reconsidered, tapping his fingers gently against the windowsill. As much as he wanted the convenience, the Founder’s Syndicate was still operating in the shadows. If a nineteen-year-old kid suddenly started driving a luxury motor-car around Greenwich Village, every gang lieutenant, precinct copper, and rival wholesaler would demand to know where the money was coming from. It was vital that he kept his profile understated until the corporate front was fully, legally bulletproof.
Ricky let out a soft sigh and walked back to his executive desk, sitting down in his swivel chair.
Resting on his clean blotter was a folded piece of paper—a short, hastily written note delivered an hour ago by one of Danny’s Orphan lookouts. Ricky had already read it twice.
It was a full report on the massive dock war that had erupted up north. According to Danny’s street network, the Hudson Dusters had marched into Chelsea, burned a fleet of Gopher coal barges to the waterline, and raided a massive cocaine stash house hidden under a church. And the rumor on the street was that the entire bloodbath had kicked off because Owney Madden had come south looking for the "commission boys."
"Shit," Ricky muttered, running a hand through his hair.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Did I overdo it? he wondered. He had intentionally increased the luxury liquor flow to Barney Knox, hoping the sudden influx of wealth would make the Dusters arrogant and careless. He had wanted them to fight among themselves or pick a small border skirmish with the Gophers to keep the heat off his wagons.
He hadn’t expected Frank Knox to mobilize an entire army, burn down the docks, and steal four tons of narcotics.
"Well," Ricky sighed softly, shaking his head. "It already happened. Might as well prepare for the fallout."
Just as he reached for his ledger, the heavy pine door of his office clicked open.
Evelynn stepped into the room. Her usual calm, professional composure was still intact, but there was a subtle, uncharacteristic tightness around her eyes. She held her clipboard tightly against her chest.
"Sir," Evelynn said, her voice dropping into a low, serious register. "The Knox brothers are here to see you."
Ricky froze. His hand stopped halfway to his pen. "Here? You mean at the front door downstairs?"
"No, sir," Evelynn corrected quickly. "They are waiting outside the Gansevoort storage shed. They brought a considerable number of men with them."
Ricky’s mind raced. He had appointed Jimmy Williams as the official, public representative of the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company. Jimmy was supposed to handle all face-to-face negotiations with the Dusters to keep Ricky insulated.
"What about Jimmy?" Ricky asked, standing up quickly. "He’s the acting representative. He should be handling the meet."
"He tried, sir," Evelynn said. "But Mr. Frank Knox refused to speak with him. Jimmy sent a runner to tell me that Frank didn’t believe Jimmy was the true head of the operation. Frank explicitly stated that they will only speak to the real boss."
Ricky’s jaw tightened. Frank Knox wasn’t Barney. Frank was sharp, political, and ruthless. He had seen right through Jimmy’s aggressive street-hustler persona.
"Fine," Ricky said, his voice turning cold and resolute as he grabbed his dark wool suit coat off the back of his chair. "Let’s go."
Ricky shrugged into his coat, adjusting his cuffs with sharp, precise movements, and walked out of the office with Evelynn matching his fast, determined pace down the stairs.
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The atmosphere outside the Gansevoort storage shed was suffocatingly tense.
The heavy double oak doors of the shed were pinned wide open. Standing in a tight, defensive line in front of the entrance were Arthur, Tom, Simon, John Caldwell, and several of the newly promoted field agents wearing their crisp black suits. Towering at the edges of the line were Caleb and Eli Morgan, their thick arms crossed, their faces carved from stone. Jimmy Williams stood dead in the center, trying to look unbothered, though a faint bead of sweat was tracking down his neck.
Directly across the narrow cobblestone street stood the leadership of the Hudson Dusters.
Frank Knox stood near a cast-iron streetlamp, his tailored wool coat immaculate, casually smoking a cigarette. Beside him stood his younger brother Barney, looking flush and agitated. Flanking the brothers were Peter, Alvin, Andy, Reggie, and Henry—Barney’s street captains—along with a dozen heavy-set of duster men gripping clubs and iron pipes beneath their coats.
The two groups stared at each other in a dead, heavy standoff. The air felt like a powder keg waiting for a single match.
Jimmy swallowed hard, his throat dry.
"What should we do?" Eli Morgan whispered out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes locked on the Dusters. "Are they really just gonna stand out there waiting for the boss?"
"Yeah, they will," Jimmy whispered back, keeping his voice incredibly low so it wouldn’t carry across the street. "They’re persistent as hell. I even offered to let ’em sit inside the shed out of the sun, but Frank turned me down flat. They’ve got massive trust issues."
Jimmy shifted his weight, feeling the immense, crushing pressure of the street. "After all, we’re the reason they just had a massive shootout with the Gophers. I can convince a grocer to buy a keg of nails, Eli, but I don’t have the... the thing that makes the boss a boss. I can’t stare down a guy like Frank Knox."
"Understandable," Eli muttered quietly. "I’d be sweating too."
Across the street, the Dusters were equally on edge. Barney kept pacing in short, tight circles, occasionally glaring at the silent line of men in black suits. When Frank had suddenly demanded they gather the street captains and march down to the commission boys’ shed, Barney had protested, begging Frank to at least set up a formal, polite meeting at the saloon.
But Frank’s word was absolute law. Barney hadn’t dared argue further. He was terrified of his older brother.
Frank leaned against the streetlamp, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, his sharp eyes quietly observing the men guarding the shed.
Alvin leaned close to Andy, keeping his voice to a low mutter. "They don’t seem like normal merchants to me, Andy. They look like a highly organized gang."
"Yeah," Andy agreed softly, his eyes darting across the line. "Some of ’em look like they’re feeling the pressure pretty bad. I’m guessing they’re just the hired goons."
"How can you tell?" Alvin asked.
"By how they behave," Andy noted. "Look at the guy in the middle. He’s sweating. But some of the others... they’re too calm. Look at that tall blonde guy on the left with the scar on his jaw." Andy nodded subtly toward John Caldwell. "The way he stares... he’s got that aura of real street experience. He ain’t scared of us."
Jimmy let out a long, frustrated sigh. He hated being ignored. He squared his shoulders, raised his voice, and shouted across the street.
"Say! You really don’t want to come inside and have a drink while we wait? We don’t have to stand out here in the heat all day!"
The Dusters didn’t say a single word. Frank didn’t even acknowledge he had spoken; he just took another drag of his cigarette.
"Now I’m angry," Jimmy muttered to Arthur under his breath. "How dare they ignore me like I’m some kind of snail on the pavement."
"Ahh, fuck this," Arthur growled softly. "They can stand in the sun to bake for all I care."
Arthur reached back and pulled the heavy oak door wider, preparing to step back inside the shade.
Just then, the sharp, rhythmic clatter of horse hooves echoed from the intersection. Arthur stopped, turning his head. The Dusters also shifted their gaze as a single, black-painted spring wagon turned the corner onto Gansevoort Street.
It was Ricky.
He pulled the wagon to a smooth halt near the edge of the standoff. Ricky stepped down from the bench, dressed immaculately in a crisp black three-piece suit, black leather gloves, and a dark bowler hat. Evelynn stepped down lightly right behind him, holding her ledger close to her chest.
Ricky walked forward with absolute, effortless confidence. Without looking back, he raised a single, black-gloved hand, gesturing for Arthur, Jimmy, and his men to stay exactly where they were.
Frank Knox pushed off the streetlamp, dropping his cigarette and stepping forward to meet him in the center of the street.
They stopped a meter apart.
Frank Knox’s sharp, calculating eyes slowly scanned Ricky from the brim of his bowler hat down to his polished leather shoes, sizing him up with heavy, silent judgment.
Ricky wasn’t nervous. The heavy, suffocating pressure that had been choking Jimmy Williams didn’t affect Ricky in the slightest. He stood perfectly balanced, his posture completely relaxed, offering a calm, unbothered smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Knox. I am glad to see you." Ricky said smoothly, his voice carrying easy, undeniable authority. He offered his gloved right hand to shake.
Frank didn’t take it. He just kept his hands in his coat pockets, his cold eyes locked on Ricky’s face, searching for a crack in the young man’s armor.
Despite the intense, lethal tension radiating from the older gang boss, Ricky had never felt calmer. He slowly lowered his hand, his smile never wavering. He glanced casually past Frank toward Barney, who was standing a few feet back with a deeply uneasy, nervous look on his flushed face—looking exactly like a man terrified he was about to ruin his golden ticket.
Frank watched the subtle exchange. Without saying a single word to Ricky, Frank raised his hand and gave a sharp, silent signal to his men.
The Dusters immediately turned around. Frank turned his back on Ricky and began walking away down the cobblestone street, his men falling in behind him.
Ricky stood in the center of the road, raising an eyebrow in genuine confusion. They had demanded to see the real boss, waited in the sun, and then walked away without a single syllable?
Ricky shook his head, a dry, amused chuckle escaping his lips as he turned back toward the shed where Evelynn was waiting.
"Should I have worn a mask?" Ricky asked lightly as he approached her, thinking he shouldn’t have exposed his true face to a bunch of men who don’t take him seriously.
Evelynn offered a faint, elegant smirk, shaking her head. "I think that would have been worse, sir."