Chapter 22: Expansion
With the last of the heavy wooden crates lowered down the creaking fire escape, Marek pulled a thick piece of coarse canvas over the wagon bed, tying it down firmly against the iron hooks. Bartek gave a low, blowing snort in the cool morning mist, his large hooves shifting slightly on the wet cobblestones of Commerce Street.
John Caldwell stood near the rear wheel, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets, watching Marek secure the rope with practiced speed. John looked at the wagon, then at the leather-bound order book resting under Ricky’s arm.
"So," John said, his sharp English accent cutting through the early morning quiet. "How’s this work then? I just follow behind and heave boxes?"
Ricky offered a small, practical smile as he stepped up to the wagon bench. "Pretty much. You and Marek haul the cargo into the storefronts. I handle the ledgers, collect the silver, and take down the new orders."
John tilted his head, his gray eyes glancing up and down the quiet street. "How many stops are we making today?"
Ricky flipped open his notebook, running his pencil down a long, neatly aligned column of names and addresses. "Thirty stores in total. Mostly Greenwich and Bleecker, but we’ve got five on Morton, four on Perry, and a couple over near Christopher."
John’s eyebrows shot up. A sharp whistle escaped his teeth. "Thirty storefronts? Between the two of you?" He looked between Ricky and Marek, clearly taken aback that two guys younger than him were managing a route that size. "That’s... that’s a proper haul. I was expecting maybe eight or ten."
Marek smirked from the back of the wagon, wiping his hands on his trousers as he hopped up onto the floorboards. "Thirty is just for today, John. Tomorrow’s route has another twenty-five. We prioritize the big regular accounts—the ones ordering flour by the quarter-ton or lard by the sixty-pound box. The small shops that only want two spools of thread or a single tin of soda get fitted in between."
John stared at Marek, then back at Ricky. "How in blazes did you two manage all that on your own? Two lads with one horse?"
Ricky and Marek exchanged a quick, silent glance, a subtle grin passing between them.
"We keep a tight list," Ricky explained, his tone grounded and conversational. "Every time we drop an order, we check the shopkeeper’s shelves. If we see their sugar bin is half-empty or their nail kegs are running low, we mark it down right then. By the time they realize they’re short, we’re already offering to bring it the next morning. It’s about building a relationship. They don’t have to worry about ordering from a distributor three weeks in advance because they know we’re watching their stock."
John shook his head in quiet disbelief. "Bloody hell. Sounds exhausting."
Ricky shrugged, climbing onto the bench and taking the leather reins. "Not when there’s real money to be made. Climb up."
John jumped onto the bench beside Ricky, while Marek settled in the back against the canvas-covered crates. As John adjusted his flat cap against the sharp river draft, he looked over at Ricky. "If you don’t mind me asking... how much have you two cleared since you started?"
Ricky paused, his fingers tightening slightly on the reins. Beside him, Marek glanced over from the back.
"We haven’t done a full count yet," Ricky lied smoothly, keeping his gaze fixed on the road ahead as he urged Bartek into a slow, rhythmic walk. "I plan on balancing the master ledger at the end of every month. Right now, every cent we clear goes right back into expanding the operation."
Seeing John sink into deep thought, processing the scale of what he had just joined, Ricky clapped his hand lightly against the young Englishman’s shoulder. "Come on. Day’s wasting, and the baker on Perry Street likes his flour before seven."
The morning moved like a mechanical clock.
At each storefront, the spring-wagon pulled up to the curb with a dry screech of iron brakes. Before the horse had even stopped moving, Marek and John were already hoisting heavy pine crates and canvas sacks off the bed. John moved with a fluid, surprising strength, his long arms catching fifty-pound sacks of grain with easy balance and carrying them into the dark, narrow shopfronts without a word of complaint.
While the two boys handled the physical drayage, Ricky stood at the counters with his pencil and order book, conversing with the shopkeepers in his calm, practical manner.
"Morning, Mrs. Bellini. Sacks are in the back. If you take forty pounds of dried beans next Friday, I can knock a half-cent off the pound rate."
"Mr. Gold, here’s your black linen thread. Three spools. I noticed your shears look a bit dull—I can bring you a pair of high-carbon German tailoring shears tomorrow for forty cents."
Every transaction ended the exact same way—a firm, respectful handshake, silver coins sliding across dark wooden counters, and a new line written in Ricky’s notebook.
Outside, John stood by the horse’s head, watching through the shop windows. He watched as Marek casually stepped over to the neighboring stores—stores that hadn’t even bought from them yet—leaning against their doorframes, chatting with the owners, and pitching their next-day delivery service with his easygoing, friendly smile. Time after time, Marek would walk out with a nod, giving Ricky a quick sign with his fingers to write down another new account.
John’s jaw set in silent admiration. He had seen gangs in Birmingham enforce control through razor blades and broken glass, but here in New York, these two boys were capturing an entire neighborhood with nothing more than fair prices, clean stock, and reliable timing.
By the time the afternoon shadows lengthened across Greenwich Street, the wagon bed was completely empty, but Ricky’s notebook was packed with over thirty new orders for the coming week.
The sun was dipping below the rooftops of Commerce Street, casting a deep crimson glow over the brick alleyway, when they finally pulled the dray to a stop behind 14 Commerce Street.
Bartek let out a weary huff, his breath steaming in the cool evening air.
John wiped a layer of sweat and road dust from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, leaning his back against the wagon wheel. "My legs feel like lead," he admitted with a short, tired chuckle. "Proper work, this."
Ricky stepped down from the bench, reaching into his inner vest pocket. He pulled out two silver dollars, a quarter, a dime, and five bronze pennies, holding the coins out to John.
"$2.30," Ricky said.
John looked down at the money in Ricky’s palm, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Wait... $2.30? You said a dollar-fifty a day."
"Base pay is a dollar-fifty for eight hours," Ricky explained, offering a warm, professional smile. "We started loading at five this morning and we’re finishing up at six. That’s thirteen hours. Minus an hour for our lunch break on Bleecker, that leaves four hours of overtime at twenty cents an hour. Eighty cents extra. It adds up to $2.30."
John stared at the silver and bronze coins, completely stunned. In England, an employer would have beaten a lad for asking for an extra penny past his shift, let alone voluntarily paying overtime out of his own pocket.
Slowly, John reached out and took the money, his fingers wrapping tightly around the cold silver. "I... thank you, Ricky. Truly."
"You earned it, John," Ricky said, patting his shoulder. "You moved more cargo today than two men usually handle."
"Can I... should I come back tomorrow?" John asked, looking at them both with a sudden, eager hope in his eyes.
Marek stepped up beside Ricky, offering a broad, dirt-streaked grin. "You’d better. We couldn’t have hit forty storefronts today without you. My back would have snapped in half by noon."
John let out a genuine, bright laugh, bowing his head slightly. "Five sharp, then. Goodnight, boys."
They watched John walk down the quiet alley, his posture straight, his hand buried in his coat pocket clutching his $2.30 earnings.
Once the English boy had turned the corner onto Hudson Street, Marek turned to Ricky, leaning his elbow against the wagon frame. "So," Marek said quietly. "Are we really expanding, Ricky? Can I handle taking orders on Bleecker all by myself?"
Ricky closed his notebook with a clean, solid snap, looking Marek in the eye. "You handled half the pitches today, Marek. The shopkeepers like you. They trust you. It’s time to step up."
Marek’s chest puffed out slightly, a proud, sharp smile breaking across his face. "Where do we start?"
"We buy a second rig," Ricky said, his voice dropping into a quiet, intense tone as he laid out the next stage of the plan. "Another dapple-gray draft horse, another spring-wagon, and another set of harness from Gansevoort. We put three men on each wagon. One driver, two loaders who double as order-takers. You run one rig covering Bleecker and the south routes; I run the other covering Greenwich and the north."
Marek blinked, his eyes widening as he ran the numbers. "Two wagons... six boys total. We’ll control every store from 14th Street down to Canal."
"And one more thing," Ricky added, looking down the dark alleyway. "No more staging out of Mrs. O’Connell’s attic. Carrying sacks of flour up four flights of stairs is getting ridiculous, and it’s only a matter of time before someone notices the volume. We’re going to rent a small, brick warehouse near the river docks."
Marek paused, looking a bit startled. "A warehouse? Near the docks?"
"A real physical front," Ricky said, a cold, corporate precision settling over his face. "We materialize the System goods inside the locked warehouse at night, store them on real pallets, and load the wagons cleanly from a real loading bay at dawn. To the NYPD, to Tammany Hall, and to the Hudson Dusters... we won’t be two kids with a horse anymore."
Ricky looked up at the quiet, slate roofs of Greenwich Village as the first gas lamps flickered to life.
"We’ll be a company."