Chapter 54: Rules of Engagement
The night air over Greenwich Street was cold and was lightly obscured by mist, carrying the sharp.
The single black spring-wagon rumbled steadily over the dark cobblestones, its iron-rimmed wheels making a low, rhythmic grinding sound against the stone. Sitting on the driver’s bench holding the leather reins was Arthur Murphy. Beside him sat his sixteen-year-old brother Tom, while tucked on the wooden seat behind them was Simon Chamberlain—a sixteen-year-old boy, slightly shorter than Tom, who had been hired three days ago to replace Danny when he was reassigned to be a Warehouse Manager.
Arthur adjusted his black flat cap, keeping his eyes on the misty avenue ahead. "How many drops do we have on the roster tonight, Tom?"
Tom pulled his leather order notebook from his black wool suit jacket, squinting through the dim amber glow of a passing streetlamp.
"Umm... twenty-one deliveries total for our run tonight," Tom read out loud, running his finger down the column. "First stop is Emily’s Pastry over on Jane Street—one sack of granulated sugar and one sack of flour."
Arthur nodded, shifting the reins. "Who’s handling Bleecker Street tonight?"
"I don’t know," Tom said, looking up from his page. "I didn’t see Jimmy or John’s route sheets leaning toward Bleecker when we loaded. Maybe one of ’em’s heading that way later. Ever since Ricky put that map up on the storage shed wall, we’ve been picking our routes based on how the orders are distributed." Tom paused, looking sideways at his older brother with a knowing smirk. "Why do you care about Bleecker anyway, Art?"
Arthur offered a sheepish, slightly embarrassed grin, staring straight ahead at the draft horse’s ears. "I... uh... met a girl."
Tom let out a short, incredulous laugh. "A girl? Since when?"
"During our night deliveries yesterday," Arthur admitted, his broad face flushing slightly in the dark. "She’s Mr. Vander’s daughter—the one who owns that small house distillery right beside the bakery. She ordered two spools of Belgian raw silk from us. She’s a tailor, working on a dress she designed herself."
Tom grinned widely, nudging Arthur’s elbow with his knuckle. "Look at you! It’s high time you got married, brother!"
"Shut up, Tom," Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "We just met yesterday. She looks phenomenal, but hell if I know how she feels about me yet. Besides... she works twelve-hour shifts during the day at a tailoring house over in Brooklyn making luxury dresses for rich women. So it’s not like I can just walk up to her front stoop at noon."
Before Tom could banter back, Simon leaned forward from the rear seat, his voice low and tight with sudden tension.
"Uhh... guys?"
Arthur and Tom both snapped their heads toward the road ahead.
Fifty feet down the unlit misty avenue, four figures stepped out from the mouth of a dark alleyway, walking deliberately into the middle of the street to block the wagon’s path.
As they closed the distance, the yellow light of a corner gas lamp caught their rough attire—scuffed canvas jackets and flat caps pulled low over their faces. One carried a heavy wooden baseball bat, another held a long iron water pipe, the third balanced a jagged, broken glass bottle, and the fourth had his fists wrapped in dirty leather strips.
Arthur pulled back hard on the leather reins. "Whoa, boy... whoa."
The black draft horse tossed its heavy head, its iron shoes scraping against the stones as the wagon came to a halt.
Arthur swore softly under his breath. "Ahh, shit."
Tom’s hand instantly slid inside his black wool jacket, his fingers wrapping around the cold walnut grip of his holstered Colt .38 revolver. His heart hammered against his ribs. "Do we... draw the steel, Art?"
Arthur caught Tom’s arm with a firm, heavy grip, stopping him. "No! No! Didn’t you hear a single word Ricky said in the lounge about the rules of engagement? We don’t pull revolvers unless we’re cornered by shooters or about to die."
Arthur looked at Tom, his tone dropping into a serious, practical register. "Let me handle this first. If things go bad, prepare for close-quarters work with the sap sticks. You still remember how to handle yourself like when you beat that Solomon kid behind the coal yard last year?"
Tom swallowed hard, keeping his hand near his vest. "Yeah... I remember. But that was a sloppy alley fight."
Arthur glanced back at Simon, whose hands were visibly trembling as he gripped the wooden sideboard of the wagon. "What about you, Simon? Can you fight?"
Simon’s face was pale in the dark, his voice squeaking slightly. "Y-Yeah... I can fight."
Arthur looked at the kid’s scared eyes, realizing instantly that Simon had never bloodied his knuckles in a real street brawl. Arthur offered a calm, reassuring nod. "Alright, kid. Just stay behind me. I’ll handle it when things get messy."
Arthur stepped down off the wagon bench onto the damp cobblestones, walking three paces out in front of the draft horse’s head.
The four men stopped ten feet away. The leader—a broad-shouldered man with a heavy wooden baseball bat resting against his shoulder—looked Arthur up and down, taking in the crisp black suit and flat cap.
"Well, well, well," the bat-wielder sneered. "What do we have here? A couple of gents taking a late-night ride?"
Arthur stood with his feet planted, keeping his hands visible near his waist, remembering Ricky’s First Rule of Engagement: De-escalate with money.
"It’s none of your business, pal," Arthur said smoothly, keeping his voice relaxed and conversational. "But... it could be. For five bucks."
The leader with the baseball bat tilted his head, letting out a harsh, dry chuckle. "Five bucks? Hmmm... this cargo, the wagon, and the horse look like they’re worth a whole lot more than five bucks."
Beside the wagon, Tom’s eyes narrowed, his posture coiling like a spring, while Simon’s heart hammered wildly against his chest, adrenaline surging through his blood.
Arthur let out a quiet sigh, remembering the second part of Ricky’s first rule: If five isn’t enough, offer a more reasonable sum.
"How about ten bucks then?" Arthur offered, his tone completely steady. "Ten bucks in clean silver, right now, and you boys go buy yourselves a bottle of whiskey at the saloon."
The leader pointed the thick wooden bat directly at Arthur’s face. "Didn’t you understand what I just said? Are you an idiot or what?"
Arthur’s expression turned cold. He tried a bluff. "You do know our routes are protected by the Hudson Dusters, right?"
The man with the bat scoffed, taking a slow step forward. "I don’t give a damn about the Dusters. We aren’t here for Barney Knox. We’re here on our own account. So if you don’t want to spend two weeks eating soup through a straw in a hospital bed... leave the wagon, leave the horse, drop your cargo, strip off those fancy black suits, and fuck off down the alley."
Hearing the ultimatum, Arthur’s jaw set like iron. The men were completely unreasonable. He mentally invoked Ricky’s Second Rule of Engagement: If the opponent refuses money and stays unreasonable... scare them off and prepare to fight.
"What makes you think," Arthur growled, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl, "that the three of us can’t beat the absolute piss out of the four of you right now?"
The man holding the rusted iron pipe let out a loud, mocking laugh, slapping the heavy iron bar against his calloused palm. "Are you trying to be funny, dandy? Or are you just blind?"
Arthur looked at the four thugs, then suddenly threw his head back and let out a loud, booming laugh, resting his heavy hands on his hips as if he’d just heard the funniest joke on Washington Street.
"Say..." Arthur chuckled, looking the leader in the eye. "You boys don’t happen to gamble on prizefighting, do you?"
Tom Murphy instantly recognized what his older brother was doing.
Tom reached back quietly, grabbed Simon by the sleeve, and whispered sharply into the kid’s ear.
Simon nodded frantically, his hands tightening around the weighted black metal stick in his coat pocket.
The thug holding the broken glass bottle glared at Arthur, thoroughly confused by his sudden laughter. "The fuck are you talking about, dandy?"
"Makes sense," Arthur said softly, his smirk fading into a razor-sharp glare.
Arthur turned slightly, reaching back to grab the leather reins resting against the draft horse’s harness. He stepped forward, holding the leather straps out toward the leader with the baseball bat.
"Alright," Arthur said softly. "Here. It’s all yours."
The leader with the baseball bat grinned widely in greedy surprise, lowering his bat as he stepped right up into Arthur’s space. "See? I didn’t know you were a reasonable man after all."
The three thugs behind him chuckled, lowering their guards as they watched their leader reach out his hand to take the reins.
As the leader reached his arm out, Arthur stood on his left, his dark eyes locking onto the man’s exposed jaw.
In Arthur’s mind, time seemed to slow to an absolute crawl. Then in an instant, his arm shot towards the leader’s neck.