Chapter 33: Unpolished Gems
The Monday morning sun was barely a pale, watery smudge over Washington Street when Ricky gathered the team near the front doorway of the fourth-floor loft.
Outside, the first heavy dray wagons were already rumbling past, their iron rims grinding over the stones, but inside the hallway, the air smelled of floor wax, clean wool, and Aunt Molly’s morning chicory coffee.
Ricky adjusted the lapels of his dark wool vest, looking over at John Caldwell and young Tom Murphy. The two of them were standing beside Marek, shifting their weight nervously on the pine floorboards.
"Before you three head out on foot," Ricky said, keeping his voice low, conversational, and practical, "I want to ask. John, Tom... have you two picked up the ropes on how Marek deals with the shopkeepers? How he pitches the stock and handles the order lists?"
John Caldwell rubbed the back of his neck, his sharp English accent laced with a sudden, hesitant stiffness. "To be fair, Ricky... I haven’t really done much of that sort of talk. Back in Birmingham, if you were talking to a shopman, it was usually because you were trying to distraction-pocket a loaf or get out of the rain. I’m a bit worried I’ll mess up the numbers or say something that makes us look like amateurs."
Tom Murphy nodded vigorously in agreement, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. "Same here, Ricky. I can haul fifty pounds of sugar up three flights of stairs without breathing hard, but standing across a counter trying to talk a merchant into buying twenty pounds of lard... I don’t want to blow a deal."
Ricky listened quietly, offering a small, reassuring smile. He understood completely. Coming from 2026, he knew that sales wasn’t a natural talent everyone was born with. People got anxious when they felt put on the spot, especially working-class teenagers who were used to physical labor rather than corporate negotiations.
"Listen," Ricky said gently. "You don’t need to force yourselves to be fast-talking salesmen. The merchants on Bleecker and Greenwich aren’t looking for poetry. They only care about two things: a lower price and better quality than the Soho distributors give them. You don’t have to convince them to buy. The quality of our stock and the prices on the page do all the convincing for us."
He tapped his pencil against his notebook. "All you’re doing is keeping track of what they’re low on. If they’re short on flour, you mark it down. If you run into something you don’t know how to answer, you let Marek take the lead."
Marek gave a firm, silent nod from the side, a confident smirk touching his lips.
Ricky’s explanation helped ease the air, but John still looked a little doubtful. "I’ll give it a go, Ricky. But I can’t promise I’ll sound like a proper clerk."
"I’ll try too," Tom muttered, rubbing his nose. "Sidelining for a bit first, maybe."
Ricky watched Tom closely. The youngest Murphy brother had a quiet, observant eye—the kind of kid who stayed back, watched how people moved, and picked up on details others missed. It reminded Ricky of Marek when they had first met on the Chelsea docks. Marek hadn’t known a thing about business either; he’d just been a hungry kid asking smart questions.
Unpolished gems, Ricky thought.
Back in modern Georgia, Ricky’s street crew—Marcus, Dre, and Terrell—hadn’t been business majors either. But they knew what people needed, and they knew how to keep their mouths shut when trouble came around. Prioritizing people’s real needs over quick, greedy profits was the only reason the Founder’s Syndicate was surviving in 1910.
"That’s more than enough, Tom," Ricky said, nodding with genuine respect. "I’m not going to force either of you to do something you hate. But I want you two learning the sales side because you’re the first ones here. You’re the founding members of this syndicate. When we expand next month and buy more wagons, I’d rather have you two leading the new routes and managing the new drivers than handing those positions over to some random guy off the street."
His words hit home instantly. John straightened his back, a spark of pride flashing in his gray eyes, while Tom looked up, thoroughly surprised by the weight Ricky was placing on their shoulders. They realized that Ricky wasn’t just building a temporary drayage crew—he was building an organization, and he was giving them the ground floor.
Arthur Murphy stepped over, throwing his thick arms around Frank and Tom’s shoulders, giving them a heavy, affectionate squeeze.
"Don’t worry about it, Ricky," Arthur grinned, his broad face breaking into a wide smile. "If these two slow-heads can’t learn how to take an order, I’ll beat the business lessons into ’em myself!"
Frank sneered, shoving Arthur’s heavy arm off his neck. "Talk about business lessons! Art, you can’t handle business for shit! Half the time you’re just looking for an alley to roll dice in!"
"At least I was out there exploring opportunities for us before Ricky showed up!" Arthur barked back, laughing as he cuffed Frank lightly on the ear.
"Yeah, with two precinct coppers on our tail!" Frank shot back with a grin. "Just you wait. I’m gonna be a route manager next month, and I’ll be managing your heavy rear end!"
"Oh, really?" Arthur snickered, grabbing Frank in a headlock and scrubbing his knuckles over his younger brother’s head while Tom laughed out loud.
Ricky shook his head, a genuine smile tugging at his lips as he let the banter breathe.
"In any case," Ricky said once they settled down, "everyone gets the chance to step up. As we take on more territory, we’ll need more wagons and more routes. If you know people you trust—close friends, relatives, guys who know how to keep their mouths shut—let me know."
Arthur stopped messing with Frank’s hair, turning to Ricky with a thoughtful expression. "Actually... I do know a couple of guys, Ricky. The Williams brothers. They’re a bit bold and brash when it comes to the illegal side of things—stealing, running card games, selling hot goods off the piers. In fact, before you rented this loft, they were the ones who used Aunt Molly’s top floor to run a temporary gambling den."
Frank nodded, his face turning serious. "The Williams boys are crazy, Ricky, but they’re pure money-making machines. Bold, reckless, maybe a little batshit crazy, but they get things done and their lips are sealed tighter than a vault if the coppers start asking questions."
Ricky raised an eyebrow. "What’s their motivation? Are they hustling just to get rich, or are they trying to feed a family?"
"Both, really," Arthur explained, rubbing his chin. "They’ve been taking care of themselves since they were twelve. Their old man was a drunk who shot a copper during a saloon brawl and got sent to Sing Sing for life, and their mother’s been sick in bed for two years. They hustle because if they don’t, they don’t eat."
Ricky nodded slowly, understanding the dynamic instantly. "If they’re reliable and hold their tongues, we can use them. But I want to see how our night-shift drops perform this week first. If the night deliveries go smoothly and we expand our routes, we’ll bring the Williams brothers in as founding members and teach them the trade."
Arthur smiled, clapping his heavy hands together. "Sounds good to me, boss. Talent doesn’t run in my bloodline anyway, so having a couple of crazy bastards who know how to hustle won’t hurt."
"I’m fine with it," John Caldwell said, calmly pulling his polishing rag across the dark steel barrel of the Winchester shotgun hidden near the wall.
"Me too," Tom added.
"Alright," Ricky said, stepping back and gesturing toward a neat stack of wooden boxes near the wardrobe. "Marek, grab the gear."
Ricky had used the Ledger Shop the night before to purchase three custom-tailored, period-accurate wool suits for Marek, John, and Tom—dark gray three-piece wool suits with matching vests, crisp white cotton shirts, and clean flat caps.
Marek, John, and Tom stripped off their scuffed work coats and slipped into the new wool attire. Within two minutes, the three boys looked less like street-dwelling dock rats and more like sharp, respectable commercial commission agents representing a high-end distribution firm.
Marek adjusted his lapels, looking down at his clean trousers with a bright, beaming smile. "Look at us," Marek chuckled. "We look like bank managers."
"You look like men who deliver on time," Ricky corrected with a grin, handing Marek his leather order book and a freshly sharpened lead pencil. "Go capture Bleecker Street."
With their new clothes, clean notebooks, and a fresh wave of confidence, Marek, John, and Tom stepped out of the loft and headed down the wooden stairs into the bright, morning noise of Washington Street, ready to take the neighborhood by storm.