Chapter 84: The Real Company
Ricky stood in the middle of Gansevoort Street, his gray eyes tracking Frank and Barney Knox as the Hudson Duster leadership disappeared around the brick corner. The heavy, suffocating tension that had gripped the cobblestones finally broke.
Ricky shook his head, a dry, amused breath escaping his lips, and turned back toward the open doors of the storage shed.
His men were still standing in a tight, defensive line, looking just as confused as he felt. Jimmy Williams immediately stepped forward, his shoulders dropping as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"I apologize, boss," Jimmy muttered, looking genuinely frustrated. "I gave him the pitch, but I just couldn’t make that guy believe me. He looked right through me."
"Don’t worry about it, Jimmy," Ricky said smoothly, waving a black-gloved hand as he stepped up onto the curb. "There’s no need to apologize. There’s much more to that guy than meets the eye. He didn’t come here to talk business; he came here to take our measure."
Arthur Murphy let out a long, heavy exhale, unclenching his massive fists. "What the fuck was that, Ricky? Was that the big boss?"
"I don’t know what just happened," Ricky admitted, stripping off his leather gloves and tucking them into his coat pocket. "But by the way he looked at us... yeah. I think he was."
"He is," Danny chimed in, stepping out from the shadow of the shed doors with his clipboard. "That was Frank ’Goo Goo’ Knox. Barney’s older brother. Word on the docks is that Frank gave up direct control of the Greenwich territory to Barney a while back. Rumor says he’s gone into city politics. Tammany Hall advisor, ward boss, something like that."
"Well, that explains the arrogance," Eli Morgan grunted, crossing his thick arms. "Walks around like he owns the paving stones."
"It’s their territory, Eli," Caleb Morgan noted in his deep, gravelly voice. "He practically does."
"Anyway, that’s all there is to it," Ricky said, clapping his hands together once. The sharp sound snapped the crew out of their lingering adrenaline. "They might come back later to talk properly. They might make some absurd demands. But don’t worry about it today. Just do what you normally do. Let’s get these wagons loaded."
The men gave a chorus of nods, immediately scattering back into the cool, lantern-lit interior of the shed. The rhythmic, mechanical sounds of the Founder’s Syndicate returned—the heavy thud of pine crates, the slide of canvas sacks, and the sharp calls of the commission agents organizing their routes.
Ricky walked over to where Arthur was hoisting a wooden crate of wrapped spices onto the tailgate of the first spring-wagon.
"Whose goods are those, Arthur?" Ricky asked, pulling his master ledger from his vest.
"Hotel Astor and the Algonquin, up in Midtown," Arthur grunted, sliding the crate securely against a stack of flour. "They increased their weekly delivery on the Three Piece whiskey by ten crates. We’re also dropping off three sacks of yellow onions, fresh garlic, black pepper, cooking spices, and two sacks of winter wheat flour."
Arthur wiped his brow with his sleeve, leaning against the wagon wheel. "Not to mention, half the saloons around Times Square have started demanding we deliver the Three Piece to them directly. Thankfully, Tom remembered your orders and told them we were completely out of stock at the moment."
Ricky smiled, making a neat checkmark in his ledger. "That was exactly the right move. If we drop a massive supply of top-shelf liquor into Midtown right now, it floods the market. The exclusivity vanishes, and it drives our prices right into the dirt. We have to make them beg for it."
Ricky looked around the busy storage shed. "I’m going to set an artificial limit on how much stock we release in Greenwich and Midtown. I’ll have the McClain brothers paint a large chalkboard for the shed wall so Danny can update the allocated inventory every hour. That way, you drivers can track exactly how much stock is left to sell."
Arthur nodded slowly, rubbing his thick jaw as his mind chewed on the logistics. He looked at the heavy crates in the wagon bed, then back at Ricky.
"You know, Ricky," Arthur started, his voice dropping into a thoughtful, hesitant rumble. "I was thinking... instead of us driving these wagons directly to every single hotel, restaurant, and grocer in the city... why don’t we just sell our goods directly to independent distributors? Let them buy it from us in bulk, and they deal with the headache of dropping it at each store. It’s much easier and simpler."
Ricky paused, his pencil halting over the paper. He looked up at the broad, heavy-set enforcer. A slow, genuinely impressed smile spread across Ricky’s face.
"You’re getting a lot more capable, huh, Art?" Ricky chuckled.
Arthur flushed slightly, shrugging his heavy shoulders. "Well... Tom’s been teaching me how all these numbers work while we ride the bench. I didn’t really understand the margins at first, but now that I see the volume... I think I learned a thing or two. It’s interesting."
"It’s the next logical step," Ricky agreed. "Do you think you’re ready to become a Route Leader?"
Arthur froze. His dark eyes went wide, and he actually took a half-step back from the wagon.
"M-me?" Arthur stammered, his thick hands holding up defensively. "I—I don’t think I can do that, Ricky. I mean, I can handle a few local negotiations on Bleecker. I understand the profit margins now. But... leading a whole route? Pitching to those high-society snobs up in Midtown? I think I need more time to get used to it."
Ricky scoffed, clapping Arthur hard on his broad shoulder. "All you need is confidence and experience, Art. And the only way to get that is by doing it. You’ve been riding the bench and watching the pitches for what, a couple of weeks now?"
"Hey, this is Midtown we’re talking about!" Arthur argued, gesturing uptown. "They got velvet chairs and guys in top hats!"
"Ah, you’ll be fine," Ricky grinned, patting his back. "Besides, Marek has been teaching you manners and formal speaking. You sound practically British."
Ricky paused, looking around the bustling shed. "Speaking of Marek... where is he? I haven’t seen him since I got back."
Arthur’s expression instantly soured. He crossed his arms, letting out an irritated, grumbling sigh.
"Oh. That bastard," Arthur muttered. "When we arrived at the Waldorf yesterday to deliver the Royal Spades to the maître d’, three high-society women in silk dresses basically snagged him right out of the lobby. He told us to tell you he’d come back tomorrow."
Ricky stared at Arthur for a second, then burst out laughing.
"Ahhh... makes sense," Ricky smiled, shaking his head. He looked at Arthur’s grumpy expression and smirked. "You wished it was you, huh?"
"Mehhh..." Arthur grunted, looking away. "I’m not jealous. I think I can manage getting three wealthy women for myself if I wanted to."
Ricky chuckled, closing his ledger. "Well, starting tomorrow morning, you’re going to have to manage a new wagon instead. You’re taking five commission agents with you. A couple might be new faces from Danny’s crew, but you’ll get used to it. John and Tom can’t handle all the Midtown expansion deliveries by themselves anymore."
"Hey! I said I’m not ready!" Arthur called out as Ricky turned to walk away.
Frank Murphy, who had just walked into the shed from a morning foot-route with Sean Williams, clapped Arthur on the shoulder as he passed by.
"I’ll be following you soon, brother," Frank teased with a wide grin. "Congratulations on the promotion."
Arthur just groaned, rubbing his face with his massive hands.
Ricky crossed the shed, walking over to where Evelynn was standing near a stack of dry goods, meticulously ticking off inventory on her wooden clipboard.
"Alright, Evelynn," Ricky said, adjusting his vest. "What’s our next agenda for today?"
Evelynn flipped a page on her clipboard, her green eyes scanning her impeccable, copperplate notes.
"We have meetings scheduled with a few import companies and trading houses to secure legitimate, on-paper supply deals to mix with our inventory," Evelynn read smoothly. "And after that... a meeting with the actual owner of the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company."
Ricky stopped dead in his tracks. "Wait, what?"
He stared at her, completely bewildered. "The name we’ve been using... it’s real? I thought Phill and James just made it up for the forged manifests!"
Evelynn looked up from her clipboard, offering a faint, professional wince. "No, sir. It appears they selected the name of an actual, registered firm that was simply too small for anyone on the West Side to notice. The actual company operates out of a cramped, two-story brick building just two blocks away from here."
Ricky rubbed his temples, feeling a sudden, massive headache coming on. "You’re kidding me."
"Because of our rapid expansion across Greenwich and Midtown," Evelynn continued calmly, "the real Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company has been gaining massive, unwarranted recognition. According to their courier, they’ve been flooded with aggressive demands from trading houses and saloons asking for high-grade whiskey and Belgian linen—goods that do not exist in their actual inventory."
Evelynn lowered her clipboard. "They are acutely aware they are being mistaken for us. The legal owner is highly distressed, and he requested an immediate meeting with you."
Ricky stared at the floorboards, a sheepish, dry chuckle escaping his lips. He had built a flawless, invisible shadow syndicate, and he had accidentally stolen the identity of a mom-and-pop shop down the street.
"Well," Ricky sighed, shaking his head. "It’s our fault anyway. We can’t leave the guy twisting in the wind. Let’s go meet him first and see how much this is going to cost me."
"Right away, sir," Evelynn said.
Ricky stepped out of the shed and climbed up onto the bench of his personal black wagon, reaching down to help Evelynn up beside him as they headed off to fix their first real corporate mistake.