Chapter 170: Expansion Plans
The six-story building of Harrison & Bell Limited stood prominently near the lower Manhattan waterfront, humming with the relentless energy of a major distribution hub.
Along the wide loading bay out front, horse-drawn flatbed wagons and heavy motor trucks backed up to the timber platforms in a constant rhythm. Dockworkers shouted over the roar of idling engines, timber crates clattered onto iron-wheeled dollies, and shipping clerks with wooden clipboards checked off bills of lading against the incoming cargo.
Ricky paused on the cobblestone sidewalk, taking in the bustling activity before walking toward the main bay doors.
A stocky worker in his mid-twenties, his sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, forearms dusted with flour and coal soot, wiped his brow with a rag as he stacked a wooden crate onto a handtruck. He looked up, his eyes widening as he recognized Ricky.
"Boss!" the worker called out, a wide, cheery grin breaking across his face. He quickly wiped his right hand on his apron and stepped forward. "Good day to you, sir! It’s damn good to see you here."
Ricky offered a warm smile, shaking the man’s hand. "Good day to you as well. How are things holding up?"
"Thanks to you, Boss, my family made it clean through the winter," the young man said earnestly, his voice full of genuine gratitude. "If it wasn’t for the steady wages here, my wife and three little ones would’ve been starving in the tenement. And it ain’t just me, sir—most the boys on Minetta and neighborhood tenement blocks are staying afloat because of this company."
"I’m very glad to hear that," Ricky said, patting the man’s shoulder. "A company is only as strong as the men working the floor."
"Ain’t that the truth, sir," the worker replied, gesturing toward the interior entrance. "You’re looking for Boss Marek, right? Come on, I’ll walk you through to the cage."
Ricky nodded, following the worker into the vast, echoing ground-floor warehouse.
"We’ve been getting hit with massive shipments all week," the worker explained as they wove through rows of stacked dry goods, barrel crates, and imported spirits. "Most of it comes straight off the harbor docks. Some of the boys move the goods here to the main floor for local delivery, while another crew hauls freight directly to the rail yards to load onto the outbound trains. Boss Marek bumped our daily pay last month, so nobody’s complaining about the hours. We’ve been working nonstop, but everybody’s happy."
As they reached the wrought-iron elevator enclosure near the center pillar, a sharp shout echoed from across the loading floor.
"Hey! Melvin! Where the hell are you going?!" a senior foreman yelled, waving a clipboard over a stack of grain sacks. "We need a hand over here on Bay Three!"
Melvin winced, turning back with an apologetic smile. "On my way!" He turned to Ricky, bowing his head slightly. "Uh... sorry, Boss. Duty calls. That’s all I can do to thank you."
"Don’t worry about it, Melvin," Ricky said with a light laugh. "Go give them a hand. I can take it from here."
"Thank you, sir!" Melvin called out as he jogged back toward the loading bays.
Ricky stepped into the iron elevator cage. The operator, a quiet man in a dark grey cap, nodded respectfully and hauled on the brass control lever. The iron cables groaned, pulling the elevator smoothly up toward the top floor.
When the elevator doors pulled open on the sixth floor, the atmosphere shifted entirely. The heavy clatter of the warehouse floor gave way to the soft murmur of typewriters, the rustle of ledger paper, and the rhythmic clicking of calculating machines. Office clerks in starched collars glanced up from their wooden desks as Ricky walked past, eyeing the well-dressed eighteen-year-old with mild curiosity, though none dared interrupt him.
Ricky walked down the wide hallway to the double oak doors at the far end and pushed them open.
The executive office was vast and handsomely appointed. Where three months ago there had been little more than bare plaster walls and dusty second-hand chairs, the room was now outfitted with deep leather couches, a polished mahogany coffee table, low glass bookcases, and brass floor lamps. Ricky smiled slightly, recognizing the refined, feminine touch—the Callahan sisters had clearly taken charge of the interior decoration.
At the far end of the room, sitting behind a broad executive desk covered in regional maps and trade ledgers, were Marek Kowalski and Tom Murphy. Both seventeen-year-olds looked broader in the shoulders than they had in the fall, growing into their tailored three-piece suits with an air of quiet authority.
Ricky knocked his knuckles softly against the open doorframe.
Both young men looked up from a map of Westchester County. Their faces instantly lit up, and they pushed back their chairs to greet him.
"Ricky!" Marek called out, stepping around the desk to wrap him in a heavy, brief hug. "It’s so good to see you."
"How are you holding up, Boss?" Tom asked, stepping up next to clap Ricky across the back.
"I’m doing well," Ricky replied, looking between the two of them with a warm smile. "You two are looking like proper Midtown executives now."
"We’re trying," Marek grinned, gesturing toward the leather armchairs near the window. "Come, sit down. How are things up north with the rest of the crew?"
"Arthur is thoroughly enjoying his role as drill instructor," Ricky said as he settled into an armchair. "He gets to stand in the mud at five in the morning and shout orders at sixty recruits. He’s in his element. As for Frank... well, his saloon in White Plains is turning into a major hub. The locals love it, there’s a steady poker game in the back rooms every night, and he’s gathering plenty of useful political gossip from the county clerks."
Tom let out a relieved laugh, shaking his head. "Is that right? God, I’m glad to hear it. Frank always talked about owning his own pub, and Arthur... well, Arthur was born to yell at people."
"What about the Williams brothers?" Marek asked, taking a seat opposite Ricky.
"They’re moving fast," Ricky noted. "They’re expanding their delivery routes west through Westchester County, pushing all the way out to Port Chester, Rye, and Mamaroneck. Honestly, Marek, at the rate they’re buying trucks, they might establish an official regional branch before you do."
Marek chuckled, leaning back against the leather cushions. "Well, I’ve been a little preoccupied with a few other matters lately."
Tom snorted, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he looked at Ricky. "I don’t know if ’marital duties’ count as business preoccupations, Marek."
Marek’s face instantly flushed bright red. He shook his head, glaring at Tom. "Oh, shut up, Tom."
"It’s true!" Tom laughed, turning back to Ricky. "He’s been running himself ragged trying to fulfill his duties as the future husband to all three Callahan sisters! Meanwhile, I’m the one trapped in administrative meeting with wholesalers trying to negotiate five-percent volume discounts."
Ricky burst into a brief laugh, thoroughly enjoying Marek’s embarrassment. "Is that so? You have to be understanding, Tom. Managing three fiancées at once is a full-time logistical challenge on its own—especially if they take turns demanding his attention."
"You two are ridiculous," Marek muttered, though a faint, embarrassed smile cracked through his stern expression. "It’s not like that at all."
"Sure it isn’t," Tom teased.
Marek cleared his throat, trying to steering the conversation back to firm ground. "In all seriousness, Old Man Callahan has been pressing me to teach Emma, Kristen and Elsa the operational side of the business. He wants the three of them ready to take over the management of Callahan Express early so he can finally retire to his country house."
Ricky pondered that for a moment, resting his chin on his thumb. "I can send over a few textbooks on corporate logistics if you think it’ll help them. A logistics enterprise is really just managing delivery routes, securing long-term contracts with manufacturing firms, and negotiating freight rates with the railroad companies. It’s straightforward enough once you break down the variables."
"That’s easy to say, but the railway end of it is a nightmare," Marek noted, his expression turning serious. "There are far fewer railroad lines than there are independent distribution houses. And almost every major rail line already has locked-in exclusive contracts with the big express cartels—American Express, Adams Express, Wells Fargo, and the like. They won’t even give small firms like ours carriage space on their freight cars without charging double the standard rate."
Ricky looked Marek dead in the eye, his voice entirely calm. "Then build our own."
Tom blinked, staring at Ricky in utter disbelief. "Build our own railroad company? Is that even possible?"
Marek didn’t answer immediately. His mind was already spinning through the possibilities.
Unlike Tom, Marek had access to a Notebook System Shop similar to Ricky’s—a magical interface that allowed him to purchase commodities, industrial equipment, and specialized goods directly out of thin air. It was entirely possible to acquire rail cars, specialized transport hardware, or even track manufacturing contracts through the system.
The true hurdle wasn’t funding or logistics—it was creating believable paper trails.
Tom didn’t know about the magic notebook system. To keep Tom in the dark while utilizing his exceptional administrative talent, Marek had concocted a story about an extraordinarily wealthy, secretive night-supplier operating out of New Jersey. On Sunday nights or late evenings, Marek would head down to the docks alone, buy inventory directly through his notebook system, and manifest the goods inside the locked warehouses.
The next morning, Tom—who was a master of administrative paperwork—would forge shipping manifests, bills of lading, customs invoices, and receipts to account for the mysterious stock. Tom was sharp enough to know that asking questions about the "night supplier" was dangerous, so he simply created flawless paper trails that passed every municipal inspection without raising a single suspicion.
Marek looked at Ricky, a subtle, knowing glance passing between them over Tom’s head.
"It’s possible," Marek said slowly, leaning back in his chair with a cold, ambitious spark in his eyes. "It’s going to require a lot of smokescreens and a mountain of legal paperwork, but if we handle it right... we can build a transport line that nobody can touch."