Chapter 5: First Wage
The Mary-Ann chugged past the massive concrete shadow of the docks and out into the churning, gray-green expanse of the Upper Bay. The city’s roar softened, replaced by the steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the boat’s steam engine and the wet, stinging slap of saltwater spray against the hull.
"Get those gill nets over!" Vance shouted from the small wooden wheelhouse, gesturing with a thick, calloused thumb toward the stern.
"Drop ’em clean, boys! If the corks get tangled in the propeller, I’ll take the cost out of your hides!"
"Grab the line!" Marek yelled over the engine’s roar. He was already dragging a massive, salt-crusted mass of dark hemp net from under the canvas.
Ricky didn’t hesitate. He stepped up, his sneakers squeaking on the wet deck, and grabbed the heavy, water-logged netting. His shoulder muscles—already screaming from his morning workout—burned instantly under the weight. The hemp was rough, smelling of rotting kelp and old diesel, and it bit into his raw palms. But he set his jaw, planting his feet firmly against the roll of the boat, and fed the heavy net over the low wooden rail side-by-side with Marek.
They dropped the long gill nets in a wide, sweeping curve across the bay, letting the heavy lead weights drag the bottom while the cork floats bobbed gently on the choppy surface.
"Now we watch for the ripples!" Vance yelled, stepping out of the wheelhouse with a pair of brass binoculars pressed to his eyes. "Look for the gulls, boys! They know where the schools are hiding!"
For the next four hours, the work was a relentless cycle of sweat and salt. Whenever Vance spotted a dark, rippling shadow under the surface of the water, they would circle the boat and drop the heavy seine nets, hauling them in by hand-over-hand labor. The wet ropes were slick with slime, freezing cold against Ricky’s fingers, and his knuckles turned a raw, chapped red.
He quickly realized his height and the dense muscle fibers he’d built hauling scrap tires in Georgia were his only saving grace. Marek had the technique, throwing his weight back and using the boat’s roll to gain leverage, but Ricky had the raw power. He locked his core, pulling with a steady, piston-like rhythm that kept the net moving even when it was loaded down with heavy, thrashing fish.
By mid-afternoon, Vance cut the engine, letting the Mary-Ann drift quietly in the gentle swells.
"Take a spell," the old man grunted, tossing a couple of simple bamboo hand-lines onto the deck. "Throw a hook over. Keep yourselves busy while the gill nets do the real work."
Ricky sank onto a wet wooden fish box, his forearms trembling with exhaustion. His gray hoodie was damp with sea spray, and the scent of salt and raw fish had settled permanently into the fabric. He baited a rusty iron hook with a piece of clam meat and dropped the line over the side, watching the dark green water swirl against the hull. It was peaceful out here.
For a moment, looking at the distant, flat horizon of the ocean, he could almost forget that he was stranded a century away from home.
As the sun began its slow, orange descent behind the distant hills of New Jersey, casting long, dark shadows across the bay, Vance cranked the engine back to life.
"Alright, pull ’em in!" the old man barked. "Let’s see what the tide brought us."
Pulling the gill nets back up was the hardest part of the day. The nets were heavy, laden with dozens of large, thrashing fish that had wedged their gills into the hemp mesh.
Ricky’s hands were raw, his palms blistered and burning from the salt water, but he kept his grip tight, wrenching the heavy mesh over the rail.
By the time they cleared the last net, four large wooden barrels on the deck were piled high with a silver, glistening catch. There were striped bass with dark, neat lines, thick-bodied shad, snapping bluefish, and pale, spotted weakfish.
They steered the Mary-Ann toward the bustling docks of the Fulton Fish Market on the East River. Even in the fading light, the market was a chaotic, screeching madhouse.
Hundreds of boats were jostling for space along the wooden pilings, their crews shouting at the buyers who stood on the edge of the boardwalk in long white aprons, checking the fish with sharp metal hooks.
Vance negotiated with a loud, red-faced merchant, their voices rising and falling over the din of the market. After ten minutes of heated arguing, the merchant counted out a small handful of dirty paper bills and silver coins, tossing them into Vance’s open palm.
The old man walked back down the wooden gangplank to where Ricky and Marek were waiting on the deck, wiping down the slime-covered fish boxes.
"Twenty-seven dollars gross," Vance grunted, pulling a stubby pencil from behind his ear to scribble some numbers on a scrap of wood. "Take out four dollars for the coal, another dollar for the crushed ice... leaves twenty-two."
He slid his thumb over the greasy bills, pulling out two five-dollar notes and four silver dollars. He handed seven dollars to Marek, then turned and handed the remaining seven to Ricky.
"You’re a strong lad, Ricky," Vance said, his eyes lingering on the chapped, raw skin of Ricky’s hands. "My regular deckhands won’t be out of the Tombs until next month. If you boys want the work, be at the slip at five tomorrow morning. It’ll keep you out of the alleys. And it’ll keep you out of trouble."
Ricky paused, looking up at the old man’s weathered, expressionless face. Vance had seen the Gophers at the pier. He knew exactly why they had been running, but he hadn’t said a word to the gang, and he wasn’t asking questions now.
"We’ll be here, Mr. Vance," Ricky said quietly. "Thank you."
"Five sharp," the old man repeated, already turning back to his engine.
Ricky and Marek climbed up the slippery wooden ladder to the boardwalk, their boots heavy, their joints aching with a deep, throbbing fatigue. The moment they stepped onto the main street, Marek let out a long, low whistle, looking down at the dirty green bills in his hand.
"Seven dollars," Marek breathed, his eyes wide. "In one day. Ricky, that’s... that’s more than some men make in a whole week on the timber slips."
Ricky smiled, his modern mind still trying to adjust to the numbers. To him, seven dollars sounded like pocket change—not even enough for a cheap fast-food meal back in 2026. But looking at Marek’s genuine, glowing excitement, the reality of the deflated economy finally hit him. This was real money. It was safety.
"Come on," Marek said, pocketing the cash securely. "Follow me. There’s a wagon vendor just outside the market. They have the best hot food on this side of the slips."
"Good," Ricky said, his stomach letting out a loud, hollow growl. "I’m starving."
They walked quickly, keeping their heads down and avoiding the main thoroughfares where the streetlamps were starting to flicker to life with a pale, yellow glow. As they turned onto a quieter side street, Marek slowed his pace, his expression turning thoughtful.
"With this," Marek said quietly, his hand pressing against the pocket where his wages were tucked, "I finally have enough saved to send a money order back to Galicia. My parents... they can buy the winter feed without going into debt with the land-agent."
Ricky looked at him. "You send most of what you make back home?"
"Every nickel I don’t need to keep from freezing," Marek said simply. "My little sister, Sofie... she’s been sick since the winter. The cough won’t leave her chest, and the doctor in the town costs two rubles just for a visit. The medicine is more."
Ricky stopped walking. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his seven dollars. He peeled off three of the silver dollars, their heavy, cold weight solid in his palm, and held them out to the boy.
"Take this," Ricky said.
Marek froze, staring at the silver coins. He quickly shook his head, stepping back with his hands raised. "No. No, Ricky, I can’t take your share. You worked just as hard as I did. Your hands are bleeding!"
"Take it, Marek," Ricky insisted, his voice quiet but unyielding. He reached out, grabbed Marek’s hand, and forced the cold silver coins into his palm. "I know what it’s like to be the one holding the family together. My Ma... she worked double shifts at the clinic just to keep the lights on. I get it."
"But—"
"I don’t need much," Ricky said, offering a small, reassuring smile. "We have a job tomorrow anyway. We’ll make more.
Besides..." Ricky looked away, his eyes tracking the dark, shadowed entrance of a nearby alley. "If it wasn’t for me starting that fight with the Gophers this morning, you wouldn’t be hunted. You’d still have your regular warehouse job. I put a target on your back, Marek. It’s the least I can do."
Marek stared at the coins in his hand for a long, silent moment. The reluctance in his eyes slowly faded into a deep, genuine gratitude. He swallowed hard, nodding slowly.
"I will pay you back, Ricky," Marek said, his voice thick. "I swear it. Every cent."
"Don’t worry about it," Ricky said, shoving his remaining four dollars back into his pocket.
"Let’s just get some food before I collapse."
They walked another block and approached a large, wooden horse-drawn wagon parked under the warm glow of a gas streetlamp.
A heavy, steaming iron pot sat on a small coal stove at the back of the wagon, surrounded by neat baskets of fresh cucumbers, hard rye bread, and yellow onions. The scent of hot starch, salted butter, and fresh dill was intoxicating.
"Two potatoes, salt and butter," Ricky told the vendor, a stocky man with a thick mustache and a dirty white apron.
The man nodded, using a set of metal tongs to scoop two massive, steaming, split-skin potatoes out of the pot. He sliced them open, smeared a generous glob of yellow butter inside, shook a heavy dusting of coarse salt over them, and wrapped them in a neat square of rough butcher paper.
Ricky paid the vendor ten cents. Ten cents for a meal that felt like it was worth a million dollars.
Marek bought the same, and they quickly turned away from the crowded street, their hands cradling the warm paper packages.
"We should get back to the hideout," Ricky said, his eyes scanning the dark corners of the street. "The Gophers aren’t going to stop looking just because the sun went down. If they have the cops on their payroll, they have eyes everywhere."
Marek nodded, his mouth already full of hot potato. "You’re right. I almost forgot. The docks are different after dark."
They walked in silence, their footsteps quick and purposeful as they navigated the dark, labyrinthine side streets of the waterfront. When they finally slipped through the loose board at the back of the Hudson Valley Produce warehouse and climbed the dark, creaking stairs to the third floor, Ricky felt a massive wave of relief wash over him.
They sat on the dusty floorboards in the pitch-dark room, the only light coming from the faint, distant amber glow of the streetlamps cutting through the dirty window panes. They ate their dinner in hungry silence, the hot, salty potatoes coating their throats and warming their chests.
But once the food was gone, the silence of the warehouse became heavy.
Back home in Georgia, at this hour, Ricky would be lying on his mattress, scrolling through his phone, watching videos, or playing a quick game on his laptop while the TV hummed in the background. Now, there was nothing. No screen, no internet, no notifications. Just the cold, dark room and the low, distant rumble of a horse-drawn carriage passing on the street below. The absolute, empty boredom of 1910 was a physical weight.
He looked across the room. Marek was already curling up on his pile of straw in the corner, pulling his scuffed leather bag under his head for a pillow.
Marek sat up slightly, noticing Ricky staring into the dark. He reached down and dragged a thick, flattened piece of brown shipping cardboard from beneath his straw. He tossed it across the floor.
"Here," Marek muttered, his voice muffled by sleep. "Better than the bare wood."
Ricky caught the cardboard. It was stiff, dusty, and smelled faintly of old burlap, but it was dry.
"Thanks," Ricky whispered.
He laid the cardboard flat against the pine floorboards, pulled his gray hoodie tight around his shoulders, and lay down, using his dirty sneakers as a makeshift pillow. The wood beneath him was hard, pressing ruthlessly against his aching ribs and his sore, overworked shoulders.
Ricky stared up at the dark rafters, his hands tucked inside his pockets, his mind drifting back to the warm, soft mattress he’d slept on just twenty-four hours ago.
"Sleeping out here," he muttered to himself, his voice lost in the empty rafters, "is going to be a real pain in the ass."