Chapter 73: Acting Supervisor
Over on Gansevoort Street, the morning sun was just beginning to warm the brick facades, but the storage shed was already operating like a clockwork engine.
The heavy oak loading doors groaned open, letting in the crisp autumn air. Danny stood near the entrance holding a wooden clipboard, checking off crates of refined sugar, flour, and lard as three newly hired loaders hauled them onto the back of Michael Williams’ spring-wagon.
With Ricky and Marek uptown in Midtown for six days, Evelynn had given Danny full authority to expand the warehouse roster. He had pulled six unemployed young men from the Minetta block, boys who previously spent their days shivering on stoops or fighting over scraps on the slips.
The division of labor had changed everything. Before, two or three drivers were breaking their backs loading over a hundred bulk orders every dawn. Now, with dedicated loaders, staging checkers, and dray drivers, a wagon could be packed, secured, and on the cobblestones in less than fifteen minutes.
"Double-knot that hemp rope on the rear crates, Arthur!" Danny called out to one of the loaders. "We don’t need fifty pounds of sugar spilling across Bleecker Street!"
"Got it, Danny!" A newly hired laborer shouted back, pulling the thick knot tight.
Things were running remarkably smooth. The only minor hiccups came from a couple of rogue Hudson Dusters—stray enforcers who hadn’t gotten the memo from Barney or Peter—trying to shake down the drivers at the corner of Washington. Following Evelynn’s explicit instructions, the drivers simply tossed them a couple of silver dollars and kept the horses moving. Barney was starving his own men by keeping every cent of the protection money for himself, so handing the hungry foot soldiers a little pocket change kept the routes completely unbothered without spilling a drop of blood.
Meanwhile, Michael and Sean Williams were utilizing the McClain brothers’ forged shipping manifests to their absolute limit. Armed with official-looking Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company papers, they weren’t afraid of a single precinct patrolman, pushing their delivery perimeter to the absolute outskirts of Greenwich Village. Daily orders had hit a staggering high of 160. Every driver was pushing hard, driven by the memory of the two-percent commission bonuses Ricky had promised them.
Danny watched as Evelynn stepped out of the side office, holding a stack of master ledgers and signed bill-of-lading receipts. She had spent the morning supervising the new clerical staff upstairs, but now she was heading out.
To keep the company looking completely legitimate on paper, Evelynn had begun establishing small, steady supply lines with nearby trading houses, purchasing small amount of wholesale flour and lard just to generate a legal paper trail. Danny knew the secret supplier was doing the real heavy lifting behind closed doors, but having physical receipts from real New York firms made the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company bulletproof if a municipal tax inspector ever looked at their books.
Evelynn coordinated two route drivers at once, giving them concise instructions without losing her breath or missing a single number on her clip.
Man, Danny thought to himself, taking a slow sip of his black coffee, the boss sure picked the right acting manager. She runs this place like a military drill.
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A few blocks west, inside the rotting timber frame of an abandoned river warehouse on the Hudson docks, the atmosphere was dark, cold, and smelled heavily of damp mud.
Sergeant William Kearney stood near a broken window frame, his brass police buttons catching the pale shafts of daylight. Beside him stood two plainclothes officers, their hands resting near their waistbands.
Standing across from the police sergeant were ten scruffy-looking street informants, led by a wiry young man with a stained flat cap.
Kearney adjusted his heavy wool overcoat, looking the informant leader up and down. "So, I assume you succeeded on your mission?"
The leader wiped his nose with his sleeve, offering a cocky, unbothered grin. "Not entirely, Sergeant. Other than the fact that these commission boys officially represent themselves as the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company, we haven’t been able to locate their main corporate office without exposing ourselves. But we did find their warehouse."
One of Kearney’s plainclothes officers immediately pulled out a small leather notepad, dipping a pencil nib against his tongue to take notes.
"That’s more than sufficient," Kearney said, his voice flat and authoritative. "Tell me where it is."
"It’s the twelfth warehouse down from the Washington and Gansevoort Street crossing," the leader said cleanly. "Big double oak doors. Moving crates from dawn till dusk."
Kearney nodded slowly, a sharp, ambitious glint flashing in his eyes. He reached inside his heavy coat, pulled out a thick linen envelope, and tossed it onto an empty crate in front of the leader.
"Alright," Kearney said. "I want you to locate their main office now. Finding the warehouse doesn’t mean a damn thing if they just pack up their stock and shift inventory somewhere else overnight. We need to hit both places at the exact same time to make the bust stick. There’s fifty dollars in there—five bucks for each of you. We’re going to need your services a bit longer."
The ten informants stared at the envelope, massive grins breaking across their tired faces. They hadn’t slept more than four hours a night for six straight days tracking the delivery routes, but fifty dollars cash made every second of exhaustion vanish.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Sergeant," the leader said, slipping the heavy envelope deep into his coat. "You’re awfully early, though. You said we’d meet on Tuesday."
"That’s none of your business," Kearney replied curtly. He turned to his officers. "Let me know the moment they track the office."
Kearney and his men turned on their heels, their heavy leather boots echoing against the floorboards as they walked out into the daylight.
The moment the officers were out of sight, one of the informants leaned into his leader, a sharp smirk on his face. "Hey... should we sell this info to Danny again? I bet his boss will pay us another ten bucks to feed wrong directions to the coppers."
The leader chuckled, tapping his coat where the money sat. "Damn right we are. What was that fancy word Danny used when he gave us the first payoff?"
"Counter-intel something," another informant chimed in.
"Yeah, that’s it!" the leader grinned, stepping toward the river exit. "Counter-intelligence! Man, we’re gonna get rich working both sides of this street."