Chapter 35: The Night Route
The evening air in the alley behind the Gansevoort storage shed was cool and thick with the scent of damp river silt and burning anthracite coal.
At a quarter to eight, Ricky, Frank, and Arthur Murphy stepped back into the shadowed lane, having finished a hearty dinner of boiled pork and potatoes with Aunt Molly on Washington Street. The single black spring-wagon sat waiting in the gloom, its black-painted sideboards gleaming dull beneath the faint amber glow of a distant gas streetlamp.
Ricky pushed the heavy oak double doors of the shed open. "Let’s load the priority list first. Bleecker Street drops."
Inside the cool, quiet shed, Frank walked over to the hidden compartment beneath the rear bench seat. He unrolled a thick layer of canvas, revealing two Winchester Model 1897 twelve-gauge pump-action shotguns. He checked the magazine tube of each, listening to the solid, mechanical click of the shells.
"Loaded with six in the tube, one in the chamber," Frank said, resting one shotgun under the bench canvas and tucking thirty-two extra twelve-gauge brass shells into a leather pouch. He looked up at Ricky with a smirk. "Thirty-two extra rounds. Though frankly, Ricky, thirty-two feels like we’re preparing for a siege."
Arthur stepped up, throwing a thick canvas tarpaulin over four fifty-pound sacks of refined white flour and two sacks of granulated sugar. "It’s just a precaution, Frank. Out on the avenues at night, you don’t wait until someone’s on your wheels before you get ready."
Ricky agreed, leaning against the wagon bed as he checked his order list. "Arthur’s right. It’s better to have the steel and not need it. Ideally, we finish this entire run without anyone pulling a trigger."
Arthur scoffed softly, adjusting the leather reins in his calloused hands. "Hell, anyone with half a brain sees a twelve-gauge pump gun in the dark, they’ll turn tail and run. You won’t even need to fire a shot."
"Alright," Ricky said, closing his notebook with a soft, clean snap. "We’ve got forty-one accounts to hit tonight. Let’s move while the streets are quiet."
"If the roads stay clear," Arthur noted, checking his pocket watch by the lantern light, "we’ll be wrapped up and back in the shed before midnight."
"That’s the plan," Ricky said. "The sooner, the better."
A few minutes later, the iron rims of the spring-wagon ground softly over the wet cobblestones as they pulled out of the alley, turning south toward Bleecker Street.
At night, Greenwich Village was a completely different city. The frantic daytime clamor—the shrieking steam whistles, the shouting teamsters, and the milling crowds—was replaced by a deep, quiet stillness. Gas lamps flickered at the corners, casting long, dancing shadows across the brick storefronts. The only sound was the steady, rhythmic clop-clop-clop of the draft horse’s hooves and the low, wet sigh of the river breeze.
Their first stop was a small bakery on Bleecker Street.
The front display windows were dark, but a thin ribbon of yellow light showed beneath the alley door. Ricky stepped off the wagon, hoisting a fifty-pound canvas sack of white flour onto his shoulder, while Frank grabbed a second sack and a twenty-five-pound bag of sugar.
Ricky knocked three times firmly on the heavy wooden door.
A bolt slid back inside, and the door creaked open. The baker, a red-faced man named Lou wearing a grease-stained apron, looked out into the alley. Seeing Ricky and the Murphy brothers, his tired face relaxed into a wide, relieved smile.
"Come in, boys, come in," Lou whispered, stepping back to let them pass. "Set ’em by the dough trough."
Frank and Arthur carried the heavy flour sacks inside, setting them down on the clean floorboards with a soft, heavy thump.
Lou wiped his flour-dusted hands on his apron and turned to Ricky, pulling a small leather coin purse from his pocket. "I was hoping you’d make it early, Ricky. I got to tell you... those big wholesale outfits from Soho and Brooklyn started slashing their prices yesterday morning."
Ricky paused, his pencil hovering over his order book. "Slashing prices?"
"Aye," Lou nodded, taking two silver dollars and a quarter from his pouch and sliding them into Ricky’s hand. "Dropping their flour rate by five or ten cents a sack trying to win back the street. But their flour is still garbage, Ricky! Half of it’s damp, and the rest smells like kerosene from the railcars."
The baker leaned over the wooden trough, running his fingers through the pristine, bone-white flour Ricky had delivered. "My bread sales have been up thirty percent for three weeks because your stock is clean. If I switch back to Soho garbage just to save a nickel, my crust turns gray and my customers walk down to the Italian bakery. It’d ruin me."
Ricky kept his face completely neutral, though his modern analytical mind quickly processed the news. Soho is undercutting to force us out. That explained why daytime orders had dipped fifty percent—some of the more timid merchants had jumped at the lower prices, while others were terrified of receiving unmanifested stock at night.
Seeing Ricky’s quiet, serious expression, Lou patted his arm reassuringly. "Don’t you worry, son. Every real shopkeeper on Bleecker knows your quality is unmatchable. The fools who went back to Soho for cheap flour will be crawling back to you by Friday when their loaves turn out heavy as lead."
Ricky smiled, giving the baker a firm, respectful nod. "Appreciate that, Lou."
"Put me down for the same order every three days," Lou added, pointing to his flour bin. "Six sacks of winter wheat, two sacks of sugar, and ten pounds of lard. As long as you can keep the stock coming, you’ve got my trade."
"We’ll have it here, Lou," Ricky said, writing the recurring order cleanly into his notebook. "Just keep the deliveries between us. The coppers don’t need to know our schedule."
"Not a word," Lou promised, shutting the heavy alley door behind them.
For the next three hours, the night shift ran with mechanical precision.
The wagon glided from alley to alley, dropping flour at the bakeries, kegs of standard wire nails at Whitaker’s hardware store, and spools of Belgian linen thread at Samuel Gold’s tailor shop. Merchant after merchant expressed the same relief—paying their one-dollar weekly night-delivery fee on the spot, preferring pristine, reliable stock over the cheaper, ruined goods being pushed by the Soho cartels.
By eleven o’clock, the wagon bed was completely bare.
Arthur turned the horse off Perry Street, steering the dray toward the quiet curve of Greenwich Street to complete their loop back toward the Gansevoort storage shed.
"See?" Frank chuckled from the bench, stretching his arms over his head. "Told you. Clean run, no trouble, and we’re heading back before midnight."
"Don’t jinx it, Frank," Arthur muttered, keeping his eyes on the shadowed street ahead.
As the wagon crossed a dark intersection near an unlit alleyway, four figures suddenly stepped out from the shadows of a brick building.
Two men blocked the narrow street in front of the dray, while two more stepped up behind the rear wheels, effectively trapping the wagon in the dark lane.
Arthur pulled back hard on the leather reins. "Whoa! Whoa, boy!"
The black draft horse tossed its heavy head, letting out an anxious, blowing huff as its iron shoes scraped against the stones.
Ricky’s Perception kicked in instantly. His hand dropped toward his waistband, his body coiling into a tight, responsive stance as he took in the four men. They wore dark canvas jackets, heavy leather belts, and flat caps pulled low. The leader standing directly in front of the horse carried a heavy iron tire-iron in his right hand.
The leader took two slow steps forward, the pale yellow light of a distant gas lamp catching his sharp, sneering face. He looked up at Arthur on the bench, his voice dripping with venomous malice.
"Well, well," the man spat, resting the iron bar against his thigh. "Arthur Murphy. How dare you betray us, you bastard?"
Arthur’s eyes widened in sudden, stark recognition. Beside him, Frank froze, his hand halting inches from the hidden shotgun beneath the bench.
Ricky looked at Arthur, then at the leader blocking the road, his gray eyes narrowing in the dark.
Arthur’s jaw set, his knuckles turning stark white against the leather reins. He knew that voice anywhere.