Chapter 26: Eyes On The Sky
The sun cut through the river mist over Bleecker Street, turning the damp cobblestones into a shimmering yellow grid.
Ricky sat on the bench of the lead spring-wagon, his order ledger resting across his thighs, watching Frank Murphy hoist a fifty-pound sack of winter flour into the rear storage room of a bakery on Perry Street.
Per Ricky’s instructions, both wagons were running with a ten-to-twenty-cent price increase on all bulk staples today. Ricky had hoped the slight price hike would curb the overwhelming flood of orders, giving the team time to transition to their night-shift model without drowning in drayage.
It hadn’t worked.
"Twenty cents more on the flour?" the baker had grunted when Ricky handed him the revised invoice. He examined the clean white canvas sack, uncreased and completely dry, then looked out at the street where a Soho wholesale wagon was currently unloading gray, damp flour sacks covered in soot. The baker spat into the gutter and pulled out his cash drawer. "Still cheaper than the Soho bandits when you count the shipping fee, and your flour doesn’t smell like kerosene. Put me down for three more sacks on Tuesday."
The regular merchants didn’t care about a minor price bump. Ricky’s System-generated stock was pristine, unrusted, and delivered right to their doors on time—a stark contrast to the damaged, late inventory from the established Brooklyn and Soho wholesale houses.
As Frank finished loading the flour, Ricky noticed a man standing under the wooden awning of a tobacconist’s shop across the avenue.
The man wore a clean bowler hat and a dark wool overcoat, holding a small notepad. He wasn’t a shopkeeper, and he certainly wasn’t a gang thug from the Dusters or the Gophers. He had the clean, sharp posture of a clerk or a runner sent by a commercial firm. His eyes stayed glued to the black spring-wagon, his pencil moving rapidly as he took down the wagon’s iron wheel markings and the name of the dapple-gray draft horse.
When Ricky turned his head and met the clerk’s gaze, the man quickly tucked his notepad into his overcoat pocket, turned on his heel, and vanished down an alley toward Hudson Street.
The wholesalers are watching, Ricky thought, his pencil tapping against the wooden ledger. They’re noticing the drop in their neighborhood volume.
Three blocks south, on Greenwhich Street, Marek’s wagon pulled up to the curb outside a small dry-goods storefront.
John sat on the high bench holding the leather reins, his sharp gray eyes scanning the crowded sidewalk, while young Tom Murphy jumped out to unhook the rear canvas.
Before Tom could pull the first wooden crate of tallow candles from the bed, three men stepped out from the shadow of an alleyway, blocking the sidewalk.
They wore short, checkered wool jackets, flat caps pulled low over their brows, and thick leather belts. The leader, a man with a crooked nose and a thick, yellowed mustache, stepped right up to the wagon’s front wheel, resting a heavy, calloused hand against the iron rim.
John’s right hand slid smoothly under the dark canvas flap near his boots, his fingers wrapping around the cold walnut stock of the Winchester Model 1897 pump-action shotgun. His pulse hammered in his neck, his knuckles whitening as he prepared for a draw.
Marek stepped out from the shop’s doorway, his order book tucked under his arm. He took in the three men with a single, calm glance, stepping smoothly between them and young Tom.
"Something I can help you with, gents?" Marek asked, keeping his voice light, friendly, and conversational.
"You’re the commission boys running drayage off Barrow, right?" the leader asked, spitting a dark glob of tobacco juice against the wagon wheel. He looked over the clean wood of the wagon, his eyes narrowing. "You’ve been moving crates through Greenwich for three weeks now without dropping a dime into the hat."
"We’re a new outfit," Marek said smoothly, keeping his hands out of his pockets. "Just getting our wheels greased."
"Well, the wheels don’t grease themselves in the Village," the thug grunted. "Goo Goo Knox says any new rig doing business on Duster turf owes a six-dollar initiation fee. And starting next week, you drop two dollars every Friday morning to the collector at the Barrow Street saloon. You want to keep your horse’s legs whole, you pay."
Behind them, Tom Murphy’s jaw set, his fists clenching at his sides. On the bench, John stayed dead still, his hand locked on the hidden shotgun, waiting for Marek’s signal.
Marek didn’t hesitate. He didn’t argue, and he didn’t raise his voice. He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out six heavy silver dollars, and counted them directly into the thug’s open palm.
The leader blinked, surprised by how easily the Polish kid handed over the silver without a single word of complaint or fear. He weighed the coins in his hand, a smug, ugly grin breaking through his yellowed mustache.
"Smart boy," the thug chuckled, pocketing the silver. "Two dollars every Friday. Don’t make us come looking for you."
The three Dusters turned and strolled casually down the street, bumping shoulders with pedestrians as they walked away.
Marek let out a quiet breath, turning to look up at John on the wagon bench. John slowly withdrew his hand from beneath the canvas, letting out a long, ragged sigh as he wiped his sweaty palm on his trousers.
"Six bucks just like that?" Tom whispered, stepping up beside Marek. "Marek, we could have taken ’em."
"We’re running cargo, Tom, not fighting for a corner," Marek said quietly, his voice thoroughly grounded. "We pay the six dollars today so we can finish our route cleanly. Next week, things change."
By six in the evening, the sun was dropping behind the slate roofs of the West Side, casting long, dark shadows across the alley behind 14 Commerce Street.
The two wagons were safely stowed in Reinhardt’s livery barn on Barrow Street, and the six-man crew gathered in the quiet alley near the rear fire escape.
Ricky stood on the bottom iron step, counting out the daily silver pay for John, the three Murphy brothers, and Marek. He added the overtime bonuses, sliding the heavy coins into their open palms.
Beside the alley mouth, four young men in worn wool caps and scuffed boots stood leaning against the brick wall. They were the watchmen Arthur Murphy had recruited—four quiet, street-smart corner-boys who had spent the last eight hours sitting on the stoops of Commerce Street for a dollar a day.
Arthur stepped up to Ricky, gesturing toward the four lookouts. "Pay the watch, Ricky. They kept their eyes peeled all afternoon."
Ricky pulled four silver dollars from his vest, handing them to Arthur, who passed them to the watchmen. The four young men grinned, pocketing the clean silver for what had essentially been eight hours of smoking paper cigarettes on a sunny stoop.
Before leaving, the eldest of the watchmen—a tall, lean kid named Danny—stepped closer to Ricky, his voice dropping into a quiet whisper.
"Hey, boss," Danny said, looking around the quiet alley. "You told us to keep an eye out for unfamiliar faces around number 14."
Ricky’s eyes sharpened instantly. "What did you see?"
"Two guys," Danny reported, rubbing his jaw. "Wore dark wool caps and heavy canvas jackets. Didn’t look like parish locals. They came down Commerce twice this afternoon around three o’clock. Stood across the street from Mrs. O’Connell’s front steps, looking up at the fourth-floor windows. One of ’em was pointing up at the fire escape."
Marek stepped up beside Ricky, his face going pale in the fading light. "Did they ask anyone questions?"
"Nah," Danny said, shaking his head. "They just watched for twenty minutes, wrote something down on a piece of paper, and walked back toward the river slips. Looked like scouts."
Ricky kept his face completely neutral, offering Danny a firm, respectful nod. "Good work, Danny. Take the boys and get some supper. We’ll need you back on the block tomorrow morning."
"You got it, boss," Danny said, tipping his cap as he and the three watchmen walked out of the alley.
Arthur Murphy watched them leave, then turned to Ricky, his heavy brow furrowed with concern. "Sounds like Knox’s lookouts or some spotters from the Soho wholesale houses. They’re tracking where you sleep, Ricky."
"I know," Ricky said quietly. He looked at Frank, Tom, John, and Arthur. "Get some rest, boys. Tomorrow’s our last daytime route before we launch the night drops. Five sharp at the storage shed."
"See you at five, Ricky," Arthur said, leading his brothers and John down the alley.
Once the crew had dispersed into the gathering dusk, Ricky and Marek turned toward the iron fire escape behind number 14 Commerce Street.
They unlocked the heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs, stepping into the dark, quiet hallway of the fourth floor. The air inside smelled faintly of clean pine soap, floor wax, and Mrs. O’Connell’s evening cabbage soup drifting up from the lower floors.
Marek locked the door behind them, his hands shaking slightly as he shot the iron bolt into place. He turned to Ricky, his face tight with worry in the dim light.
"They’re watching the house, Ricky," Marek whispered, his voice raspy. "The Dusters or the Soho distributors... they know we live here. If they come back at night with bricks or kerosene..."
Ricky walked over to the chest of drawers, setting his order notebook down with a soft, clean thud. He looked around the clean, quiet attic room—the sturdy bunk beds, the clean wool blankets, and the neat wooden wardrobes they had bought with their first earnings.
"We were careless," Ricky admitted, his voice quiet, steady, and analytical. "We got comfortable because Mrs. O’Connell was kind to us. Staging our sample boxes up here and walking straight back to Commerce Street every evening made it too easy for anyone following our wagons."
"What do we do?" Marek asked. "We can’t bring trouble to Mrs. O’Connell’s door. She’s an old lady, Ricky. If the Dusters throw a pipe bomb through her front window because of our business..."
"We move," Ricky said firmly.
Marek blinked. "Move? Where?"
"Somewhere closer to the storage shed," Ricky said, leaning his hip against the dresser as he laid out the logistics. "Near the river docks. We rent a loft or a whole floor in an old commercial building right near Gansevoort Street. Somewhere secluded, hidden from the main avenues, where we can stage the wagons, store the System inventory, and sleep under the same roof without dragging anyone else into it."
Marek thought about that, rubbing his chin as he ran through his mental map of the West Side. "Arthur knows the river blocks better than anyone. His old man worked the timber slips for twenty years. We should ask him tomorrow—he’ll know which commercial landlords don’t ask questions and which buildings have private alleys."
"Good," Ricky nodded. "We’ll ask Arthur first thing in the morning."
"And Mrs. O’Connell?" Marek asked softly, looking down toward the floorboards. "What do we tell her?"
Ricky let out a slow, quiet breath. He felt a genuine pang of regret in his chest at the thought of leaving the warm, honest boarding house, but his modern survival instincts were absolute. Protecting their front—and protecting the sweet old lady who had given them their first real chance in 1910—came before sentiment.
"We tell her the truth... or a version of it," Ricky said, offering a small, tired smile. "We tell her our commission firm is expanding faster than we expected. We tell her we had to rent a larger commercial space near the river docks to hold our growing inventory, and we need to sleep near the warehouse to manage the early morning freight."
Marek nodded slowly, a look of relief washing over his face. "Yeah. That’s clean. She’ll be proud of us."
"We move tomorrow," Ricky said, closing his pocketbook with a final, solid snap. "Right when the night shifts start. By the time anyone comes looking for the commission boys on Commerce Street... we’ll already be ghosts."