Chapter 17: Ganseevoort Rig
The cold air of Greenwich Village was a wall of damp, freezing fog when Ricky slipped out of the side fire exit of 14 Commerce Street.
It was half-past three in the morning. The quiet, winding streets of the Village were dead silent, save for the rhythmic, distant clatter of a single milk wagon several blocks over and the low, wet sigh of the Hudson River. The gas lamps flickered through the mist, casting long, watery yellow smudges on the wet cobblestones.
Ricky adjusted the drawstrings of his old gray hoodie, which he still used for his workouts, and began to run.
He kept his pace steady, his waterlogged sneakers from his first day in New York replaced by the sturdy leather work boots he’d bought with Marek. The leather was stiff, clicking sharply against the cold stones, but his feet were dry.
One mile. He ran down Christopher Street, turned up Hudson, and circled back toward the quiet curve of Commerce. With his Agility and Endurance enhanced by the Ledger’s previous attribute points, his breathing didn’t turn into the ragged, desperate gasp it used to. His lungs pulled in the cold, coal-scented air with a steady, mechanical rhythm.
Three miles. He ran past the dark, shuttered storefronts. He saw Whitaker’s Iron & Brass Goods, silent and dark under the fog. He saw Samuel Gold’s tailor shop, the gold-leaf lettering on the window dull in the gaslight.
Five miles.
Ricky stopped in the narrow, shadowed alleyway directly behind Mrs. O’Connell’s boarding house. His skin was steaming in the freezing air, his t-shirt soaked with sweat under his hoodie. He immediately dropped to his hands and toes on the cold, damp stones.
Push-ups. One, two, three... His shoulders burned, but it was a clean, manageable heat.
He finished the hundredth push-up, stood up, and immediately went into his squats, his eyes fixed on the rusty iron fire escape above.
On his hundredth squat, the familiar, crystal-clear chime echoed inside his mind.
[ DAILY DISCIPLINE QUEST — SUCCESSFUL ]
Rewards: +4 Attribute Points, +$20.00 System Balance
Current System Balance: $194.92
Daily Purchasing Capacity: $200.00 / $200.00
Ricky took a slow, deep breath, letting his heart rate settle. He closed his eyes and opened his character sheet. He didn’t hesitate; he dumped all four points into Endurance, feeling that deep, whiskey-like warmth spread through his core, easing the ache in his legs.
He climbed the quiet wooden steps of the fire escape, slipped through the attic door, and stepped into the pitch-dark room.
Marek was already sitting up on the edge of the bottom bunk, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his teeth clicking together from the morning chill. "You’re back," the boy whispered. "I heard you leave. You really do that every morning?"
"Every morning," Ricky said, pulling off his sweaty hoodie and reaching for his new, stiff wool vest. He opened the Ledger’s vault interface in his mind. Withdraw one hundred and twenty dollars.
A soft hum vibrated in the dark room. A neat stack of gold certificates—tens, fives, and a few silver ones—materialized in Ricky’s hand. He tucked the thick wad of paper bills into his inner vest pocket and looked at Marek.
"I got the loan from the vault," Ricky said. "A hundred and twenty. Let’s go buy a horse."
The Gansevoort Street market was a muddy, chaotic gauntlet of draft animals, steam tractors, and shouting men.
The scent here was thick and heavy—a mixture of wet straw, rotting hay, hot horse sweat, and fresh manure. Blacksmiths’ hammers clanged against iron anvils in the open yards, sending showers of orange sparks into the cold morning air. Farmers from upstate and Jersey teamsters were lining up their wagons, their shouting voices cutting through the rumble of early-morning drayage.
Marek led the way, his flat cap pulled low, his eyes scanning the wooden pens of the livery stable near the timber slips.
"Don’t look at the flashy ones, Ricky," Marek said, speaking out of the corner of his mouth as they walked past a pen of tall, glossy carriage horses. "Those are for the carriage trade. They’re expensive to feed and their hooves are too soft for hauling heavy hardware. We need a draft. Something blocky."
They stopped outside a muddy corral where a dozen sturdy, thick-chested horses stood, their breath rising in thick white plumes. A grizzled old stable master with a dirty sheepskin coat and a stubby pipe in his mouth was leaning against the wooden rail, watching them with lazy, bloodshot eyes.
"Help you, boys?" the stable master asked, spitting a dark glob of tobacco juice into the mud.
"We need a workhorse," Marek said, stepping up to the rail. His voice was confident, carrying the practical tone of a kid who had grown up on a farm in Galicia. "Strong enough for a spring-wagon, but not so slow we’re still delivering at midnight. What do you have?"
The man puffed on his pipe, pointing the stem toward a stocky, dapple-gray gelding standing near the water trough. "That dapple-gray there. Six years old. Solid hoofs. Came off a vegetable dray in Jersey. Owner went bust, so I took him for the feed bill. Strong as an ox, and he won’t bolt when a streetcar sparks."
Marek climbed onto the wooden rail, whistling softly. The dapple-gray turned its massive head, its large, dark eyes watching the boy. Marek hopped down into the mud, entirely unbothered by the filth, and walked up to the animal.
Ricky watched from the rail. Marek moved with an easy, quiet authority. He rubbed the horse’s thick neck, then gently pried the gelding’s mouth open, squinting at its yellow teeth. He walked a circle around the beast, running his hands down its thick, hairy legs, checking the joints for swelling or splints.
Marek walked back to the rail and gave Ricky a quiet, approving nod. "The teeth are good. No rot. His hocks are clean. He’s a bit slow, but he’s built like a brick wall."
Marek turned to the stable master. "How much for the gray?"
"Sixty-five dollars," the man said.
"Forty-five," Marek countered instantly, his face completely flat. "He’s got a slight rub on his shoulder from a bad collar. It’ll take two weeks of grease and rest before I can put a heavy harness on him without him balking."
The stable master snorted, shaking his head.
"Fifty-five. And I’ll throw in a half-sack of oats."
"Fifty," Marek said, leaning his elbows on the rail. "Cash. Right now. No paper, no vouchers."
The man looked at the two boys, his gaze lingering on their clean wool suits and flat caps. He took his pipe out of his mouth and nodded once. "Fifty. Deal."
Ricky reached into his vest pocket, pulled out five clean ten-dollar gold certificates, and handed them to the man. The stable master’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the crisp, uncreased bills, but he pocketed them quickly without a word.
"We need a wagon," Ricky said to the man. "And a harness."
"Blacksmith’s yard three doors down," the stable master said, pointing his pipe down Gansevoort Street. "Old Jerry has a used light spring-wagon he rebuilt last month. Tell him Lars sent you."
Ten minutes later, Ricky was handing another thirty-five dollars to Jerry, a burly, soot-covered blacksmith with arms the size of tree trunks, for a sturdy, black-painted wooden spring-wagon with iron-rimmed wheels and a clean, newly greased axle. Another twelve dollars secured a heavy leather harness and a set of iron-tipped wooden reins.
By six in the morning, they had their rig.
Marek sat on the wooden bench of the wagon, holding the leather reins with an easy, practiced grip. The dapple-gray horse—whom Marek had already decided to call Bartek—plodded forward, its iron shoes striking the cobblestones with a heavy, slow clop-clop-clop.
"We have a dray," Marek said, a massive, boyish grin breaking through his serious expression. "Ricky, look at us. We have a real rig!"
"Now we need the cargo," Ricky said, sitting beside him on the bench, his eyes scanning the foggy streets. "Turn down the alley behind the old Hudson Valley warehouse. It’s empty and completely covered from the street."
The alley behind the abandoned warehouse was quiet, the high brick walls completely blocking out the morning light.
Marek backed the wagon into the deep shadows near the loading dock. He jumped down, checking the mouth of the alley. "It’s clear. No one’s here. Ricky, how are we going to get the goods? Do we have to wait for a delivery driver from your bank?"
"Just wait in the wagon," Ricky said. "And keep your back turned."
Marek nodded, his chest rising and falling with excitement as he turned away, holding Bartek’s bridle to keep the horse quiet.
Ricky stepped into the deep shadow of the loading dock, completely concealed from any eyes on the main street. He closed his eyes and opened the Ledger Shop.
He navigated to the Industrial Materials category, searching for 6-inch flat steel wood files and standard steel wire nails.
[ LEDGER SHOP — PROCUREMENT ]
6-inch Flat Steel Files (Dozen): $0.04 (Factory Cost)
Standard Wire Nails (100-lb Keg): $0.18 (Factory Cost)
The prices were absurdly, beautifully low.
Ricky mentally selected his quantities. He ordered two dozen steel files and one hundred-weight (a 100-lb keg) of wire nails.
Total Cost: $0.26
He pressed Purchase. The system hummed, and the transaction completed instantly. Ricky selected Deploy Locally, targeting the clean wooden bed of their new wagon.
A faint, blue circular ripple shimmered in the shadows of the wagon bed. With a solid, heavy thump that made the wagon springs creak, a pristine, light-colored pine keg wrapped in iron bands and a small, neat wooden crate materialized on the floorboards.
Marek gasped, spinning around. He stared at the newly appeared cargo, his jaw dropping. He walked over, touching the fresh pine wood of the keg. The metal nails inside jingled softly. He opened the smaller wooden crate; inside sat twenty-four beautiful, dark gray carbon steel files, each wrapped in greaseproof paper to prevent rust.
"They’re... they’re perfect," Marek whispered, picking up one of the files and running his thumb over the sharp, cross-cut teeth. "They look like they came straight out of a foundry in Sheffield. Not a speck of rust."
"Let’s go," Ricky said, climbing back onto the wagon bench. "Whitaker is opening his shop in twenty minutes."
The brass bell above the door of Whitaker’s Iron & Brass Goods gave a sharp, metallic jingle as Ricky pushed it open.
The air inside the shop was still cold, smelling of cold iron, machine oil, and the dry ash of the stove that Henry Whitaker was currently trying to light. The hardware merchant looked up, his spectacles perched on his forehead, his face twisting into a frown when he saw Ricky and Marek.
"Morning, boys," Whitaker grumbled, tossing a piece of kindling into the stove. "If you’re here to ask about work again, the answer’s still—"
He stopped.
Ricky and Marek stepped into the warm shop. Between them, they carried a heavy, pristine pine keg of nails, and Ricky had a neat wooden box tucked under his arm. They set the heavy keg down on the floorboards with a solid, echoing thunk.
Whitaker blinked, looking from the clean wood of the keg to Ricky’s face. "What’s this?"
"Your order, Mr. Whitaker," Ricky said, offering a calm, professional smile. "Six-inch flat steel files. And a hundred-weight of standard wire nails."
Whitaker let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. He walked out from behind the counter, his boots scraping the floorboards, and knelt beside the keg. He ran his hand over the clean, pale pine.
He pulled a loose nail from the top of the keg; it was bright, perfectly straight, and completely free of the dark, greasy rust that usually coated his shipments from the Brooklyn houses.
"Where did you get these?" Whitaker asked, his voice dropping into a raspy whisper. "The distributor in Brooklyn told me they were backordered for three weeks."
"I told you yesterday, Mr. Whitaker," Ricky said, leaning his hand lightly on the counter. "I have a source. No rail delays. No shipping markups."
Whitaker stood up, his eyes locked on the wooden box under Ricky’s arm. Ricky set it on the counter and slid the lid back. The clean, greaseproof-wrapped steel files lay inside in neat, orderly rows.
The merchant picked one up, his experienced fingers feeling the weight and the sharp, flawless cut of the steel. He looked at Ricky, his suspicion warring with the sheer, desperate need for inventory.
"How much?" Whitaker asked, his throat dry.
"The distributor wants forty cents a dozen for the files," Ricky said, keeping his voice conversational and direct. "I’ll give them to you for thirty-two cents a dozen. And the keg of nails... the wholesale house charges you three dollars. I’ll let you have it for two-forty. And you don’t have to buy a half-ton to get that price."
Whitaker’s spectacles slipped down onto his nose. He stared at the files, then ran the calculations in his head. Thirty-two cents a dozen meant he could undercut the department stores downtown while still making a massive retail markup. And he didn’t have to tie up his precious floor space with a mountain of bulk nails.
"You’re serious," Whitaker said, looking into Ricky’s gray eyes.
"I don’t play games with business, Mr. Whitaker," Ricky said. "We can deliver every Tuesday and Friday morning. Before the street sweeps start. You tell us what you need, and we’ll have it at your door."
Whitaker stared at the goods for one more silent second. Then, a slow, genuine smile broke through his grimy, tired face. He walked back to his cash drawer, the wood creaking as he pulled it open.
He counted out three dollars and four cents in silver and handed it to Ricky.
"You’ve got a deal, son," Whitaker said, his voice warm. "You bring me another crate of those files and two kegs of nails on Friday, and I’ll speak to the grocer down the block for you. He’s been waiting on sugar since the freeze."
"We’ll be here, Mr. Whitaker," Ricky said, pocketing the silver coins with a respectful nod. "Have a good day."
As they stepped back out onto Bleecker Street, the brass bell jingling behind them, the cold morning fog was finally starting to lift. The street was coming alive—the shouting of fruit peddlers, the rattle of coal wagons, and the heavy, rhythmic clop-clop of Bartek’s hooves on the stones.
Marek looked at the three silver dollars in Ricky’s hand, his face split by a wide, disbelieving grin.
"We did it," Marek whispered, his eyes bright with a wild, infectious energy. "We actually did it, Ricky. Our first sale."
Ricky smiled, tossing one of the heavy silver dollars into the air and catching it cleanly.
"That’s one shop, Marek," Ricky said, looking down the busy avenue. "By next month, we’re going to own the whole street."