Chapter 27: Moving Up
Saturday afternoon drew to a close under a hazy, violet sky. By a quarter to five, the two black spring-wagons pulled back into the narrow lane behind the alley Mrs. O Connel’s building.
Ricky hopped down from the bench, unbuckling his leather order book and sliding it into his vest. Beside him, Frank Murphy wiped a layer of sweat and road dust from his neck, while Marek and John Caldwell were already unhitching the horses to lead them to Reinhardt’s livery barn.
Ricky walked over to Arthur Murphy, who was checking the iron rims on the lead wagon’s rear wheels.
"Arthur," Ricky said, keeping his tone quiet and conversational. "We need a new place to stay. Somewhere we can blend in, preferably close to the docks, where a couple of wagons coming and going at odd hours won’t draw every scout in the parish."
Arthur didn’t look up immediately, tapping a loose spoke with his knuckle before standing up. A slow, knowing smile crossed his broad face. He didn’t ask why Ricky was suddenly eager to leave Commerce Street; he had already heard Danny’s report about the spotters eyeing Mrs. O’Connell’s windows.
"I know a spot," Arthur said, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag. "Right in our old neighborhood. It’s industrial, loud, and nobody gives a damn who comes or goes."
"Where?" Ricky asked.
"Washington Street," Frank chimed in, stepping over from the horse’s head. "Down near the meatpacking yards. You’ve got drayage carts, beer trucks, and timber wagons rolling past from five in the morning till midnight. Two extra wagons won’t even make a ripple."
Arthur nodded in agreement. "It’s busy enough that everything looks legitimate, and the commercial lofts up top are separate from the ground-floor shops."
Ricky didn’t hesitate. "Show me. We’ll move our things today."
He turned toward the alley mouth. "Frank, Tom, come with us. We’ll load what little we have at Mrs. O’Connell’s onto the wagon."
Marek quickly took the lead, guiding Frank and Tom up the iron fire escape of 14 Commerce Street to gather their sparse belongings. There wasn’t much to carry—a few changes of wool shirts, extra socks, tin cups, two oil lanterns, and a couple of Ricky’s trade notebooks, along with three empty pine crates they had used to hold sample stock.
While the boys packed up the fourth floor, Ricky walked around to the front stoop of number 14 and knocked firmly on the dark oak door.
Moments later, the heavy latch clicked, and Mrs. O’Connell opened the door. Her silver hair was pinned back in her tidy bun, and her clean white apron smelled faintly of boiled potatoes and floor soap. When she saw Ricky standing there with his cap in his hand, her face softened into a warm smile.
"Well, hello, Ricky," she said softly. "You’re back early for a Saturday."
Ricky offered a polite, respectful nod, though a genuine pang of guilt touched his chest. "Afternoon, Mrs. O’Connell. I... actually came to bring you some news."
Her silver eyebrows raised slightly. "News?"
"We’re going to have to move out today, ma’am," Ricky said, keeping his posture relaxed and down-to-earth.
Mrs. O’Connell blinked, taken aback. "Move? Already? But you’ve barely been here a month, son!"
"It’s for the business expansion, Mrs. O’Connell," Ricky explained smoothly, leaning into the cover story they had prepared. "Our commission firm is growing faster than we expected. We had to rent a commercial space near the river docks on Washington Street to handle our incoming freight, and we need to be on-site to manage the night shipments and early morning drayage."
Mrs. O’Connell looked at his calm gray eyes, then let out a slow, understanding sigh. Her expression turned from surprise into a quiet, maternal pride.
"Ah, Thomas always said a growing trade moves where the river flows," she said softly, shaking her head. "I can’t hold a hard-working boy back from making his way in New York. Washington Street, you say? Near the docks?"
"Yes, ma’am," Ricky said. "Just a few blocks west."
"Well, make sure you watch your pockets down by the river," she warned, pointing a calloused finger at him. "The draymen down there aren’t as polite as the parish folk on Bleecker. Do you boys need help carrying your trunks downstairs?"
"No, ma’am," Ricky smiled gently. "Marek and Arthur’s brothers are helping lower our things to the wagon right now. We didn’t have much to begin with."
"Alright then," she said, stepping onto the threshold to watch as Marek, Frank, and Tom emerged from the side alley carrying the small wooden crates and their wool coats.
Ricky helped load the last crate onto the wagon bed. Once everything was secure, Marek and Ricky turned to face Eleanor O’Connell one last time.
Marek took off his flat cap, offering her a low, genuine bow. "Thank you for everything, Mrs. O’Connell. For the feather pillows and the clean blankets."
"Oh, stop it, Marek," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she patted his cheek. "You two be good boys. And if you ever need a hot bowl of cabbage soup on a cold Sunday, you know where my door is."
"We won’t forget, ma’am," Ricky said, tipping his cap. "Take care of yourself."
"Good luck, boys," she called out, standing on the shallow stone steps as the black spring-wagon rumbled down Commerce Street, turning the corner toward Hudson.
The transition from the quiet, residential curve of Commerce Street to the chaotic roar of Washington Street was instant.
Even at five in the afternoon on a Saturday, Washington Street was a wall of industrial noise and activity. Heavy wooden drayage wagons, two-horse beer trucks, and a few high-wheeled motor-cars clogged the wide avenue. The smell of cold river silt, raw hides, cured meat, and horse sweat hung heavy in the air. Iron-rimmed wheels ground over the uneven cobblestones, while teamsters cursed loudly at pedestrians darting between the teams.
It was chaotic, crowded, and completely impersonal. To anyone watching from the sidewalk, two boys in a black spring-wagon were entirely invisible amidst the hundred other commercial rigs moving cargo along the West Side.
Arthur guided the horse toward the curb, pulling back on the reins outside a five-story brick building.
It wasn’t as grand as Mrs. O’Connell’s boarding house, but it was solid. The ground floor housed a noisy cooperage shop where men were hammering iron hoops onto wooden beer barrels, while the upper floors featured wide, dirt-streaked glass windows and a heavy, iron-reinforced street door.
Arthur set the brake with a dry clack, turning to look at Ricky. "This is it. Five-story commercial loft. The top floor’s been empty since the printing press on four moved to Brooklyn."
"Wait here a second," Arthur added, hopping down from the bench. "I’ll go inside and get the key from the building manager."
Frank and Tom jumped down right behind him, following their older brother through the heavy front door into the dark entry hall.
Ricky and Marek remained on the wagon bench, watching the heavy flow of drayage traffic on Washington Street.
"It’s loud," Marek noted, looking up at the high brick facade. "No one’s going to notice us loading crates at two in the morning here. The cooperage downstairs makes enough noise to drown out a cannon."
"It’s perfect," Ricky agreed, checking the street corners. "No residential stoops for spotters to sit on, and the docks are two blocks away."
Suddenly, a loud, violent CRASH echoed from inside the building’s first-floor hallway.
Ricky’s head snapped toward the entrance.
The sound of shattering ceramic plates, splintering wood, and heavy furniture being thrown against plaster echoed out onto the sidewalk, followed by a man’s angry, muffled shouting and the sharp, heavy thud of a fist hitting skin.
Marek glanced over at Ricky, his eyes wide, his hand going instinctively toward his hip.
Ricky’s gray eyes narrowed, his upgraded Perception instantly picking up the scuffle inside. He didn’t say a word, slipping off the wagon bench and stepping toward the open door.