Chapter 108: Rubber & Smoke
In a dusty second-floor loft just off Washington Square Park, the muffled rumble of horse carriages and passing pedestrians on the street below drifted through the cracked window glass. Thick tobacco smoke hung in the air around a rough wooden table where Peter, Henry, and Reggie sat in silence.
Over the past four days, a quiet desperation had settled over Barney’s crews. When the Commission Boys abruptly stopped hiring temporary laborers, the brief taste of steady pay and hot meals vanished like a dream. Barney’s men were fuming, muttering threats under their breath about their boss’s tight fists, but without backing, they lacked the leverage to do anything about it.
Peter flicked an ash from his cigarette onto the wooden floorboards. "So what do we do for ’em? Leave ’em out to dry?"
"If we move too openly, Barney’s loyal lapdogs are going to smell something off," Reggie replied, taking a slow sip from a chipped mug. "We’re still pooling cash to buy those rifles and ammunition. The last thing we need is someone blowing our cover over a bunch of hungry hands."
"So we just watch our own men starve?" Peter pressed, leaning across the table. "After Stevenson cut off the temporary hiring?"
Reggie chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "I didn’t say that. We’ll figure something out. Besides... a bunch of angry, hungry men is good for our cause. And that Ricky kid—whatever his full name is—is fucking cunning."
Peter frowned, looking confused. "What do you mean?"
"You really think he set up those soup kitchens and temp jobs out of the goodness of his heart?" Reggie asked, resting his elbows on the table. "He knew Barney was too proud to let another crew feed his men. Stevenson gave ’em a taste of good pay, then yanked the rug out, knowing Barney couldn’t afford to step in and fill the gap. He engineered this entire mess to push Barney into a corner."
Peter thought it over, his brow furrowing deeper. "No... why would he intentionally go against his own business partner?"
Henry, leaning against the exposed brick wall with his arms folded, finally chimed in. "Because he wants Greenwich as his staging ground. He wants to expand north and east—SoHo, NoHo, Bowery, Chelsea. Barney is standing right in his way, but Stevenson can’t fight him head-on without ruining his legitimate corporate front. So he makes Barney and Kid Yorke bleed each other dry instead."
"The moment that liquor came into the picture, everything went to shit," Reggie added, pointing a finger at Peter. "That’s the real game."
Peter let out a heavy breath, nodding slowly. "It makes sense. But there’s still a pressing matter right in front of us. If we just let things lie, those starving men might snap and start a revolt early. That’ll ruin our whole plan before we’re ready."
Reggie turned his head toward Henry. "Hmm... you’re right. Any ideas, brother?"
Henry rubbed his stubbled jaw. "We have some of our boys steal from the cocaine stashes. Just a pocketful at a time. They bring it here, we buy it off ’em at a discounted rate, and then we hire those same hungry men to push it down into SoHo, NoHo, Nolita, and all the way into the Bowery."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "The Bowery? Won’t the Bowery Boys jump our guys the second they see ’em operating on their turf?"
"The Bowery is bone dry right now," Reggie countered with a sharp smirk. "They want the powder. As long as our boys keep their heads down and don’t try to act tough, we can supply ’em easily. We just have to be careful at first so they don’t rob our boys blind."
Peter grinned faintly, tapping his fingers on the wooden table. "That works to our advantage. Not only do we build up a bigger stash of cocaine, but our daily sales jump through the roof."
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Meanwhile, across town at the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company office on Hudson Street, the afternoon sun streamed through the blinds, casting warm golden bars across Ricky’s desk.
The door clicked open, and Evelyn walked in carrying a small leather folder and a bound manuscript.
"Sir, aside from the daily income report," Evelyn began, setting the folder down, "I’ve come to give you a report regarding that fantasy novel you had us review—The Lord of the Rings."
Ricky immediately set his pen down, leaning forward in his chair with genuine curiosity. "Yes? What did everyone think?"
Evelyn offered a polite, somewhat hesitant smile. "Well... most of the office staff found it rather difficult to read. The prose and sentence structure felt quite unusual to them. Heavy, in a way. I adapted to the odd phrasing fairly quickly myself, and I have to admit, the story itself is fascinating. But if you intend to publish it for the general public, it would definitely need to be rewritten to fit standard reading habits."
Ricky paused, leaning back as the reality of the era sank in. Right. People in 1910 are used to traditional serialized newspaper prose or classic Victorian structure. Modern, high-fantasy narrative depth feels dense and alien to them.
Reaching into his desk drawer, Ricky pulled out four brightly colored, bound books—each bearing the title Dragon Ball, clearly labeled as an English version. The System had automatically stripped away any author names, copyright pages, or modern timeline references to prevent historical contamination.
He slid the four books across the desk toward her. "Have them read these instead."
Evelyn picked up the top volume, tilting her head. "What is this, sir?" She opened to the first page, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the artwork. "Is this a comic strip? I usually see these in Sunday newspapers... but an entire book made of them?"
She stood there, instantly mesmerized, her eyes tracing the dynamic panel layouts and expressive character art as she flipped through the first few pages.
Ricky smirked, watching her reaction. "What do you think?"
"This... this would definitely be a massive hit, sir," Evelyn murmured, unable to tear her eyes away from the page. "But reproducing something like this would prove extremely challenging. Other than finding someone capable of these precise drawings, recreating every single action panel for printing would take months just for one book."
Ricky chuckled softly. "I’m afraid that’s not the entire book, Evelyn. That’s just volume one. There’s still so much more."
He laid out the remaining twenty fivebvolumes side by side, stacked across his desk.
Evelyn stared at the row of books, her jaw dropping slightly. "Where on earth did you manage to get these, Mr. Stevenson?"
"Special request from my supplier," Ricky said sheepishly, giving a vague wave of his hand.
Evelyn accepted the explanation with a simple nod, as she usually did whenever his mysterious supply connections were mentioned.
"Would you entrust me to find a skilled local artist who could reproduce this style of art for print, sir?" she asked, clutching the first volume tightly to her chest.
Ricky smiled warmly. "Why not, Evelyn? Go right ahead."
"Thank you, sir," Evelyn said, turning around and heading toward the door, already flipping back to page one as her heels tapped against the hardwood floor.
Ricky watched her go, leaning back in his chair with a quiet laugh under his breath. I had hoped fantasy novels would be the big commercial hit, but it turns out manga is going to take the lead.
He pulled out his personal leather notebook, unclipped his fountain pen, and carefully wrote down a name and date on a blank page:
Akira Toriyama — April 1, 1955.
Ricky looked at the ink for a moment, whispering softly to the empty room, "I apologize, Mr. Toriyama. I’m borrowing your life’s work a few decades early. I’ll make sure you get everything you deserve when the time comes."
Setting the notebook aside, Ricky turned his attention back to the mechanical blueprints spread across his desk.
While he was busy refining his own custom engine and transmission specs to match the timeline’s manufacturing capabilities, building a working prototype from scratch would take weeks of machine-shop labor. In the meantime, Atlantic & Pacific needed immediate hauling power to keep up with its rapid expansion.
Earlier that morning, he had officially finalized the purchase of four brand-new Mack Senior trucks—heavy-duty rigs built specifically for massive industrial cargo loads.
At $3,890 per truck, the total order came out to a staggering $15,560. He could have easily bought out a small local transport company with that amount of capital, but Ricky understood it was a necessary long-term investment.
Not only would having the physical Mack trucks in his company give him a hands-on reference to study while building his own vehicles, but it immediately upgraded his operational logistics.
He picked up a pencil and tapped it against his city map, mapping out the new delivery routes in his head.
The four new Mack trucks would be assigned strictly to Midtown deliveries, taking full advantage of the long, smooth paved stretch running straight up Park Avenue. Meanwhile, his existing fleet of eight horse-drawn delivery wagons could be pulled off the central routes and reassigned to push south and east, expanding Atlantic & Pacific’s trade operations directly into SoHo, NoHo, and Nolita.