Chapter 113: Creeping Up
The morning sun beat down on West 45th Street, illuminating the constant churn of Midtown Manhattan. Heavy timber wagons, horse-drawn cabs, and the occasional sputtering motorcar clattered along the cobblestones while street vendors shouted over the noise.
Jimmy adjusted his coat as he walked the sidewalk, flanked by five of Atlantic & Pacific’s field agents. They were on their routine route, checking in on dry goods merchants and corner grocers. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy noticed an unfamiliar dark-green delivery wagon parked near the curb. Painted on its side in fresh, bright yellow lettering was Rickshaw Supply & Distribution.
Four men were hauling crates of dry goods and sacks of produce into a medium-sized grocery store, laughing and chatting with the shopkeeper on the stoop. Once they finished, the wagon rolled down the block, pulling up outside a nearby restaurant to unload crates of seasonings.
Without needing a word from Jimmy, two of his agents stepped over to check their inventory pads while Jimmy casually walked into the grocery store.
"Morning, Mr. Regezzoni," Jimmy said with a warm smile, resting a hand on the wooden counter. "How’s stock looking today? What are we low on?"
The Italian shopkeeper looked up from his ledger and smiled back. "Ah, Jimmy! Good to see you. We’re running low on flour, bell peppers, and garlic. Put me down for a full shipment of each."
"Consider it done," Jimmy said, writing it down. He glanced out the front glass window toward the departing green wagon. "Who were those fellas just dropping off crates?"
"Oh, them?" Mr. Regezzoni waved a hand dismissively. "Rickshaw Supply & Distribution. They came by yesterday going door-to-door, offering discounted goods and no delivery charges. Saw another agent from a different company doing the exact same thing down the block—promising better credit lines, priority deliveries, and rebates."
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "Are you taking ’em up on it?"
"To be honest with you? No," Regezzoni chuckled, shaking his head. "I’m sticking with Atlantic & Pacific. Your quality still tops everyone else’s, and your service is reliable. Cheap prices don’t mean a thing if the flour arrives full of roaches."
Jimmy grinned. "Pleasure doing business with you as always, Mr. Regezzoni. We’ll have your flour and peppers here by tomorrow morning."
They stepped out back onto the sidewalk. Ryan, one of the senior field agents, fell into step beside Jimmy, staring down the street where the Rickshaw wagon was turning the corner.
"Boss," Ryan said, frowning. "Who were those guys? Looks like someone’s copying our whole playbook."
"Yeah," another agent chimed in. "Isn’t that going to hurt our numbers?"
"Nah," Jimmy said smoothly, lighting a cigarette and taking a quiet drag. "If they’re cutting prices that deep and throwing in free delivery right out of the gate, their stock is low quality. Let ’em burn through their margins. Real shop owners know good produce when they see it."
Further south, near the intersection of 7th Avenue and West 37th Street, Arthur and five of his men pulled their wagon up to the alley door of a popular Midtown saloon.
The men began hauling heavy wooden crates off the wagon bed, carrying them down the cellar steps to the stockroom. Arthur stood by the back door with his clipboard, waiting for the bartender who handled order receipts.
The heavy door creaked open, and Mr. Taylor, the head bartender, stepped out wiping his hands on a damp rag.
"Morning, Mr. Taylor," Arthur said, holding out the invoice sheet. "We’ve got twenty crates of Three Piece and ten crates of Black Lapel ready for unloading. Same time next week?"
Taylor looked uncomfortably at the clipboard, wiping his neck. "Well... actually, Arthur, the owner told me to cut back. We’re reducing your Three Piece order by seven crates, and the Black Lapel by two."
Arthur paused, his pen hovering over the paper. "Reduce it? Why all of a sudden? Is there a problem with the batch? Or the price? If it’s a cost issue, I’m sure we can negotiate."
"It’s not that," Taylor said quietly, leaning in slightly. "Another supplier came by offering wholesale liquor at ten dollars a crate for the same quality as Three Piece. That’s five bucks cheaper than what you’re charging. On top of that... some regulars were complaining that the last batch of Three Piece tasted a bit diluted compared to usual."
Arthur felt his jaw tighten, but he caught himself. Company policy was crystal clear: never argue with a customer, even if they were dead wrong. He knew for a fact their liquor wasn’t diluted—someone was spreading false rumors to undercut their market.
"I see," Arthur said, keeping his voice even. "Well, that’s unfortunate. We’ll adjust the invoice for thirteen Three Piece and eight Black Lapel."
Taylor handed over a thick roll of bills, counted out the exact payment, and nodded briskly. "Appreciate it, Arthur." He turned around and shut the heavy rear door, sliding the iron bolt shut.
Arthur stood in the alley for a moment, looking down at the payment in his hand. His men gathered around him, exchanging grim, silent looks.
Throughout the afternoon across Midtown, similar reports filtered in from various routes. While most dry goods merchants stayed fiercely loyal to Atlantic & Pacific due to their unmatched delivery speed and fresh stock, rival suppliers were making aggressive plays for the wholesale liquor trade.
Yet, back at Harrison & Bell Limited, those minor local losses meant practically nothing.
Capitalizing on the elite connections George Callahan had introduced him to at the Metropolitan Club four days prior, Marek had successfully locked down massive interstate export deals. Three Piece whiskey—their affordable, high-quality working-class blend—was exploding in popularity beyond New York’s borders.
To kick off their partnership, George Callahan had placed a massive single order: five hundred crates of Three Piece, two hundred crates of Black Lapel, and fifty crates of top-shelf Royal Spades, all bound for Chicago, Illinois. George intended to flood the Midwestern market with Ricky’s liquor to directly undercut his eldest brother’s son, who currently inherited and managed a major wine and spirits distillery in Illinois.
Combined with bulk orders of premium cigars and imperishable import goods moving through Harrison & Bell, the minor price-war friction in Midtown was a drop in the ocean.
By late afternoon, the top-floor executive suite of Atlantic & Pacific was quiet except for the ticking of a grandfather clock.
Ricky sat at the center of a wide mahogany conference table alongside Evelyn and their newly appointed Employment Department Manager. Seated across from them was a prospective drama writer—a sharp-featured, forty-year-old man from Hell’s Kitchen wearing a worn tweed suit.
Three hours earlier, Ricky had provided a group of hired writers with manuscript outlines for three modern stories: The Witcher, The Lord of the Rings, and Harry Potter. They had been given an hour per book to digest as much as possible before presenting how they would adapt and rewrite the material for commercial publication in 1910.
The first writer cleared his throat, resting his hands on the manuscript pages. "Each story certainly has its strengths, Mr. Stevenson. The Witcher outline has immense potential for readers who enjoy European folklore, magic, and strange beasts. But... there are aspects of the dialogue I simply cannot comprehend."
Ricky leaned back, quietly watching him. He’s talking about the anachronistic dialogue, Ricky thought. The snappy, modern, vulgar banter and post-modern subversion of tropes didn’t exist anywhere in 1910 literature.
"Furthermore," the writer continued, frowning, "why is the main character, Geralt, so morally compromised? One moment he helps people, the next he demands cold coin or refuses to intervene in a clear injustice. Why isn’t he purely good?"
Ricky let out a quiet sigh. Moral ambiguity. Popular fiction in 1910—like adventure serials or early pulps—demanded clear, black-and-white lines between noble heroes and evil villains. Geralt’s grimy, transactional philosophy of choosing the "lesser evil" completely clashed with what contemporary readers expected.
"If you hire me," the writer offered confidently, "I will rewrite Geralt into a proper, chivalrous hero—a knight in shining armor that working-class readers can look up to. And I’ll scrub out all the bizarre, informal dialogue."
"Thank you for your time," Ricky said instantly, his tone flat. "You may collect your stipend at the front desk."
The writer blinked, startled. "I... beg your pardon?"
"We’re looking for something else. Good day," Ricky said smoothly.
As the man awkwardly gathered his hat and left, Ricky shook his head. He wasn’t going to let someone sanitize The Witcher into a generic Victorian hero story. Geralt was Geralt because of his gray morality and cynical realism.
The second candidate was called in—a woman in her late twenties with sharp, observant eyes.
"I actually loved the core concept of The Witcher," she said, leaning forward attentively. "Geralt’s refusal to treat monsters or non-humans as inherently evil makes for fascinating character drama. As for The Lord of the Rings, the prose structure is beautiful, but the invented languages—Elvish, Black Speech—are entirely confusing without context. High fantasy as a standalone genre simply doesn’t exist yet, so readers won’t know how to digest it."
She paused, tapping her finger against the Harry Potter outline. "And Harry Potter left me completely lost. I understand the magic school concept, but what on earth is a ’television’? Or a ’computer’? The technological setting feels entirely incoherent."
Ricky nodded to himself. Right. Harry Potter takes place in the late 1990s. A reader in 1910 has no concept of late-twentieth-century electronics. But how the hell did Harry Potter get bypassed by the system? Shouldn’t it remove any references of future?
"If you want my honest recommendation, Mr. Stevenson," she concluded, " The Witcher is your best candidate for adaptation, but it will take a long time to build a readership. The literary market right now is completely saturated with traditional novels."
After dismissing her with a generous consultation fee, Ricky sat in silence at the table, running a hand through his hair.
He had overlooked a fundamental truth about the early 20th century. Trying to force modern, complex prose novels onto a 1910 audience was an uphill battle. Readers needed visual context to bridge the gap.
That was why Evelyn and the office staff had been instantly captivated by Dragon Ball. Manga and graphic formats didn’t rely on long-winded exposition—the illustrated action panels told the narrative directly, allowing anyone who could read basic conversational dialogue to become immediately immersed.
Ricky turned to Evelyn. "Cancel the rest of the prose writer interviews. Pay them all for their time and send them home."
Evelyn looked surprised. "All of them, sir?"
"All of them," Ricky confirmed, a decisive smirk returning to his face. "We’re pivoting. Forget novels for now. We’re putting everything into comic prints and manga illustration. Sometimes, there are some things you just can’t conquer."