Chapter 114: F*ck Around & Find Out
A day later, Ricky sat at his wide desk on the top floor of the Atlantic & Pacific office, two thick books propped open side by side under the soft light of the desk lamp. On the left was an advanced engineering manual on modern internal combustion engines from his system; on the right was a 1910 American shop reference guide detailing the precise limits of local foundries, gear cutters, and lathe machinery.
He tapped his pencil against his chin, cross-referencing metal tolerances and casting methods to see which modern components could realistically be machined without overwhelming the local foundries.
A soft knock sounded at the door before Evelyn stepped inside, holding a small clipboard.
"Sir," she said, shutting the door quietly behind her. "Two of the illustration artists have arrived downstairs. As for the eight additional candidates you asked me to locate on short notice, I only managed to track down five."
Ricky didn’t look up from his books, his eyes scanning a diagram of a crankshaft bearing. "Give them drawing tools if they didn’t bring their own. Have all seven of them sit down and recreate the first three pages of the first volume. Time them, then bring the finished sheets to me so I can evaluate their work."
"Right away, sir," Evelyn nodded.
"And Evelyn," Ricky added, turning a page. "Keep looking for more."
"Yes, Mr. Stevenson."
Evelyn headed up to the third floor, where an unused, airy room had been outfitted with a row of wooden tables and chairs. Large sheets of blank drawing paper were laid out at each station alongside fresh charcoal pencils, steel nib pens, and pots of black India ink.
Seven young men were waiting nervously on the wooden benches in the hallway, holding small leather portfolios or resting their hands in their pockets. Evelyn gestured toward the open doorway. "Please take a seat inside."
The artists filed in, looking around the bright room in mild surprise at the complete set of professional drafting tools laid out before them. Evelyn walked down the aisle, placing a fresh copy of Dragon Ball Volume One in front of each candidate.
"For this test," Evelyn explained, her voice clear and professional, "I want you to examine the art style in this book carefully. You are to recreate the first three pages as accurately and cleanly as you can. Speed and precision are both key criteria for this position. Are there any questions?"
A young man in his early twenties raised his hand, looking down at the book. "Excuse me, miss... is this a Sunday comic strip? Or a full book of them?"
"It is an entire book of sequential illustrated narrative," Evelyn replied smoothly.
Another candidate leaned forward, frowning slightly. "Are we expected to draw entire copies of these books completely by hand?"
"Your specific job responsibilities will be explained once you pass the initial evaluation," Evelyn said. She drew a small pocket watch from her skirt apron, snapping open the casing. "If there are no further questions... you may begin."
The room immediately filled with the rustle of turning pages, followed by the quiet, hurried scratching of graphite pencils against thick paper.
Back on the main office floor, Jimmy knocked once on Ricky’s door and stepped inside, pulling up a chair across from the desk.
"Boss," Jimmy began, settling into the seat with a heavy sigh. "We’ve got a situation brewing in Midtown. It looks like a whole cluster of independent suppliers have started copying our exact playbook—door-to-door sales, offering cheap bulk credit, and waiving delivery fees. Arthur’s route down near 37th Street took a hit today too. Some bartender claimed our liquor was diluted, cut their order back, and said another outfit offered them cheap wholesale whiskey for five bucks less."
Jimmy leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. "Same thing’s popping up along our Greenwich routes. What are we going to do about it?"
Ricky slowly closed the technical manual on his desk and set his pencil down, leaning back in his leather chair. "It’s a coordinated effort. Looking at the pattern, someone is specifically targeting our routes to seize market control."
Ricky looked at Jimmy calmly. "Are these competitors well-known trading houses? Established Midtown firms?"
"No, boss," Jimmy shook his head. "Even the big trading firms are struggling to adapt to our delivery speed. These look like smaller outfits banding together."
"Then we’re dealing with a cartel of small fish," Ricky said, a faint smirk touching his lips. "It’s obvious from how they’re operating. They’ve formed a temporary group for the sole purpose of monopolizing the routes and driving up their short-term income. But a cartel made of small firms has a fatal flaw."
"What’s that?" Jimmy asked.
"They don’t have the capital to endure a prolonged price war," Ricky explained smoothly. "They joined together out of greed, not loyalty. The moment one of them goes under or starts bleeding heavy cash, the rest will panic and show weakness. And unlike them, our capital endurance is practically endless."
Jimmy grinned. "So do we drop our prices below theirs and crush ’em?"
"No," Ricky replied, shaking his head. "If you drop your prices too low, customers start suspecting your inventory is garbage. We slowly adjust our prices until we’re sitting just one or two dollars above theirs."
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "One or two dollars higher?"
"Exactly," Ricky said. "Our goods are higher quality, and our delivery is faster. When a grocer or saloon owner sees high-grade stock for only a dollar more than cheap junk, they’ll pick our product every single time. They might drop their prices again to compensate, but our goal isn’t to out-cheap them—it’s to drag them underwater for as long as possible."
Ricky rested his elbows on the desk, holding Jimmy’s gaze. "Small operators can’t stay at the bottom for long without drowning. It’s like diving underwater without an air tank. We’re going to make sure they stay down there until they go bankrupt."
"How do we keep them from folding early and stepping out of the fight?" Jimmy asked.
"The bank rabbit hole," Ricky smirked, leaning back in his chair. "The moment they start losing money, they won’t cut their losses and quit—they’ve already invested too much time and ego into taking us down. So what do they do? They take out business loans to fund their price cuts, believing they can outlast us just a few weeks longer."
Ricky tapped his finger against the desk. "Interest accumulates by the day, but they aren’t making a single cent of real profit. They’ll keep digging their own grave because stopping would mean losing everything they’ve borrowed. If someone at the top is backing them, the banks might even extend their credit limits, convincing them to dig the hole deeper. The moment they rely on bank loans to survive a price war, the game is already over."
Ricky picked up a fountain pen, twirling it between his fingers. "We can also start buying up raw stock directly from their primary suppliers. That drives up wholesale prices on their end, making every shipment cost them more to assemble. Their margins shrink, and their debt grows twice as fast."
Jimmy nodded slowly, a dark smile spreading across his face. "We could also just track down their main office and warehouses and burn them to the ground."
Ricky scoffed softly, looking up at him with an amused expression. "We could. But street violence is a crude tool, Jimmy. Burning down a warehouse doesn’t teach you how to run a commercial empire. You guys need to learn how to use legal, corporate tactics to destroy a rival. Down the line, you’re going to face opponents much bigger than local cartels. A time will come when I won’t be here to give you step-by-step strategies for every minor price war."
Jimmy’s expression turned serious as he absorbed the words. "I understand, boss."
Ricky pulled open his top desk drawer, reached inside, and pulled out a thick, black leather-bound notebook filled with handwritten notes, market analysis formulas, and aggressive corporate strategies. He slid it across the mahogany tabletop toward Jimmy.
Jimmy looked down at the notebook in surprise, then up at Ricky. "What’s this?"
"That right there is a detailed breakdown of competitive market tactics," Ricky said calmly. "How to dismantle a rival’s distribution network while taking over their supply lines at the same time. You have a natural talent for sales and persuasive marketing, Jimmy, but you need to learn how to crush an opponent financially without ever firing a bullet."
A wide, eager grin broke across Jimmy’s face as he picked up the notebook, holding it carefully. "Thanks, boss. I won’t let you down."
"Sooner or later, Jimmy," Ricky said, his tone quiet but firm, "you and your brothers are each going to be running your own company under our umbrella. Marek’s already building his foundation at Harrison & Bell. This trading firm—Atlantic & Pacific—could belong to you. But before I hand you the keys, I need to know you can not only win over local shopkeepers, but also destroy corporate rivals ten times your size."
Jimmy’s eyes brightened with a fierce, ambitious fire. He stood up, tucking the leather notebook tightly under his arm. "Don’t worry, boss. I’m going to prove to you that we’re capable of handling whatever comes next."
Ricky offered a satisfied nod. "Go get to work."
Jimmy turned and walked out of the office, his posture straight and his steps heavy with purpose, a bright light finally visible at the end of the tunnel he had been walking down ever since Marek took over his own firm.