Chapter 115: Precautions
Later on that night, on the second floor, directly above the heavy storage rooms where the warehouse stock was kept, Ricky had partitioned off a wide, unused room into a private saloon.
Soft amber lantern light filled the space, reflecting off polished timber walls. The route leaders and senior crew sat around heavy wooden tables, shuffling decks of cards, tossing coins into betting piles, and calling out low jokes over their glasses. Behind the long makeshift bar, Eli Morgan and Frank Murphy worked in steady rhythm, pulling beer taps and pouring neat whiskey into heavy glass tumblers.
Ricky sat quietly on a stool near the corner of the bar, a half-empty glass in his hand. John Caldwell stepped up beside him, setting his hat on the wooden counter before sliding a folded scrap of paper and a thick paper money book across the mahogany.
"Got some news from one of the Dusters’ boys earlier tonight, boss," John said quietly, leaning his elbow on the bar. "Peter."
Ricky picked up the note, unfolding it while glancing at the cash numbers written in the book. "Go on."
"He says their coup against Barney is happening soon," John explained, lowering his voice under the ambient chatter of the room. "He gave me a fresh list of additional firearm orders, along with the cash advance for the lot."
Ricky scanned the figures, then let out a quiet breath and tapped the paper against his palm. "So they’re really going through with it, huh? I was starting to wonder if the whole coup was just big talk. Turns out they’re more serious than I thought."
"What’s our move, boss?" John asked. "How do you want us to handle it?"
"We act naturally," Ricky said, setting his glass down. "We keep up our regular runs and business as usual. We can’t afford to raise any more suspicion than we already have—moving this many guns is already drawing enough eyes. I’ll reach out to Owney just in case things turn sideways, especially if that idiot’s brother decides to show his face."
Ricky leaned back, rubbing his chin. "It’s a headache. Chaos is always bad for business. But if Peter and Reggie successfully wipe out Barney, it clears the board for us to expand on to the Greenwhich neighbors without so much of the hassle. The real wildcard is Frank. Taking him out directly without knowing who’s pulling his strings upstairs is asking for a much bigger problem."
"Should we set up some safeguards in the meantime?" John asked.
Ricky looked over at the men laughing around the poker tables. "Most of our field crew lives over on the Manatee block, right?"
"Yeah," John nodded. "Manatee mostly, though a few are scattered across the surrounding blocks."
"Starting tomorrow morning," Ricky said firmly, "take the field agents who actually know how to handle a firearm and rotate them on guard duty around those blocks. Issue every one of them a weapon. I want you to take charge of the rotation, John—group them into squads and assign their posts. It’s strictly for defense. If some half-cocked enforcer decides to barge into our men’s tenement buildings during the chaos, we make sure their families are protected."
"Understood, boss," John said.
Ricky looked at John for a moment, his expression turning thoughtful. "Moving forward, John, I’m going to need you to handle the... heavier operations. The ones we can’t do out in the open. I want you to start training as many of our guys as you can. Teach them properly so when a real fight comes, they don’t end up dead for no reason."
John’s face remained calm, nodding slowly. "I’ve already got three potential spots in mind outside the city where we can run drill work without anyone sniffing around."
"Pick the most isolated one that still gives us clean access to the main road," Ricky instructed. "Don’t worry about the cost. We need to prepare for the absolute worst."
A faint smile touched John’s lips. "Understood. I’ll probably need Arthur’s help with it, though. He’s got a knack for barking orders and keeping men in line."
"Take Arthur," Ricky said with a slight nod. "Do whatever you need to do. We’re getting bigger, John, which means we’re exposed to bigger threats. If we get lazy now, we’ll pay for it later."
An hour later, John crossed the quiet street toward the main Atlantic & Pacific warehouse. The massive timber doors were cracked open just enough to let a soft yellow beam of lantern light spill onto the cobblestones.
Inside, heavy wooden crates of rifles and handguns were already packed and buried beneath thick canvas sacks of flour, baking powder, bags of granulated sugar, and general dry goods.
Arthur was leaning against the tailgate of a double-horse delivery wagon, striking a match against the wood to light a cigarette. He looked up as John walked in.
"We still dropping this load off in Washington Square Park?" Arthur asked, flicking the spent match to the floor.
"No," John said, pulling his leather gloves on. "Change of plans. Drop-off is right outside a bakeshop at the intersection of Bleecker and Broadway. We deliver the actual grocery order along with the iron hidden underneath."
Arthur took a drag, blowing a thin trail of smoke toward the high rafters. "What’s Ricky’s call on the coup? We marching in with ’em?"
"No," John replied, checking the rope ties on the canvas tarp. "We’re staying off the front lines. Last thing we need is Frank Knox rolling in with a squad of coppers while we’re standing in the middle of a street war. But the boss wants us arming our field agents who know how to shoot. We’re setting up perimeter guards around the tenement blocks on Manatee to keep our men’s families safe."
"Smart," Arthur nodded. "No sense letting stray thugs cause trouble at home."
"There’s more," John added, stepping over to the driver’s bench. "Ricky wants us to start formal training for the crew. Target practice, military discipline, physical conditioning—the whole routine."
Arthur grinned, a genuine chuckle escaping his chest. "Is that right? Hell, I’ve always wanted to try my hand at playing army officer. I’m all over that."
"Good, because I told the boss I’d need your help running the drills," John said, climbing onto the bench. "Where do you think we should set up? I’m looking at three options: Kitchawan, Pound Ridge, or North Salem. We can take the train up with the men, but we’ll have to ride wagons or walk the final stretch."
Arthur tilted his head, thinking it over. "Which one fits what Ricky wants?"
"Pound Ridge," John said without hesitation. "He wants somewhere isolated that still links back to the main highway. We take the train straight up to Bedford, hire a wagon out toward Pound Ridge, and walk northeast from there. My uncle knows an old farmer up that way with a massive stretch of acreage."
"Pound Ridge it is then," Arthur said, tossing his cigarette stub onto the cobblestones and stepping up onto the wagon bench beside John. "Let’s get this iron delivered before the sun comes up."
John snapped the leather reins, and the heavy horses pulled forward, the iron-rimmed wheels grinding against the floorboards as the wagon rolled out into the cool night air. Behind them, two warehouse workers pulled the heavy sliding doors shut, dropping the thick iron latch into place with a heavy, hollow thud.