Chapter 134: Settling In
Earlier that afternoon, around six o’clock, the quiet street outside the newly acquired commercial building came alive with the heavy rumble of engine exhaust and the sharp clatter of hooves on stone.
Evelyn stood in the arched entryway of the loading bay, holding her leather folder. Just an hour prior, she had finalized the contract with Mrs. Abernathy, securing the six-story property under an installment plan of $1,500 a month for fifteen months.
Down the avenue came a convoy of ten heavy wooden freight wagons alongside four brand-new Mack motor trucks—fresh off the delivery line that Ricky had arranged days earlier. Driving the lead truck was John Caldwell, with Caleb and Eli Morgan sitting on the running boards, while Phill and James McClain brought up the rear with the rest of the crew from the tenement district.
Every man in the convoy was dressed alike in sharp, matching black wool suits, dark overcoats, and black caps. To the local shopkeepers watching from across the street, the sight of dozens of men in identical dark attire stepping down from shiny new motor trucks was startling.
The trucks backed into the spacious covered loading area, their engines idling down with a heavy mechanical throbbing. The men jumped off the wagon beds, lugging heavy leather suitcases and canvas duffel bags containing their belongings.
Arthur, Frank, and the Williams brothers were already waiting inside the courtyard, stepping forward to greet the arriving convoy.
Evelyn stepped over to Arthur and Frank, opening her ledger. "For tonight, see if you can locate a few clean boarding houses nearby to rent rooms for the men," she instructed, her voice crisp and businesslike. "If there aren’t enough vacancies on short notice, they’ll have to make do sleeping right here in the building. We have a heavy schedule tomorrow, so I want everyone resting early. Stick strictly to your assigned duties—especially you, Jimmy."
She turned toward Jimmy Williams, who was hoisting a crate off the tailgate. "You and I are going straight to the Chamber of Commerce first thing tomorrow morning to register the new company. I assume you have all the incorporation papers organized?"
"Right here in my satchel, Miss Evelyn," Jimmy replied, patting his leather bag. "Every signature stamped and ready."
The rest of the men gathered in the covered bay, talking among themselves in low, weary voices after the long trip downtown.
"Find a boarding house?" John Caldwell scoffed good-naturedly, walking to the back of the first Mack truck and unlatching the heavy wooden tailgate. He swung it open to reveal several stacked wooden crates marked with liquor stamps—whiskey and spirits brought down from the Hudson warehouse in Greenwich.
"Why throw good money away on dirty cots when we’ve got five solid floors right over our heads?" John said, holding up a bottle of whiskey. "We bunk right here inside our own building, keep an eye on the motor trucks, and split a few pints. What do you gents say?"
A cheer went up among the men, their faces brightening at the sight of the liquor.
"Works for me!" Phill McClain called out, tossing his satchel onto the loading dock. "Floorboards suit me just fine if there’s whiskey involved!"
Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "If we’re sleeping on pine boards, we at least need some proper gear so we aren’t waking up with stiff backs." He looked over at John. "Toss me the keys to one of the Mack trucks, John. I’ll take a few boys uptown to buy beddings, pillows, wool blankets, and some brooms to sweep out the dust."
John pulled the iron key from his pocket and tossed it across the bay. Arthur caught it cleanly.
"I’ll come along with you," Frank said, stepping up. "We’ll need extra cleaning pails and soap if we’re turning this place into a proper head office. Caleb, toss me the key to the second truck."
Caleb flipped the second key over, and Frank caught it with a nod. Half a dozen men hoisted themselves into the flatbeds of the two Mack trucks, laughing and shouting as Arthur and Frank cranked the engines to life and pulled out into the evening traffic.
Meanwhile, the Williams brothers and the McClain brothers grabbed lanterns and headed up the timber stairs to inspect the upper floors and layout of their new company headquarters.
Evelyn adjusted her gloves, gathering her handbag under her arm. With the men settled and the building secured, she stepped out of the loading bay and began walking toward her newly rented apartment a few blocks away.
As she walked through the cooling dusk, her eyes drifted up toward the darkening sky. A quiet worry settled over her mind.
Where are you, Ricky? she thought, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. I hope you’re safe out there...
Back in the present, at midnight, the quiet inside the Minetta flat was absolute.
Outside, twenty-five men dressed in ordinary street clothes were stationed along the dark corners, alleys, and stoops of Little Africa, keeping a sharp lookout for any Tammany spotters or precinct coppers.
Inside the small living room, fifteen key members of the crew sat around a heavy wooden table, while some stood nearby. Every man wore a matching black suit, their expressions somber and attentive under the low yellow glow of an oil lamp.
Ricky sat at the head of the table, his flat cap lying beside him. He looked across the faces of the men gathered before him.
"Now that Danny’s gone..." Ricky began, his voice low and steady. "Who was taking his orders? Who’s second in command around here?"
A tall, broad-shouldered Italian-American man sitting near the middle of the table raised his hand. It was Marcus—the man who had guided Ricky through the crowd earlier.
"That’d be me, boss," Marcus said quietly. "Danny had me running the dock assignments and keeping track of the boys on this end."
Ricky nodded slowly. "Alright, Marcus. How many men do we have left on this block total—not counting the crew that went up to Westchester?"
"Forty-three of us in total, boss," Marcus answered. "Most of the boys couldn’t leave for the country ’cause their wives, parents, and kids live right here in the tenements. We had to stay behind to look after them."
Ricky leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Then listen to me carefully. As we stand right now, we can’t touch Frank Knox or his men or the precinct coppers on his payroll. If we march out there tonight looking for a fight, half of you will end up in pine boxes by morning. Most of you boys don’t even know how to properly handle a revolver or fight in a coordinated group."
The men shifted uncomfortably, but no one argued. They knew he was speaking the cold truth.
"That changes starting now," Ricky continued. "Every single man in this organization is going to be trained properly. We’re starting with basic physical conditioning, then moving straight into advanced drills—close-quarters knife and fist fighting, mid-range pistol and rifle marksmanship, squad movement, signaling, and tactical defense."
A younger crew member sitting near the end of the table frowned slightly, leaning in. "Boss... are you turning us into soldiers?"
"That’s exactly what I’m doing," Ricky said, his eyes locking onto the young man. "Our organization doesn’t need disposable street toughs or muscle that gets cut down in the first alley fight. We need experts. Men who know how to handle high-risk combat and come out alive."
He swept his gaze across the whole room. "We aren’t stopping here in Greenwich Village. We aren’t stopping in Manhattan, or even New York State. We are building an organization that will stretch across this country and eventually around the world. Every man in this room will become a field agent."
A murmur went through the table.
"A field agent has two roles," Ricky explained. "To the public, you’re a commercial agent who manages supply lines and sells wholesale goods to shopkeepers. But behind closed doors, a real field agent is something entirely different. Infiltration. Undercover work inside rival gangs or police precincts. High-priority target elimination. Scouting, intelligence gathering, and demolition to cover our tracks."
The men listened with wide eyes. A noticeable chill went through the room as the sheer scope of Ricky’s vision set in. They weren’t just street runners anymore—they were becoming part of something massive.
"Starting pay will be well above standard union wages, with cash bonuses for every assignment completed," Ricky said. "As the firm grows, you’ll take on specialized missions with direct rewards. Prove your worth, and your name will be recorded permanently as one of the founding field agents of this organization."
A scarred man in his late twenties, sitting near Marcus, raised his hand. "Boss, what about those of us who served time in the Army? A few of us were down in the infantry during the Spanish war."
"Veterans go through the basic conditioning too," Ricky answered without hesitation. "It’ll knock the rust off your joints and get your lungs back in shape. But our training regime isn’t going to look like the Army’s. It will be faster, harder, and far more demanding. And once you start, there’s no quitting. Your rank and standing in the organization will be earned strictly based on your physical, mental, and tactical performance."
Marcus leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the wood. "How long is this training program going to take, boss?"
"Six months minimum," Ricky said. "We’ll run it in shifts. Half of the crew—about sixty men at a time—will move up to northern Westchester County for the camp. Twenty men stays right here in Minetta to protect your families, keep watch on Knox’s Dusters and the rest will be up north to handle regular freight work. After the basic training, then you rotate."
"When do we start, boss?" another man asked.
"As soon as I survey the land up north and establish the camp location," Ricky said. "I’ll give Marcus the word when it’s time to move the first group."
The room quieted down for a moment as the men digested the plan.
Ricky stood up from the table, looking at each of them. "One last thing. If any of your families want to move out of Little Africa and relocate up north to White Plains, let Marcus know. I’ll secure proper boarding houses for them. Their rent and food will be completely paid for the first six months until they get established—and we’ll find decent jobs for anyone who wants to work."
A heavy silence fell over the room, followed by low, grateful murmurs from the men around the table.
Marcus looked up at Ricky, nodding with deep respect. "We’re with you, Boss Ricky. All the way."