The back parlor of the Tenth Avenue saloon was suffocatingly quiet. For the past five minutes, the only sound in the room was the heavy, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the faint clatter of glasses from the taproom downstairs.
Barney Knox sat in his worn leather armchair, a glass of cheap gin sweating in his hand. He kept glancing across the low mahogany table at his older brother. Frank hadn’t said a single word since they had walked away from the Gansevoort storage shed. He just sat there, smoking his cigarette, his eyes cold and unreadable.
Finally, Barney couldn’t take the silence anymore. He shifted in his seat, the leather squeaking loudly.
"So?" Barney asked, his voice rough with impatience. "What do you think of them, Frank?"
Frank didn’t answer. He took one last, slow drag from his cigarette, crushed it out in the iron ashtray, and stood up. He casually brushed a speck of ash off his immaculate wool coat and adjusted his cuffs.
"I still have to see Charles this afternoon," Frank said smoothly, completely ignoring Barney’s question. "I’m going to be busy helping him select potential candidates for the next city election. Mayor Gaynor isn’t going to cut it anymore, now that he’s going rogue and refusing to play ball with Tammany Hall."
Barney frowned, his face flushing red. "I just asked you a question, Frank."
Frank picked up his bowler hat, inspecting the brim. He didn’t even look at his younger brother. "You should be able to handle the matters in your own territory, Barney."
Barney’s grip on his gin glass tightened until his knuckles turned white. He slammed the glass down on the table, liquor sloshing over the rim.
"Look," Barney snapped, standing up quickly. "I don’t even understand why you decided to suddenly march down there to see those commission boys in the first place! You drag me all the way to Gaansevort, you don’t even say a single damn word to their boss, you just turn around and fuck off! And now you’re leaving without telling me what the play is!"
Frank picked up his leather briefcase. He let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. "Just be careful, Barney. They’re dangerous."
Frank turned toward the door.
"You know what?" Barney shouted, his temper completely boiling over. He pointed a shaking finger at Frank’s back. "I don’t need your fucking help! You can fuck off to wherever Charles Murphy is taking you for a walk! I’ll handle my own streets, and I’ll prove to you I didn’t need you holding my hand after all!"
Frank stopped with his hand on the brass doorknob.
Slowly, Frank turned his head. He didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice or pull a weapon. He just stared at Barney. His dark eyes were utterly dead—hollow, freezing, and completely devoid of any brotherly affection. It was the look of a predator analyzing a noisy, irritating insect.
The temperature in the parlor seemed to plummet. Barney’s chest seized. The furious, screaming anger in his throat evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, suffocating terror. He took a half-step back, unable to hold Frank’s gaze, looking down at the spilled gin on the table instead.
Frank’s terrifying stare held for three agonizing seconds. Then, a slow, pleasant smile curved his lips.
"No, brother," Frank said softly. "You didn’t need my help."
Frank opened the door and walked out, his boots clicking smoothly down the stairs. The street captains lingering in the hallway immediately backed against the walls, making wide way for the older Knox brother to pass.
Barney collapsed back into his leather armchair, his heart hammering against his ribs. He reached for his whiskey with a trembling hand, downed it in one gulp, and wiped his mouth.
"Psychotic asshole," Barney muttered breathlessly to the empty room.
----------
A few blocks away, Ricky pulled the reins of his black spring-wagon, bringing the draft horse to a halt along a quiet, narrow commercial street.
"Is this it?" Ricky asked, looking up at a small, weathered two-story brick building. The paint on the wooden sign above the door was peeling badly, but he could just barely make out the faded letters: Atlantic & Pacific Trading Co.
"Yes, sir," Evelynn said, sitting beside him on the bench with her ledger resting on her lap.
Ricky watched as two heavy dray wagons were being loaded right outside the front door. Standing on the sidewalk, directing the loaders, was a woman who looked about Ricky’s age, dressed in a practical, dust-stained wool skirt and a heavy cardigan. Beside her stood a stocky, balding man in his late fifties, wiping his thick hands on his trousers as he handed a few silver coins to one of the drivers.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Harold," the balding man said warmly.
The driver gave a quick nod, climbed onto his bench, and flicked the reins. As the wagon rolled forward, the young woman patted the sideboards hard with her flat palm. "That’s all!" she called out. The second driver quickly followed suit, pulling his rig away from the curb.
Ricky watched the exchange, leaning his forearms on his knees. "I take it the stocky guy is the owner himself?"
"Yes," Evelynn nodded. "Mr. Harry Crawford."
"Let’s go say hello," Ricky said, stepping down onto the cobblestones and turning to help Evelynn down from the high bench.
They walked across the street. Harry Crawford spotted them approaching. When he recognized Evelynn, he smiled, hurriedly wiping his dirty hands on his trousers again.
"Welcome, Ms. Vance," Harry greeted, his voice friendly but carrying an undeniable undertone of nervous exhaustion.
The young woman—Sarah—stepped up beside her father, crossing her arms over her chest. She had sharp, observant brown eyes that quickly scanned Ricky’s crisp black suit and bowler hat, evaluating him with pure, unfiltered skepticism.
Evelynn stepped forward, her posture perfectly professional. "Mr. Crawford, this is Mr. Richard Stevenson. My boss. Sir, this is Mr. Harry Crawford, the owner of the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company."
Ricky extended his hand, offering a calm, grounded smile. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Crawford."
Harry took Ricky’s hand, his grip thick and calloused, shaking it sheepishly. "You as well, Mr. Stevenson."
Sarah let out a short, dry chuckle, leaning her weight onto one leg. "He’s too young to be the boss of a fake company," she remarked bluntly.
Harry’s face instantly flushed bright red. He turned and gently shoved his daughter’s shoulder. "Go inside, Sarah! You’re being rude!"
Sarah just laughed, entirely unfazed by her father’s scolding. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, turning around and walking up the wooden steps into the building without a second glance.
Harry turned back to Ricky, thoroughly mortified. "I apologize for my daughter’s rude remarks, Mr. Stevenson. She’s... she speaks her mind."
"No problem at all," Ricky smiled, waving it off easily. "I’m guessing she must be pretty stressed out with all the confusion our operation has caused you lately."
Harry let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his balding head. "Ahh... yeah. It’s been a madhouse here. Why don’t we go inside?"
"Thank you," Ricky said.
They followed Harry into the building. The ground floor was supposed to be a living room and office space, but it was currently an absolute disaster. Wooden crates, burlap sacks of flour, and loose tins were stacked everywhere, acting as makeshift tables and chairs. The air smelled of old paper, coffee beans, and dust.
"I hope you don’t mind our mess," Harry said, quickly clearing a stack of loose papers off a wooden chair so Evelynn could sit. "We haven’t been able to find the time to clean up lately. The foot traffic has been crazy."
"No, we don’t mind at all, Mr. Crawford," Evelynn said smoothly, taking her seat.
Harry dragged a small wooden crate over and sat down heavily. "Can I get you folks some coffee?"
"No, no thanks," Ricky said, taking a seat opposite the older man. He rested his hands on his knees, deciding to cut straight to the point. "Mr. Crawford, I want to personally apologize for using your company’s name. It was an oversight on our part. I’m not going to state the exact nature of our business, but besides compensating you for the recent headaches, we would like to formally request to continue using the name until next month."
Harry blinked, looking a bit overwhelmed.
"Of course," Ricky continued, "we will be paying you a heavy weekly compensation fee for the trouble. Furthermore, we will offer you distribution rights on all our products at highly negotiable prices. That way, you can actually supply the distributors who have been knocking on your door looking for our stock. You’ll make a massive profit margin. Then, next month, we can come back and renegotiate those prices."
Harry stared at Ricky, rubbing his thick jaw. He looked around his messy, crate-filled living room, then let out a slow, nervous breath.
"I’m sorry, Mr. Stevenson," Harry muttered, looking down at his boots. "It’s just... this kind of thing isn’t exactly my forte."
Ricky frowned slightly, genuinely confused. "What do you mean, Mr. Crawford? Aren’t you the owner?"
"Yeah," Harry said, offering a sad, self-deprecating smile. "On paper, I am. But before my wife died from the lung fever two years ago... she was the one who handled all the matters such as this. The ledgers, the contracts, the buyers. Now that she’s gone, Sarah took over."
Harry looked toward the wooden staircase leading to the second floor, a deep fondness in his tired eyes. "Thankfully, she inherited her mother’s brains. I’m practically illiterate, Mr. Stevenson. I have no interest in the paperwork. Sarah was personally taught by her mother."
"Oh," Ricky said softly, his voice dropping in respect. "I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Crawford."
Harry shook his head gently. "Thank you, son. But like I said... Sarah handles the business."
Footsteps creaked on the wooden stairs.
Sarah walked down into the living room, holding a thick stack of ledgers and legal papers against her chest. She didn’t look like a girl who was stressed about taking orders; she looked like someone who had been running the numbers and waiting for this exact moment.
She walked over, pulled up a wooden crate, and sat down right beside her father. She set the heavy stack of papers on her lap, fixing her sharp brown eyes directly on Ricky.
She didn’t bother with pleasantries.
"We would like to sell the company," Sarah declared with a wide smirk.
Harry gasped, his head whipping toward his daughter in pure shock.
Ricky froze, his eyebrows shooting up as the words hung in the dusty air of the living room.
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