Now Is the Time

The eastern end of Misery Lane ran right up against the East River docks.

By the time I arrived, a long line had already formed at the Charities Pier, the public welfare dock run by the New York City Department of Public Charities. People were waiting for their evening ration.

Alma stood in that line, gripping her son's hand as she waited her turn.

I don't want to live under the same sky as the bastards who turned my life into this. Johnny's dead. Now it's Kaplan's turn. What can I do to help?

Her words from the day we took Kaplan down still circled in my head. At the time I'd taken them for nothing more than a wronged woman's hatred and thirst for revenge. Looking at the money, though, I couldn't shake the feeling that hadn't been the whole story.

Maybe the real reason she'd gone looking for Kaplan in the first place had been to kill him and claim his cash. Spending two days with him in that motel had just been a way of waiting for the right opening.

I was lost in thought, watching Alma and her boy, when two police vans rolled up behind me and stopped at the dockside.

What the hell. I jolted, then melted back into the crowd.

Fortunately they were only prisoner transports.

The officers hauled out eight shackled convicts one by one. Different races, different skin colors. I wondered what they'd done. The prisoners clearly hated the stares; they snapped and snarled at anyone who looked too long.

"Eyes down, or you're all dead if I catch you on the street."

"Shut up and move."

The cops marched the prisoners toward one of the piers. Their final destination was the prison on Blackwell's Island, sitting out in the middle of the East River—a place of fear and despair between Manhattan and Brooklyn, crammed with criminals, lunatics, and anyone who needed to be locked away from the rest of the city.

I swore I'd never end up there.

While I was making that silent vow, Alma collected her bread and potatoes and started home with her son. Brian and two of the crew fell in behind them.

A public tenement on East Twenty-Sixth Street.

Up on the roof I held out an envelope to Alma.

"There was really money in there?"

"Check it."

She opened the envelope and her mouth fell open in a soft gasp.

"A hundred dollars?!"

She stared at me, face flushed.

"You're really giving this to me?"

She never asked how much had actually been in Kaplan's safe. Maybe she figured I could invent any number I liked; a hundred dollars was enough to satisfy her on its own.

"You planning to keep living here?"

"No. With a hundred dollars I can move somewhere else. Find work, too."

According to Brian, Alma hadn't even been here a full year. The company she'd worked for had gone under, and something ugly had happened at the place that used to watch her kid. Misery Lane had been the only option left.

"What kind of work did you used to do?"

"Whatever I could get. Why—you offering me a job?"

I'd only tossed the question out, but when I nodded she looked startled.

"For real?"

"Yeah."

The Kaplan business still wasn't closed. I couldn't keep her under watch forever either. And the cut she'd been promised was ten percent—forty-five hundred dollars.

"I'll give you a hundred a month. In return, you work for me."

"A h-hundred? Every month?"

"It might get rough enough to earn it."

"As long as I don't have to leave Sean, I'll do whatever you tell me."

"The kid is your problem. Find a place on Allen Street."

"Allen…?"

She flinched, then nodded.

"All right. I can do that."

Allen Street—famous for its brothels. She clearly thought the job I was offering was prostitution.

Let her think whatever she wanted. I told Brian and the boys to help her move, then left East Twenty-Sixth Street behind.

Even tonight the alleys were full of the destitute, huddled and shivering as they begged for coins. I walked past them with a knife dangling from one hand and headed for my next stop.

In the days before Christmas the busiest places in the city were the churches and the department stores.

At the corner of Thirty-Fourth Street and Broadway a decent crowd had gathered in front of Macy's, staring through the plate glass at the Christmas displays.

The street outside Macy's was the polar opposite of Misery Lane's alleys.

Back in 1874, Macy's had been the first store in America to put on a full Christmas window display behind giant panes of glass. Then they'd figured out how to pull the window-shoppers inside, focusing especially hard on the stretch from Thanksgiving through Christmas and New Year's. The strategy spread to every other retailer on the block until the whole avenue felt like a festival. People fell for shiny things they didn't need and opened their wallets without a second thought. I was one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of them.

"Five dollars for this bear?!"

"Sir, this isn't just any bear. Simply carrying it will make every child around you green with envy. It's a Teddy Bear."

A Teddy Bear.

It looked nothing like the ones I remembered from my previous life. This scrawny thing could have crawled straight out of a tenement—long limbs, half-starved body. Not cute in the slightest.

The clerk was desperate enough to pry my money loose that he even gave me the full origin story.

"Once, President Roosevelt went hunting down in Mississippi. When the hunt went poorly, his aides brought him a live cub. They told him to shoot it. Roosevelt couldn't pull the trigger and ordered the animal released. The newspapers turned the story into cartoons and caricatures—and the Teddy Bear was born."

The real ones were still handmade, the kind of luxury only middle-class families and better could afford.

"Those cheap street-corner Teddy Bears don't even have a trademark. They're slapped together and the quality is terrible."

"Fine. I'll take it."

Five dollars was roughly four days' wages for an ordinary laborer. Roa's Christmas present was turning out expensive.

I tucked the ribbon-tied box under my arm and moved on to the next counter. The store was so packed that simply walking took effort.

I was shouldering through the crowd when I felt a hand slide into my coat.

I grabbed it.

The pickpocket thrashed, trying to yank free. He was a boy about Liam's age. When our eyes met he crumpled into a miserable pout.

"Please… let me go."

His English was thick enough that he couldn't have been in the country long. Italian, by the sound of it.

I leaned close to his ear and spoke quietly.

"Hand over everything you've got and I'll let you walk."

"I… I don't have anything. Not a single cent."

"Then you're going to the station."

I seized him by the scruff. He frantically dug into his pockets and produced a handful of coins.

"That's all of it."

Eighty cents. No way that was everything after working a department store this crowded.

Still holding him by the neck, I searched his pockets myself. Another six dollars came out.

"Sometimes you get robbed too. Thanks for the donation."

I released him. He stared up at me, stunned.

"That's just… too much."

"Want me to show you what too much really looks like? I can do worse."

"…Bastard."

He gritted his teeth and vanished into the throng.

Just like that, Roa's gift was paid for. My steps felt lighter as I climbed to the second floor.

The bag department. Liam had asked for something he could use.

"These four designs are our most popular. Which one catches your eye?"

"Just give me any of them."

"Ah… yes, sir."

I bought a bag suitable for a sixteen-year-old. They offered to add a ribbon; I almost refused, then let them do it.

"That'll be three dollars and fifty cents."

The bear had cost more than the bag. Unbelievable.

"Your younger brother will love it."

If he didn't, he wouldn't be human—not after his older brother went to this much trouble for Christmas.

I tied the packages together with string and was about to leave when I stopped short.

I'd almost forgotten Mother's gift.

What would she even like? Underwear felt like a waste of money, and I didn't know her size anyway.

I went back down to the ladies' department and browsed. Fine handkerchiefs, silver ornaments, perfume, velvet gloves, fur stoles—I was still staring when a familiar voice spoke behind me.

"Shopping for someone?"

Hazel. The girl from the illegal gun workshop in Hell's Kitchen stood right behind me.

Running into her twice in the same department store meant she must love shopping more than most people.

She read my expression and stuck out her lower lip.

"It's not luxury—it's compensation for everything I do."

"Did I say anything?"

"Anyway, picking out a present for your mother?"

"Yeah. No idea what to get her."

"That's the kind of thing a woman knows better."

She asked what Mother usually liked.

"If I knew that, I'd have bought it already."

"Fair enough. Then let's go to the third floor. There'll be parties and New Year's gatherings, right?"

Come to think of it, Mother was a proper clothing-factory owner now. Invitations to all sorts of winter receptions had been arriving lately.

"Do you know her size?"

"If it doesn't fit she'll just have it altered."

"That's no way to buy a gift. You should get something that actually fits."

Hazel chose a dress; the clerk fawned over her taste.

"Oh my, this is one of our most popular styles right now—you have an excellent eye. It's an elegant fusion of Art Deco and Edwardian lines."

"And the price?"

"Fifty dollars."

What? I must have misheard.

"A proper evening gown costs that much. Fifty is actually cheap."

How much did she make hammering metal all day in that basement workshop? Her casual remark left me speechless.

Still, as if possessed, I paid sixty dollars for the dress and a matching hat.

"What about something for you?"

"Me?"

"You're a boss too. How long are you going to walk around looking like that?"

She had a point. Newsboys' cap and a cheap coat—the standard Lower East Side uniform. It didn't look like a gang boss. Hell, I still hadn't fully climbed out of the shoe-shine box.

"All right. Let's go shopping."

We found the men's department on the fourth floor. While Hazel browsed, a saleswoman attached herself to my side.

"Looking for anything in particular, sir?"

Don't ask me—I'm still trying to figure that out myself. Sales clerks always made me anxious, past life or present. Luckily Hazel picked out a decent suit.

"You should at least wear something like this. How much?"

"Seventy dollars."

The clerk's answer made Hazel glance at me.

"Too expensive?"

"No. We'll take it. I'm the one wearing it."

"What the…"

It wasn't for me—it was an investment in bigger business. Seventy dollars was nothing.

By the time we finished, my arms were full of boxes. Hazel's hands weren't empty either; she'd bought a Christmas present for the Gunsmith as well.

"What'd you get him?"

"New tools that just came out."

"Ah."

We left the store with gift boxes in both hands and walked side by side until we reached an alley and stopped.

A group was giving someone a collective beating. Of all people, it was the pickpocket who'd tried to lift my wallet.

In this world it was always one of two things: either you hadn't made your daily quota, or you'd stepped into someone else's territory.

A slap across the face, a fist to the gut. When the boy finally slid down the wall and sat there, our eyes met.

His empty stare locked onto the packages in my arms. Was he about to tell them I'd cleaned him out? The opposite happened. He simply ignored me and took the rest of the beating in silence.

I must have looked puzzled, because Hazel asked,

"You know that kid?"

"Pickpocket. Tried ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to take my wallet earlier."

"And?"

"I cleaned him out instead. Six dollars and eighty cents."

"Whoa…"

Hazel was still wearing an incredulous expression when the pack finished their work and disappeared down the opposite alley.

Alone now, the boy leaned his head back against the bricks and stared at the sky, fists clenched.

I walked over. He didn't even look at me when he spoke.

"Thanks to you I got the full treatment. Can I… have the money back?"

"Isn't it already over?"

He shook his head. If I gave it back now, he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠said, at least those guys wouldn't take it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from him.

"I have to hand half of whatever I make over to them. So… just give me half back."

"That's why you didn't rat me out? What if I'd just walked away?"

"If you were going to walk away, you wouldn't have stopped to watch."

Sharp eyes, and the brain behind them wasn't stupid either.

"Where in Italy are you from?"

"Palermo, Sicily. You know it?"

"No. Name?"

"Lanza."

It rang a faint bell.

"Where do you live?"

"…The sewer. Lower East Side."

"I live there too."

Lanza studied me with sudden interest, then squinted as if he'd spotted something.

"Wait—are you from Chinatown?"

"No."

If I wanted a wider talent pool I needed every race and background. That included Italians.

I pulled three dollars and forty cents from my wallet—exactly half of what he'd asked for.

And one more thing.

I handed him a nameless business card.

"If you don't want to stay a pickpocket forever, come after six in the evening. Ask for Patrick."

Lanza stared at the card as if he meant to burn a hole through it.

I left him there and walked out of the alley.

"Did you just recruit him?"

"Yeah. Now is the time for that."

"Give me one of those cards too."

"Why? Things going sour with old Gunsmith?"

"I'm just curious, all right? What, is it too precious to spare me one?"

"Yep."

Hazel pouted, then glanced toward the waiting carriages.

"Want to go shooting before we head home?"

"Not really."

I'd already fired last night.

We hailed two carriages. Hazel headed west toward Hell's Kitchen; I turned south for the Lower East Side.

Lanza showed up at the dance hall the very next day.