8

8

T HE HEARSE TRAVELED SOUTH on Fifth Avenue and was soon caught up in a scrum of carriages, horses, peddlers' carts, and all manner of conveyances elegant and shabby, mingling with the shouts of drivers, the ringing of iron wheels on cobblestones, and the cracking of whips. The smells of horse sweat and manure filled the air, along with the ever-present stink of burning coal. It occurred to D'Agosta that he was experiencing the nineteenth-century equivalent of a traffic jam.

Mr. Porlock took out a cigar case and offered one to D'Agosta. While he had given up cigars years ago and had promised Laura never to touch them again, he took one now. Why the hell not? She wasn't even in the same universe. Porlock lit up his and D'Agosta did the same, grateful for the scent of tobacco to dilute the noisome air.

When they reached Forty-Third Street, Porlock gave a histrionic cry, as instructed, and ordered his driver to pull to the side. He got out and together with the driver, made a show of examining the nearer horse's rear shoe. After a minute the undertaker's driver picked up the horse's hoof, messed around with a nail clincher, then said in a loud voice: "Mr. Porlock, we're going to have to make a quick stop at the livery stables. We're about to lose a shoe."

Porlock waved his hand with a show of impatience. "So be it."

They turned down Forty-Third Street and rode west toward Sixth Avenue, where a sign over a large brick building announced a livery stable and farrier establishment. Wooden gates, manned by two boys, opened to let them into the courtyard, closing immediately behind them.

They were met by another youth, calling loudly and gesticulating. "This way, gents, this way." Other carriages were parked in a courtyard that was covered with sand and straw, and horses were being led about by stable boys.

The boy led the hearse to a bay, where it was parked. The horses were unharnessed and taken away.

"Mr. Harrison?" said Porlock in a low voice. "Now's your chance."

D'Agosta stepped down and went around to the back of the hearse in time to see the four men opening the lid. Joe climbed out. He had the same determined expression on his face, which encouraged D'Agosta. At least he wouldn't try to run away.

The livery boy holding open the door to the bay stared open-mouthed at what he'd just witnessed—someone roughly his own age climbing out of a coffin.

"Hey, you!" said D'Agosta, stepping over to him and holding out a silver dollar. "Kid, this is to keep your mouth shut. You understand? Not a word, ever."

"Oh, yes, sir! Yes, sir!" The boy stared at the glittering coin.

"Put it away—and wipe that look off your face."

The boy stuffed the coin in his pocket and arranged his face into a serious expression.

D'Agosta turned back to the coffin and, as planned, tossed four $10 gold eagles into it—bribes to take care of those in the funeral home who would receive the empty coffin. He nodded at the four men, who quickly sealed the coffin up again. Then, taking Joe by the hand and grasping the bags in the other, he turned to the livery boy.

"Is there a back door to this place?"

"Yes, sir. But—"

"Take us there."

The boy led D'Agosta and Joe to the rear of the livery, where another wooden door was shut and barred, manned by yet another boy. D'Agosta wondered, a little idly, how many decades it would take for child labor laws to be enacted.

"Open the door for us, young fellow." He proffered the second boy a silver dollar.

The boy snatched it. "Yes, sir."

"If anyone should ask—you saw nobody."

"Right, sir. Nobody."

The open door led D'Agosta and Joe into an alleyway, dim despite the morning sun. The door shut behind them and was barred with a loud clang of wood and iron. D'Agosta looked in both directions, seeing no one but a group of young men in bowlers and flat caps, lounging on a stack of barrels, smoking cigars.

He tried to orient himself. Grand Central Depot was the precursor to Grand Central Terminal, and that should be roughly two and a half blocks east of where they were. The alleyway ran east to west, and so D'Agosta turned left, still clutching Joe's hand. They would have to pass by the toughs, who were eyeing them through clouds of cigar smoke. D'Agosta could feel the reassuring weight of the Colt .45 under his arm.

They headed down the cobbles. As they did so, the men slowly stood, hands in their pockets, and sauntered across the alleyway, blocking it.

Jesus , thought D'Agosta. It was only a random street gang—he was sure of that—and he had half a mind to just drop one or two of the bastards. But if they made a scene, it might very well attract the police—or perhaps Leng's men, who had no doubt been following their carriage.

"I don't like those men," said Joe.

"Neither do I." D'Agosta slid his hand under his arm and removed the .45.

Joe's eyes went wide. "What kind of a gun is that?" he whispered.

"A loud one."

"Hullo, guv," said a hollow-faced, rail-thin young man with pale skin, freckles, and a dented derby hat—apparently the leader. "This here's our toll booth, like. Come on, post the pony."

D'Agosta stared at the man. What the hell did that mean? Money, of course.

"What's the toll?" D'Agosta asked.

The men laughed as they spread out, some sliding long knives out of their shirts.

"As you're asking—everything, ratbag."

More knives came out… but no guns. He sure as hell wasn't going to give these scumbags the gold in his case.

D'Agosta shoved Joe behind him and showed his piece. "You know what the fuck this is?"

A silence. They seemed almost as shocked by the obscenity as by the weapon. "I guess I do, guv," the leader said.

"Then you know it can blow all your heads into little pink clouds. Want to see?"

"Boyos," the gang leader said after a moment, "let the gentleman pass." He slid his knife back into his shirt, held his hands up to shoulder level, and said, "No harm meant, guv."

The rest of the gang followed his lead, moving aside and putting their knives away.

Was it really going to be this easy? They shuffled aside to let him pass. Would they set on him from behind once he and Joe had gone by? He rotated his gaze back as he walked on, bags tucked under one arm, gun at the ready.

At that moment, he saw—at the far end of the alleyway—a two-horse carriage come to a halt with a squeal of iron brakes. Three men jumped out, carrying iron rods. "Hey!" one yelled to the gang. "Stop that cove!"

Leng's men , thought D'Agosta. They came charging down the alleyway, still shouting. Thinking quickly, D'Agosta reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold piece, and flipped it to the gang's leader. "That's for you—if you beat the hell out of those three men."

The youth caught it and grinned. "Sure thing, guv!"

D'Agosta turned and, still gripping Joe by the hand, ran on. As they exited the far end of the alleyway, he could hear shouting and bellowing as the fight began.

Grand Central Depot rose above the surrounding city, an unfamiliar monstrosity in brick and limestone. D'Agosta bought first-class tickets on the New York, Providence, and Boston line. They boarded the train just as it was about to depart. A porter led the way to an elegant compartment, which they had to themselves.

D'Agosta took his seat with relief. His headache was starting to come back.

"So is your name George or Vinnie?" asked Joe, looking at him suspiciously.

"From now on, it's George."

The train began to chuff and groan as it pulled out of the station.

"Can I see your gun?" Joe asked.

D'Agosta thought for a moment. He had learned how to shoot from his father when he was twelve. Glancing around, he confirmed there was nobody present to see. He got up, latched the compartment, and took the gun out. He freed the cylinder and inspected it. All six chambers were still full of rounds. He shook out the bullets into his palm and flipped the cylinder back into place.

"Two rules. You never, ever point the barrel at a human being."

"Yes, sir."

"You never, ever put your finger on the trigger, or inside the trigger guard, until just before you fire."

"Yes, sir."

D'Agosta nodded, satisfied. "This is not a toy. You may hold it for a moment and then give it back. Take it by the grips, like this, and keep the barrel pointed down."

He turned the gun around and offered it to Joe. The boy took it, hefted it. "It's heavy."

"Yes, it is. It's what they call a forty-five caliber." He waited a moment. "Okay, you can give it back."

Joe did so, his face flushed with the experience of having held it, even for a moment. Funny thing about boys and guns, thought D'Agosta; something utterly primitive in the reaction. It was probably the same with bows and arrows, or spears, thousands of years ago. Joe seemed brave and resourceful, in many ways more like a small, serious adult than a kid. He must've grown up fast, living on the streets and on Blackwell's Island.

The train finally emerged from the dark tunnels beneath Park Avenue, speeding northward along the coast with a view over marshes to Long Island Sound.

"You got that pack of cards handy?" D'Agosta asked.

Joe nodded.

"Know how to play war?"

He nodded again and fished the pack out, dividing it into two piles. "That's for you," he said, pushing one pile over.

D'Agosta took the cards and they began to play. At that moment the porter came by. D'Agosta ordered a sarsaparilla for Joe.

As they played, D'Agosta's thoughts started to wander. What was it going to be like on Mount Desert Island? He'd never been to Maine in his life, never even heard of Mount Desert. The two years he had spent in Moose Jaw, Canada, as a young man on a failed attempt to write a book had cured him of cold weather and long snowy winters forever.

Mount Desert Island, Maine. End of December 1880. Sounded like hell.