Rousseau couldn’t suppress a quick glance in Rubio’s direction. “Well, that’s something to think about. Lucky for us, we’re good for now. Even better if we all get back to work.”

Rubio bent his head to my ear. “Great. Now there’s competition.”

—

Later that day, a sadder duty faced us. With everyone accounted for, there were still two canoe crew members dead from sniper fire.

Jenn, Rube, and I joined the others watching from the hastily repaired Third Avenue walkway as the crews rigged tow lines to a raft loaded with the shrouded bodies. Rousseau waited in the stern of the outboard, while Jorge and Tang loaded in two jerrycans of precious flammables.

“Viking funeral,” Rubio observed. “Precious fuel instead of gold and jewels.”

“They deserve it,” I said.

“For what? Getting in the way of a bullet?”

Jenn elbowed him sharply.

He shrugged and looked away.

Lines secured, the canoes glided down Third, gathering speed in the outgoing tide. One in the lead, two towing the raft, the outboard in rear escort. As the last motored by quietly below, I saw Rousseau settle a serious firearm by his side. The ante had risen.

“I hate being left behind,” murmured Jenn. “What if they just keep going, all the way to the Jersey Shore?”

“Why would they?” Rubio seemed genuinely perplexed.

“Wouldn’t mind being able to watch.” This was my first den funeral, and I liked how fire seemed both clean and final.

“Like I said,” Rubio said, “we need more boats.”

“How far out will they go?”

“Open water, down past the Battery Towers. Maybe out by Lady Liberty.”

“So far? BlackAdder’s down there. And the patrols.”

Small cargo ships used the Hudson to supply Uptown, guarded by armed cutters. I’d seen one of those churn by from the window of a westside warehouse I was picking, all lit up and predatory-looking. Even from a distance, it scared me.

“They’ll leave a funeral burning alone, long as it’s headed out to sea. No one wants more rot floating upriver than there is already.” Rubio took a breath, as if what he’d said was too ugly even for him. “As for BlackAdder . . . that’s what the rifle’s for.”

When the solemn caravan slid out of sight, the three of us slouched back to work.

Jenn let Rubio get a bit ahead and leaned in to whisper. “I could trim that scare hair for you. Just give it a little shape, y’know? What do you say?”

I smiled, rueful but half-serious. “Would I have to look in a mirror?”

EIGHTEEN

Spunk made Rousseau keep me off the streets even after he’d sent the other pickers back to work, at least till my flood bruises healed. The day after the funeral, I was assigned to the ongoing cleanup of the roof gardens.