The swell’s coat and tailored suit concealed a powerful frame. The stillness of his stance masked blinding speed. In the space of a heartbeat, one bouncer was sprawled on the floor, stunned and bloodied. The other was pleading for mercy in a high-pitched squeal. The swell had clamped his head under one arm, while he pressed his thumb to the bouncer’s eye.

Commodore Tommy gaped in astonished recognition.

Fitted over the swell’s thumbnail gleamed a razor-sharp gouge. The tip pressed the corner of the bouncer’s eye, and it was clear to the pleading gangster—and to Commodore Tommy—that with a flick of his thumb the swell could scoop the man’s eye out of his head like a grape.

“Jaysus, Jaysus, Jaysus,” breathed Tommy. “You’re Brian O’Shay.”

At the sound of that name the bouncer, whose eye was a fraction of an inch from being extracted from its socket, began to weep. The other, still struggling for breath on the floor, gasped, “Can’t be. Eyes O’Shay is dead.”

“If he was,” said Commodore Tommy, “he’s back from it.”

The Gopher Gang leader stared in wonder.

Brian “Eyes” O’Shay had vanished fifteen years ago. No wonder he knew goofer. If Eyes hadn’t vanished, they’d still be battling each other to boss Hell’s Kitchen. Barely out of childhood, O’Shay had mastered the gang weapons—slingshot, lead pipe, brass knuckles, and axheads in his boots—and even gotten his mitts on a police revolver. But O’Shay had been most feared for gouging out rivals’ eyes with a specially fitted copper thumbnail.

“You’ve moved up in the world,” said Tommy, getting over his shock. “That gouge looks like it’s pure silver.”

“Stainless steel,” said O’Shay. “Holds an edge and don’t corrode.”

“So you’re back. And rich enough to pay people to do your killing for you.”

“I won’t offer twice.”

“I’ll take the job.”

Eyes O’Shay moved quickly, raking the bouncer’s cheek even as he released him. The man screamed. His hands flew to his face. He blinked, removed his hands, and stared at the blood. Then he blinked again and smiled with gratitude. Blood was streaming from a slice that traversed cheekbone to jaw, but his eyes were intact.

“Get up!” Commodore Tommy ordered. “Both of ya. Go get the Iceman. Tell him to bring Kelly and Butler.”

They hurried out, leaving Tommy Thompson alone with O’Shay. Tommy said, “This ought to put an end to the rumors that I killed you.”

“You could not on your best day, Tommy.”

The Gopher Gang boss protested the insult and the contempt behind it. “Why you talking like that? We was partners.”

“Sometimes.”

They stood in silence, old rivals taking each other’s measure. “Back,” Tommy muttered. “Jaysus Christ, from where?”

O’Shay did not answer.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

Kelly and Butler sidled into the Commodore’s office, trailed by Iceman Weeks.

Brian O’Shay looked them over.

Typical new-breed Gopher, he thought, smaller, compact men. And wasn’t Progress a wonderful thing? Tommy was a throwback to the old days when bulk and muscle ruled. Now clubs and lead pipe were giving way to firearms. Kelly, Butler, and Weeks were built more like himself but dandified in the latest gangster fashion—tightfitting suits, bright vests, florid ties. Kelly and Butler wore polished yellow shoes with lavender socks. Weeks, the Iceman, stood out in hose of sky blue. He was the cool one who would hang back, let the hotheads take the chances, and then swoop in for the prize. In his dreams, the Commodore would die of something quick, and Iceman Weeks would own the Gophers.