“The people in the city who need guns more than anyone else. The cowardly, the corrupt, the frightened. It was the cops who took them, Eddie Thorne, Barstow—the whole Fourth Precinct. They stole the guns, they blamed it on you, and now they’re trying to start a war.”

Van Alen’s gut brushed the table as he stood up, and the whole room rattled. He ripped the napkin off his collar and dropped it on the floor.

“You’re not skipping dinner,” said his mother.

“Business, Ma.”

“Some business, giving out candles. How much can he really make? I mean, I ask you,” she said to me.

I couldn’t answer her. I was already out the door and charging down yet another darkened stairwell. I’d gotten to the first landing before I felt Van Alen’s hands around my waist, lifting me over his shoulder. He took the stairs three at a time, each step a thunderclap that threatened to bring the building down. At the front door, he set me down as gently as a young girl picking a flower.

“Never lay your hands on me again,” I said.

“Apologies,” he said, unapologetic. “Now where are they crossing the line?”

“Eighth Avenue.”

“Ida, send runners to Ninth, Seventh, Sixth, and Fifth. Tell them to send every man. At Eighth, we make a stand.”

“You shouldn’t trust her,” said Mrs. Greene.

“Why not? Didn’t you hear—her father and I are old friends. Now run!”

She ran, and I snapped for Ugly.

“Get the hearse,” I said. “We’ve a rendezvous downtown.”

“Like hell,” said Van Alen. “We’re taking my coach.”

It was a hulking thing, made of gleaming wood, butter-soft leather, and metal as slick as the pistol in my bag. The horses—four of them, all white and all muscle—pawed like bulls ready to charge. While Ugly took refuge in the cab, Van Alen hoisted me onto the driver’s box. He gathered the reins in his left hand and raised his whip high.

“This might be fun,” he said, and I had no doubt he was wrong.

He snapped his wrist, and we exploded onto the avenue like sudden thunder. I pushed my feet against the baseboard and braced my back against the cab, my hands scratching the wood for someplace to hang on.

“Drive easy, boss,” cried Ugly from below. “I’m trying to sharpen your knives.”

The horses churned downtown, relentless as a runaway train, and Van Alen kept them on course with constant, nearly imperceptible twitchings of his left hand. He swung the whip precisely, even gently, a conductor guiding a temperamental orchestra to the performance of its life.

“Every boy under Barbarossa’s banner will be stewed,” he said. “They’re not gonna march on the Borderline—they’ll stagger. We’ll turn ’em away without a fight.”

“I’d still rather it not come to that.”