“It’d been Copeland. I liked dealing with him. We’d been doing it, lord, a long time.”

“How long?”

“Close on twenty years.”

“1903?”

“Could be. First time he came over, I didn’t believe a word he was saying. Thought it was just old Galen, on a bender. But then he took me downtown, made me stand across the street and watch the real Copeland on his way into his offices, and that was when I knew we had something.”

“What did he bring you?”

“At first? Whatever he could steal. But every trip he made, things in your city and things in mine, they got a little more different, until what was easy to get in one place was scarce as hell in the others.”

“Like liquor.”

“That, eventually. But other things too. Like 1914—we had a blight knock out the whole apple crop upstate, and Galen made a fortune bringing over boat after boat, stacked to the waterline with Acey Macs, Cameos, and Ginger Golds.”

“That was the year my Westside went to hell. Three thousand one hundred and thirteen disappeared. For apples.”

“For money. Galen knew what he was about. I was sorry to hear he got finished off.”

“And who are you dealing with now?”

“You may as well put down that pistol, girl. Your arm is shaking.”

I parted his father’s hair with my gun. The barrel traced a bumpy course along the moles and liver spots above his ear. I tried my best to grin like a sadist.

“Goddamn it,” said Mrs. Van Alen and slapped her hand on the table.

“Why don’t you take a walk,” said Van Alen. The old woman didn’t move. She was nearly as big as her son, and twice as angry.

“I’m taking you down to Centre Street,” said Virgil.

“On what charges, precisely?”

“Smuggling. Bootlegging. Bashing a man’s head in with a car door—I’m sure there’s a charge in there somewhere.”

“And this scrawny, crazy-eyed mouse is your only witness. Tell me, kid, what do you say when the court asks your address? ‘Well, I come from New York, but not this New York. I’m kind of a traveler, come from another world. I’m a goddamned magician!’”

He seemed to think that was very funny. I was not convinced.

“Gilda’s got a message for you,” said Virgil. “You’re gonna listen, quiet and respectful, or I will make you regret it.”

“I’ve been bigger than you since we were six years old.”

“But you haven’t been fast enough to land a punch since we were ten.”

Van Alen stood, or tried. Before he was halfway up, Virgil reached over the table and slapped him across the cheek. The big man sat back, stunned, one cheek red from the blow, the other from embarrassment. I explained our position.