"Rich indeed," said the stranger, sliding a wad of banknotes across the wooden counter. "An advance," he called it, "until I return," adding, "Rich enough to pay you whatever you need."

"What do you need?" Wong countered.

"Peter Boa told me that you had a special gift for demolition. He said that you used one stick of dynamite when most men needed five. They called you Dragon Wong. And when you protested that only emperors could be dragons, they proclaimed you Emperor of Dynamite."

Flattered, Wong Lee knew it was true. He had had an intuitive understanding of dynamite back when no one knew that much about the new explosive. He still had the gift. He had kept up with all the modern advances in demolition, including how electricity made explosives safer and more powerful, in the unlikely hope that one day quarries and construction contractors would deign to hire the Chinese they used to hire but now shunned.

Wong immediately used the money to buy a half interest in his boss's business. But one month later, that past March, a Panic swept Wall Street again. Jersey City factories closed, as did factories all over the nation. The trains had less freight to carry, so the car floats had fewer boxcars to ferry across the river. Jobs grew scarce on the piers, and fewer people could afford to have their clothing laundered. All spring and summer, the Panic deepened. By autumn, Wong had little hope of ever seeing his wife again.

Now it was November, bitterly cold today, with another winter looming.

And the stranger came back to Jersey City, muffled against the Hudson wind.

He reminded Wong that accepting an advance was a promise to deliver.

Wong reminded the stranger that he had promised to pay whatever he needed.

"Five thousand dollars when the job is done. Will that do you?"

"Very good, sir." Then, feeling unusually bold because the stranger truly needed him, Wong asked, "Are you an anarchist?"

"Why do you ask?" the stranger asked coldly.

"Anarchists like dynamite," Wong answered.

"So do labor strikers," the stranger answered patiently, proving that he truly needed Wong Lee and only Wong Lee. "You know the expression 'the proletariat's artillery'?"

"But you do not wear workman's clothes."

The Wrecker studied the Chinaman's battered face for a long minute, as if memorizing every scar.

Even though the laundry counter separated them, Wong suddenly felt they were standing too close.

"I don't care," he tried to explain. "Just curious," he added nervously.

"Ask me again," said the stranger, "and I will remove your other eye."

Wong Lee backed up a step. The stranger asked a question, watching Wong's battered face as if testing his skills.

"What will you need to make the biggest bang possible out of twenty-five tons?"

"Twenty-five tons of dynamite? Twenty-five tons is a lot of dynamite."

"A full boxcar load. What will you need to make the biggest explosion?"

Wong told him precisely what he needed, and the stranger said, "You will have it."