Page 11 of Angel of Vengeance

The livery boy holding open the door to the bay stared open-mouthed at what he’d just witnessed—someone roughly his own age climbing out of a coffin.

“Hey, you!” said D’Agosta, stepping over to him and holding out a silver dollar. “Kid, this is to keep your mouth shut. You understand? Not a word, ever.”

“Oh, yes, sir! Yes, sir!” The boy stared at the glittering coin.

“Put it away—and wipe that look off your face.”

The boy stuffed the coin in his pocket and arranged his face into a serious expression.

D’Agosta turned back to the coffin and, as planned, tossed four $10 gold eagles into it—bribes to take care of those in the funeral home who would receive the empty coffin. He nodded at the four men, who quickly sealed the coffin up again. Then, taking Joe by the hand and grasping the bags in the other, he turned to the livery boy.

“Is there a back door to this place?”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“Take us there.”

The boy led D’Agosta and Joe to the rear of the livery, where another wooden door was shut and barred, manned by yet another boy. D’Agosta wondered, a little idly, how many decades it would take for child labor laws to be enacted.

“Open the door for us, young fellow.” He proffered the second boy a silver dollar.

The boy snatched it. “Yes, sir.”

“If anyone should ask—you saw nobody.”

“Right, sir. Nobody.”

The open door led D’Agosta and Joe into an alleyway, dim despite the morning sun. The door shut behind them and was barred with a loud clang of wood and iron. D’Agosta looked in both directions, seeing no one but a group of young men in bowlers and flat caps, lounging on a stack of barrels, smoking cigars.

He tried to orient himself. Grand Central Depot was the precursor to Grand Central Terminal, and that should be roughly two and a half blocks east of where they were. The alleyway ran east to west, and so D’Agosta turned left, still clutching Joe’s hand. They would have to pass by the toughs, who were eyeing them through clouds of cigar smoke. D’Agosta could feel the reassuring weight of the Colt .45 under his arm.

They headed down the cobbles. As they did so, the men slowly stood, hands in their pockets, and sauntered across the alleyway, blocking it.

Jesus, thought D’Agosta. It was only a random street gang—he was sure of that—and he had half a mind to just drop one or two of the bastards. But if they made a scene, it might very well attract the police—or perhaps Leng’s men, who had no doubt been following their carriage.

“I don’t like those men,” said Joe.

“Neither do I.” D’Agosta slid his hand under his arm and removed the .45.

Joe’s eyes went wide. “What kind of a gun is that?” he whispered.

“A loud one.”

“Hullo, guv,” said a hollow-faced, rail-thin young man with pale skin, freckles, and a dented derby hat—apparently the leader. “This here’s our toll booth, like. Come on, post the pony.”

D’Agosta stared at the man. What the hell did that mean? Money, of course.

“What’s the toll?” D’Agosta asked.

The men laughed as they spread out, some sliding long knives out of their shirts.

“As you’re asking—everything, ratbag.”

More knives came out… but no guns. He sure as hell wasn’t going to give these scumbags the gold in his case.

D’Agosta shoved Joe behind him and showed his piece. “You know what the fuck this is?”

A silence. They seemed almost as shocked by the obscenity as by the weapon. “I guess I do, guv,” the leader said.