Page 12 of Angel of Vengeance
“Then you know it can blow all your heads into little pink clouds. Want to see?”
“Boyos,” the gang leader said after a moment, “let the gentleman pass.” He slid his knife back into his shirt, held his hands up to shoulder level, and said, “No harm meant, guv.”
The rest of the gang followed his lead, moving aside and putting their knives away.
Was it really going to be this easy? They shuffled aside to let him pass. Would they set on him from behind once he and Joe had gone by? He rotated his gaze back as he walked on, bags tucked under one arm, gun at the ready.
At that moment, he saw—at the far end of the alleyway—a two-horse carriage come to a halt with a squeal of iron brakes. Three men jumped out, carrying iron rods. “Hey!” one yelled to the gang. “Stop that cove!”
Leng’s men, thought D’Agosta. They came charging down the alleyway, still shouting. Thinking quickly, D’Agosta reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold piece, and flipped it to the gang’s leader. “That’s for you—if you beat the hell out of those three men.”
The youth caught it and grinned. “Sure thing, guv!”
D’Agosta turned and, still gripping Joe by the hand, ran on. As they exited the far end of the alleyway, he could hear shouting and bellowing as the fight began.
Grand Central Depot rose above the surrounding city, an unfamiliar monstrosity in brick and limestone. D’Agosta bought first-class tickets on the New York, Providence, and Boston line. They boarded the train just as it was about to depart. A porter led the way to an elegant compartment, which they had to themselves.
D’Agosta took his seat with relief. His headache was starting to come back.
“So is your name George or Vinnie?” asked Joe, looking at him suspiciously.
“From now on, it’s George.”
The train began to chuff and groan as it pulled out of the station.
“Can I see your gun?” Joe asked.
D’Agosta thought for a moment. He had learned how to shoot from his father when he was twelve. Glancing around, he confirmed there was nobody present to see. He got up, latched the compartment, and took the gun out. He freed the cylinder and inspected it. All six chambers were still full of rounds. He shook out the bullets into his palm and flipped the cylinder back into place.
“Two rules. You never, ever point the barrel at a human being.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You never, ever put your finger on the trigger, or inside the trigger guard, until just before you fire.”
“Yes, sir.”
D’Agosta nodded, satisfied. “This is not a toy. You may hold it for a moment and then give it back. Take it by the grips, like this, and keep the barrel pointed down.”
He turned the gun around and offered it to Joe. The boy took it, hefted it. “It’s heavy.”
“Yes, it is. It’s what they call a forty-five caliber.” He waited a moment. “Okay, you can give it back.”
Joe did so, his face flushed with the experience of having held it, even for a moment. Funny thing about boys and guns, thought D’Agosta; something utterly primitive in the reaction. It was probably the same with bows and arrows, or spears, thousands of years ago. Joe seemed brave and resourceful, in many ways more like a small, serious adult than a kid. He must’ve grown up fast, living on the streets and on Blackwell’s Island.
The train finally emerged from the dark tunnels beneath Park Avenue, speeding northward along the coast with a view over marshes to Long Island Sound.
“You got that pack of cards handy?” D’Agosta asked.
Joe nodded.
“Know how to play war?”
He nodded again and fished the pack out, dividing it into two piles. “That’s for you,” he said, pushing one pile over.
D’Agosta took the cards and they began to play. At that moment the porter came by. D’Agosta ordered a sarsaparilla for Joe.
As they played, D’Agosta’s thoughts started to wander. What was it going to be like on Mount Desert Island? He’d never been to Maine in his life, never even heard of Mount Desert. The two years he had spent in Moose Jaw, Canada, as a young man on a failed attempt to write a book had cured him of cold weather and long snowy winters forever.