Three weeks passed in the blink of an eye, and it was payday at the docks again.
After stuffing his wages into his pocket, Shane checked his work area as usual, preparing to leave and buy food for the apartment from the corner grocery store.
Just as he turned, a hand reeking of strong tobacco landed on his shoulder.
"New here?" a young man with a cigarette dangling from his lips, wearing a baseball cap, gave him a flippant look. Behind him, two or three companions loitered menacingly.
"This is our territory," the man continued, voice flat but threatening. "If you want to work here, you have to pay protection money."
Shane recognized them. Old Jack had warned him about the Brotherhood, an Italian gang that controlled parts of the dock—smuggling, extorting businesses, and collecting protection fees from dockworkers.
Shane instinctively clenched his fists but forced himself to relax. Now was not the time to act recklessly.
"How much?" he asked calmly, suppressing his anger.
"Four dollars a week," the young man grinned. "A fair deal, right?"
Shane noted the red, angry blemishes on the man's otherwise sharp face. After a moment of silence, Shane expressionlessly counted out four dollars from his wages and handed it over.
"Smart man! I'm Tony," the youth said, slapping his hand against his chest in satisfaction. "Pay every Friday, or we'll come looking for you."
He and his companions laughed crudely and receded into the shadows of a nearby alley.
Shane clenched the remaining eighteen dollars in his pocket. Reason told him it was a trivial expense in the long run. Yet, the hot blood of youth still burned, and the sting of humiliation throbbed in his temples.
In the distance, Tony stopped another lone worker, and Shane etched each of their faces into memory. Overhead, seagulls cried, mingling with the roar of dock cranes—the unique symphony of New York Harbor.
Shane lifted his gaze to the tall buildings of Manhattan, bathed in the golden afterglow of the setting sun. Streetcars clanged, vendors hawked their wares, and children's laughter echoed along the sidewalks. Life went on, indifferent to the small predations in its corners.
Clutching his dignity, Shane continued to the familiar corner grocery store. The sun's final light streamed through the glass window, casting mottled patterns on the floor.
Inside, the crisp chime of the doorbell startled a transaction in progress. OldAnthony fumbled to open the trapdoor beneath the counter, but a red-haired young man was faster, his right hand resting near a concealed bulge at his waist. The air smelled of pickled cucumbers and fragrant Italian spices.
"Ah, you're that Irish kid asking about ways to make money," Anthony said, easing back as Shane stepped forward.
Shane replied calmly, "That's me."
The young man inspected the boxes of Canadian whiskey, noting the missing section of his left pinky—a mark the Sicilians used for traitors. Satisfied, he nodded to Anthony and walked out into the street.
Anthony shook his head, a few strands of black hair glinting in the sun. "Business on St. Anthony's Day…" he muttered, teeth still specked with garlic crumbs from lunch.
Shane selected a few necessities: bread wrapped in rough paper, apples glistening with dew, hard cheese in waxed paper. At the counter, he paid two dollars fifty cents. Then, casually, he asked, "Mr. Anthony, are there any other opportunities?"
The old man narrowed his eyes, a spark of cunning lighting his gaze. "Kid, this line isn't for everyone. You sure you can handle it?"
"I know the risks," Shane replied with a faint smile, "but fortune favors the brave."
Anthony paused, then produced a slip of paper from under the counter. "Go find this person. Tell him I sent you. But be careful. Don't stir trouble."
The note smelled faintly of olive oil, written in neat blue-black ink, marked with a small anchor—a secret sign of the Sicilian Mafia.
"Grazie," Shane said in Italian as he left, and a flicker of surprise crossed Anthony's eyes.
Back in the apartment, dim gaslight flickered as Shane opened the creaking wooden door. Mary knelt on the faded floor, scrubbing vigorously. Her red hair was damp and sticking to her forehead.
"Brother!" she exclaimed, eyes lighting up. She instinctively tried to cover her scraped knees.
Shane knelt beside her, brushing her rough palms gently. "Don't worry about this right now. Sit. I have news."
Mary put down the rag, eyes wide as Shane continued. "It's time for you to go to school. I've already contacted St. Mary's School for Girls, not far from here. Tomorrow, my day off, I'll take you to enroll."
Mary's eyelashes fluttered rapidly, hands clutching the edge of her apron, the last remnant of their mother from Dublin.
Shane ruffled her hair gently, making her nose sting. She grabbed his arm, noticing a scrape.
"Brother, don't work so hard. I can help with chores… or even find a part-time job…"
Shane shook his head. Moonlight streaked across his face. He pulled a small tin from under the cabinet, coins clinking inside, then reached into a hidden compartment of their canvas backpack.
He revealed a silver malachite ring and a small ruby pendant, treasures they had smuggled from Dublin.
"These will cover your first semester," Shane said softly. "Your job is to study. Leave everything else to me. Trust me, Mary—we'll get better and better."
Later, Shane stood by the window, repeatedly checking the slip of paper. The faint song of a drunkard drifted up from the street. He folded the note and hid it under his shoe insole, along with emergency cash.
Mary slept curled up like a small, wary animal. Outside, neon lights blurred in the mist, casting a hazy glow.
Tomorrow, Shane would step into a new world, not as a black market dealer, but as a survivor in the unforgiving New York of 1927.
He turned to look at his sister. His gaze softened. "This time… it'll be different," he whispered.