avoid them at all costs, he kept to the shadows as he made his way toward St. Mark’s, where he hoped to find Casper Prosnicki.
Carla had been reluctant to let him leave.
“We’ve hurt him,” she said. “The Poles won’t be signing. Henry will be mad as a hornet.”
How had she accomplished that? She knew how to talk to them, she said. She knew what they would fear most in America, and she’d played to those fears. Organized crime. She’d told them that soon after they opened the plant, they would start to experience vandalism and theft. They would get a visit from one of Henry’s hatchet men—she’d described Smith, specifically—and the payments for police protection would start. Labor. She told them that she, personally, would organize the workers they brought over. If the workers initially resisted being organized, she had the muscle to intimidate them into compliance.
Rinus had looked at her, she said, with relief in his eyes. Something about Henry bothered the Poles. They weren’t coming to America to be pushed around, Rinus said. The pressure Henry was putting on them to sign the contract had given them pause. Carla’s visit merely reinforced their misgivings and gave them a reason to back out.
“So there’s no need to find the boy,” Carla pleaded, knowing that this was no longer about subverting the mayor. It had become something else.
Poole was wary when he got to St. Mark’s Square, keeping to the shadows and watching for a full five minutes without seeing anything that concerned him. He finally broke from cover, moving swiftly—not running, but almost. He took the steps three at a time and came to the door. Locked. How could a door this decrepit be locked? He pushed again, harder this time, and it gave a little. Not locked. Barricaded.
He took a step back, got low, and exploded into the door with his full weight. Somehow the impact registered in his damaged hand, and he shook it in a vain attempt to ease the pain. He’d moved the door enough to slip through. Movement came from the darkness, barely audible noises, a subtle shifting in the air.
“It’s Poole,” he said in a stage whisper. “I was here the other day. You brought me upstairs to see the Brother.”
Hearing no response, Poole pulled his flashlight from his pocket and shone the light on his face. A stirring came from in front of him, by the stairs.
A prepubescent voice said, “You come to see Casper?”
“That’s right. Is he here?”
The boy didn’t reply, and Poole heard footsteps running up the stairs, though whether in retreat or to fetch Casper, he wasn’t sure.
At least three sets of footsteps returned, and when they reached the landing above the ground floor, Poole could tell that one of them was carrying a lantern. The footsteps stopped before entering the lobby. The boy carrying the lantern must have been second in line because an elongated shadow was cast onto the illuminated patch of floor. A boy spoke, the movement of the shadow telling Poole that it was the boy in front.
“Who’re you?” The voice was in that funny place between boy and teen. It was not, however, scared.
“What’s that?”
“Who’re you? Name?”
“Ethan Poole. Call me Ethan. Are you Casper Prosnicki?”
There was murmuring on the staircase, the shadow contorting with the boy’s movements. The boy spoke again. “What you want?”
“What do I want?” Poole wasn’t sure whether he was not hearing clearly or whether it was the boy’s speech.
The boy grunted in the affirmative.
“Casper, your mother asked me to find you. I’m here because of your mother.” No answer. “Her name is Lena.”
“You lie,” the boy said.
“Casper, listen. Why are you using those bombs?”
Again there was a consultation on the stairs. The shadow shrank as the boy squatted.
“It’s not me.”
“Casper, I know it’s you. I’m not here to punish you or take you in. I just need to know why. I need to know why you’re using the bombs. I need to know why your mother asked me to find you. I need to know why they killed your mother, Casper. You know they killed her, don’t you?”
There was another silence, and this time Poole let it hang there in the darkness.
Finally the boy spoke. “The man came. The man with red hair on his face. He came and told us who killed our mums and dads. He told us.” Then the boy said the names with great ferocity: “Red Henry, Ian Block, Roderigo Bernal, Altabelli. We know their names.”
It