I look at a dent in the side of the pipe.

– Almost a quick trip.

– Are you masters of engineering ready yet?

We look at Lydia, come to join the fun.

I hook a thumb at the hole.

– Just measuring how close we came to dying.

She shakes her head, kicks a few bricks from the bottom of the hole, and steps through into the ankle-deep sludge in the spillway beyond.

– Make a habit of that and you won’t get out of bed.

I look at Hurley, he looks at me, we both look at Terry.

He nods.

– Destined to rule the world.

He follows her.

Hurley shakes his head.

– An more’s the pity fer us all if it should come ta be.

He follows.

I think about turning the other way and getting myself lost. But the girl and her baby are north, so I hit the spillway.

– Did ya ever hear of Montaigne?

– Don’t think I knew him.

– Well ya wouldn’t have, would ya, him bein’ dead so long before yer own time wit us. But did ya ever hear of him?

– Nope.

I stop at a sluice. The sludge washed out a ways back and we’ve been in water to our calves the last half mile or so. Terry and Lydia drifted back to their troops. Neither one much comfortable around the other without a passel of guns at their beck just now. Hurley’s stayed on point with me. Not so much for the company, more to be on hand to kill me fast if I make a crooked play. A powerful deterrent Hurley is.

I take a look at the compass, light from a couple dozen flashlights scattered between the crew behind me. The north read lies with the sluice. A six-foot drop to water that could be over a tall man’s head.

I’m a tall man.

I look at Hurley.

– Hold that story.

I jump.

I’m under, water up my nose, in my empty eye socket, feet kicking, they find something solid and I put it under me, stand, water to my waist.

I look up.

– Gonna have to roll your pants a bit higher, Hurl.

– Montaigne, he was a torpedo wit one a da cannonball gangs back when.

I check the Ziploc I put my tobacco in before this jaunt. Still dry. There is a god.

– Like you’re speaking French, Hurl.

He frowns.

– Don’t know a word of da lingo.

I tuck the tobacco away, push on through the water. Cold. It actually makes the Vyrus-burn in my belly feel a little better.

– Torpedo I follow, but never heard that cannonball gang before.

He nods, hikes a leg and sloshes after me.

– Righto, righto. Cannonball gangs were a bit o ruff back when me an Terry were first settin’ shop. Back den, before all dis mass media an da like, tings were a bit looser. What we could get away wit, it was murder it was. Cannonballs. Did ya ever do one?

I search my memory.

– I haven’t got a clue, Hurl.

He wraps his arms around himself, awkward as he still has the sledgehammer, and jumps up, coming down with a splash.

– You know, cannonball.

– Like the dive?

He waves the hammer.

– Like da dive. Just a clumsy ting ya do ta make a splash. Just fer da fun. Ta make a, well, a spectacle of yerself. An dat’s what da cannonball gangs were up ta. Making spectacles of demselves. Go inta a place, say a speakeasy, someplace off da cops’ usual beat. Places were mostly soundproofed purty good. Underground an such. So no one would be bothered by all da drinkin’ an da music an da like. Ya missed out on New York ya did, Joe, not bein’ around in da old days.

I’m draggin’ my bad leg along through the water. Now the cold’s in my stomach deep and it doesn’t feel better at all. Feels like ice water and acid in my bowels.

– You’re making it come alive for me, Hurl.

– Well, an it was a time. So an all. Montaigne. He ran one o dese gangs. Run ‘em inta a place, come in wit maybe just a little rabble rouse ta start it off. Just loud. Boisterous like. Ya know what da word means?

– Heard it before, yeah.

– Lovely word. Remember da nun who taught it to me. Cracked my knuckles a hundred times wit a ruler before I had it right. An I never did get it spelled proper.

He sighs.

– A true bitch of a woman she was. I killed her, I did. Fer her sins of cruelty on children.

He shoots an elbow at my ribs. Doesn’t break any new ones, but leaves me gasping.

– Yeah, an ain’t dat a laugh, Joe.

He laughs.

– Killed her fer her sins. Oh, if dere’s a god, he’s gonna be upset wit me over dat bit o humor.

His laugh winds down.

– So, boisterous and all, Montaigne and his fellas would come in, draw a little ire perhaps, an tings would get a little messy from dere. What stared as a tussle would soon become a brawl, and den a riot.

He shakes his head.

– An den a slaughter.

With the butt of the hammer he pushes up the brim of his fedora.

– Ah da yella press in dem days, dey went fer it so. Gangland Slayings in Den of Sin. Oh an dey loved it. Had dey just but known the headlines dey mighta had wit just a wee little diggin’. But no, dey were happy wit da obvious, da low-hangin’ fruit o dat vile profession. Montaigne had naught ta fear from dem or da police. Worse dey could come cross would be a couple o real gangsters in one o dem places. Couple fellas wit dere.45s in dere pants an maybe a violin case under da table. If ya follow me.

He holds the sledgehammer like a machine gun and waves it back and forth.

– Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat.

He rubs his stomach.

– Serious stuff, a belly full of lead. Such a ting had happened, would have saved Montaigne some weepin’.

He frowns.

– Instead of which it came down ta me an Terry lookin’ him up at a place he kept off Mott Street. Little lay-by he had wit a fluff I recall was named Eileen.

He winks.

– I always remember da purdy ones, Joe. No matter how far back.

He lifts his shoulders and drops them.

– Shame we had ta put her in da ground wit Montaigne an all. As part of makin’ it look right.

He drapes the hammer over his shoulder, trudging along with me.

– He’d just made one splash too many is what he’d done. Could have moderated himself a bit, he might still be about. Not likely, but possible. But even if no one sussed to what he an his fellas was really about, still they were makin’ far too much of a ruckus. Too many o dem yella press stories. Too many o dem gangland headlines. Coppers had to make a move sooner or later. Dey started pokin’ ‘bout, it wasn’t gonna do no good fer no one. Me an Terry, we had our own business concerns to worry on. Montaigne, he just served no purpose a’tall. Good ting ‘bout dem times, ya just put a few bullets in a fella, dropped him in a gutter. Yella press had dem another headline, an da story came to a close.

He kicks a few gallons of water out of his way.

– Now, Joe, da story ain’t never come to an end.

He points the hammer at me.

– Ya ask what I hear? Well I tell ya, I hear tell on da TV dat dere’s maybe a serial killer on da loose in Manhattan. Not no normal serial killer, but like a team o dem. A gang o serial killers. Dat’s what da story is dey like to tell. In da absence of any sense comin’ from the police on da matter. I won’t tell ya what da headlines in da Post look like.

He waves the hammer at the arched roof of the tunnel.

– All dis conflict and bad feelins, it’s makin’ fer more dan a man’s fair share o sloppiness in tings. Not all bodies get hid, not all witnesses get taken care of. Just makes fer a mess. An a story today, it never dies, not till dere’s a better one. An tell me, Joe.

He bumps my shoulder with the hammer.

– Where are dey gonna find a better story den Serial Killer Gangs? Unless it’s us, Joe, I don’t tink dat’s a story dat’s like to die soon. Not o natural causes anyhow.

He swats the air with his hand.

– An dat’s what I hear. Trouble an woe. Maybe, Joe.

He nods to himself.