This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events ­portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

Thanks go to Randy Greer, Ray Greer, Steven Long, Beth Loubet, Denis Loubet, Steve Peterson, Luray Richmond, Allen Varney, and Toni Weisskopf for research and advice.

Mistakes in this novel remain only in spite of the contributions of these people.

Dedication

To Lester Dent and Walter B. Gibson, who left before I could say thanks; and to Tom Allston and Rose Boehm, who didn't.

Thanks, guys.

The Smile mocked him.

It was Sonny Walters’ smile, sweat-dewed in the middle of the man’s hardwood-brown face. It wasn’t a friendly smile. It promised pain.

Harris Greene advanced anyway, his gloved hands high, his body constantly moving. Walters, with the longer reach, could afford to stand back and fight at distance; Harris had to play the aggressor, constantly closing.

Harris started the round with a snapkick to Walters’ ribcage. Walters brought his left arm down to take the shot just above the elbow. Harris stepped in close, threw a right jab at the same ribs, then spun around counter-clockwise.

Harris Greene’s patented Spinning Backfist. He should have come out of the spin with his left fist slamming into Walters’ blocking forearm or, better yet, his unprotected head. But instead he unloaded the blow into empty air, the Smile somehow magically transported just beyond his reach. The exertion kept Harris spinning a fraction of a turn too far, leaving him out of position.

Walters’ right hook came up out of nowhere and took Harris on the point of his jaw. The blow rocked his head and he staggered a half-step back.

It didn’t really hurt, but bright little lights appeared in his vision, tiny fireflies dancing in front of him; he ­ignored them and kept moving backwards, buying time to recover.

But his feet wouldn’t cooperate. His back and head slammed into the canvas before he ever felt off balance. The crowd roared its approval.

They hadn’t yelled for Harris once during the match. He could smell the stink of their sweat, stronger than his own odor or Walters’, and for a moment he hated them—beer-chugging, screaming, sweating, cousin-fondling morons who should have been at home with their families but instead came to cheer while Harris Greene took a beating.

Already they counted him a loser. They were just waiting for him to prove them right.

Harris rolled up to a kneeling position and waited. The dancing stars began to fade. When the referee’s count reached seven, he stood. He forced his features back into his war-face, all glowering eyes and sullen expression, just as he’d practiced a hundred times for the mirror, but he was no longer sure who he was doing it for. The referee got out from between the two men and signaled for them to resume.

Harris forced himself to move forward again, straight for the Smile.

Miles away, on Manhattan, Carlo Salvanelli sat in a cardboard box.

It was a good box. Twelve weeks ago it had held a brand-new Whirlpool refrigerator, Model #ED25DQ, almond-colored with water and ice dispensers right there in the freezer door. It had stood resolutely upright after the workmen unloaded it; as soon as the workmen had turned their backs, Carlo had grabbed the box from just inside the delivery dock and made off with it.

Carlo didn’t know how far past seventy years old he was, but he was in good shape: lean, with all his own teeth, still graceful, health good in spite of the way he lived. He was certainly sound enough to run off with a refrigerator box and be safely away before the workmen came back.

Now the box sat lengthwise up against the alley wall. The alley was an even bigger stroke of luck than the box; the manager of the apartments behind him let him stay there, even gave him the combination to the gate that blocked the alley mouth, just for hauling a little trash and mopping a few floors.

Between the new box and the sheltered alley, this had been a better winter than the last one. Maybe the new year would give him a job, a real home.

Someone rapped on the end of the box.

Carlo jolted in surprise. His hearing was keen. Had Mr. Montague come out through the alley door of his building, had someone come in through the creaking gate at the alley end, Carlo would have heard it. But there had been no sound.

At a loss, he called, “Come in.”

The visitor pulled open the box flaps and probed around with a flashlight beam that caught and blinded Carlo. Then the visitor turned the light on himself.

He was a silver-haired man, Carlo’s age. That was the only similarity between them; in contrast to Carlo’s tattered, unwashed jeans and flannel shirt, this man wore an elegant silk suit, a long coat of lined black leather, a red scarf, a new fedora—nobody wore fedoras anymore. No one but old men.

The visitor smiled reassuringly at Carlo. “May I come in?”

“I—of course.” Carlo squirmed. He’d never had a visitor to a box that served him as home, and the visitor’s ­elegance reminded him pointedly of the shabbiness of his clothes, of his few belongings. He knew he smelled bad, and he was suddenly embarrassed.

The visitor slid in and sat, like Carlo, tinker-style with his back to the side of the box against the alley wall. He took a moment to pull the box flaps closed. “I apologize for visiting you under these circumstances. But I’m used to seizing opportunities where I find them.” His pronunciation was precise, his accent a little odd; German, perhaps. Carlo couldn’t tell; his own speech was still heavily flavored, and English was sometimes hard for him. “I’m looking for some men to do some work for me. Special men. I think you’re one of them. Tell me, are you currently employed?”

Carlo shook his head and waved a hand at the sleeping bag and backpack that made up his possessions. “I am between employments.”

“Good. I mean, that’s good for me. Tell me, uh—”

“Carlo. Carlo Salvanelli.”

“One of the Salvanelli. Of course. Tell me, Carlo, do you like the outdoors? Forests, trees?”

Carlo beamed. “Yes, very much. I am a city boy, but I love the country.”

“And do you remember much about the old country?”

Carlo hesitated. “I came to America very young.”

“Not too young. Your accent is very pronounced.” The visitor leaned forward and his voice became low, conspiratorial. “And we’re not talking about Italy, either. Are we?”

Carlo looked at his visitor, at the man’s eager, encouraging expression, and hesitated before shaking his head. “Italy, no.”

“Symaithia, I’d say, to judge from your accent.”

Carlo’s eyes widened. “Yes, Symaithia. But the doctors, they said it was all imagination, that I should stop thinking about it. How you know about Symaithia?”

“The doctors were wrong. Poor Carlo. I imagine no one took you seriously. It must have been impossible to keep a job, to make friends.” The visitor shifted, drawing even closer. “Tell me, Carlo, this is very important. Have you ever met anyone like yourself? From the old country? Not just Symaithia. Anywhere.”

“Oh, no. Never.” Carlo started as a tear dropped from his cheek onto his hand; shamed, he reached up to dry his eyes. “All my life, I think that the doctors are right. That I must have been in an accident, hurt my head, dreamed everything about the old country. You are real? You are not some new dream?” He looked up again into his visitor’s sympathetic eyes.