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Theo could hear his father up ahead, talking to Frank in short, scattergun sentences: “Did you get a list of who’s left? Good. It could’ve been a lot worse, but we need to hire replacements today, not tomorrow. We’ve got to keep the place running and fulfill the orders. That’s what matters.”

“It won’t be easy finding another cutter at this short notice.” Frank sounded somber, fearful even.

“We will. Even if we have to comb the whole of the Lower East, we’ll find somebody,” said Michael defiantly. “And you’re the one who wanted me to get rid of Alvah, Frank, so I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” he added irritably.

“Yes, I wanted you to fire him, but that was months ago when we’d have had time to hire a proper replacement and before he turned half the workforce against you. He’s been working on them up there every day while you’ve been messing around with Pinkerton.”

“Shut up. Damn you. Shut up,” Michael shouted, losing his temper again. “I’m this close, Frank. Do you hear me? This close, without you rubbing it in.”

Theo couldn’t see what his father was that close to, but he guessed he meant to breaking. He remembered that that was what Frank had told him he was worried about when he said that Michael was taut as a bowstring. And his father’s voice was tenser now than Theo had ever heard it. What would happen if he did break? What would that mean? For him and his mother? For all of them?

They reached the bottom of the stairs and walked out into the street at the same time as Easey Goldstein was coming up the sidewalk, pushing a double rack of women’s evening gowns.

“I’ll take that,” said Frank, putting his hand on the rack to stop Easey’s progress.

“What the hell! Let go of it. I’ve got to get these in the warehouse,” said Easey. Surprise had made his squeaky voice go up at least another octave.

“No, you let go of it,” said Frank. “And you’re not going in the warehouse either.”

“Why the fuck not?” Easey demanded, coming out from behind the crepe de chine and approaching Frank.

“Because you’re fired,” said Michael. “That’s why.”

“What for? I’ve got a right to know,” said Easey, standing his ground.

“You know what for. You’ve been stealing, robbing me blind.”

“Says who?”

“Never mind who. It’s enough that we know. Now get along. You’ve got no more business here.”

“It’s him, isn’t it?” said Easey, pushing Frank hard in the chest with both of his meaty hands, almost sending him over. “He’s been on my case ever since I got here, he has. And after all that lowdown from Saks I gave you before. Where’s the gratitude? That’s what I want to know. Where’s the fucking gratitude?”

With each verbal salvo, Easey pushed Frank again so he could not get his balance back and finally ended up sprawled half in the road, half on the sidewalk.

Theo watched, horrified, as the big man lifted his heavy boot with obvious intent, but then seeing what he was about to do, Michael took hold of Easey’s arm and pulled him back—and, responding instinctively, Easey swung around with his free hand and punched Michael hard on the side of the face.

Michael staggered back against the dresses, raising his hands, and Theo could see blood seeping out between them.

Easey looked back at Michael and laughed defiantly. “That’s nothing. Just you wait until Alvah’s finished with you. He’s going to bleed you dry, you’ll see.”

And with that Easey turned on his heel and limped quickly away toward Seventh Avenue. Looking after him, Theo was amazed at how quickly the big man could move when he wanted to, even with his clubfoot.

Alvah and Michael were both as good as their word. Early next morning, the strikers were standing on either side of the entrance to the factory, forming a small picket line, and the twenty workers who’d resisted Alvah’s call to down tools succeeded in passing between them, joined by a similar number of new recruits, including an ancient cutter with a bent back who looked like the picture of Methuselah in Theo’s illustrated Bible.

The strikers shouted abuse at their replacements, calling them scabs and finks, and waved their homemade placards. But Marty Meagle’s Pinkerton men were on hand to force them back when they pushed too far forward and seemed to have the situation reasonably under control.

Theo watched through the window of the office and provided a running commentary on what was happening to his father, who remained behind his desk and so out of view of the street.

Theo didn’t think his father had slept at all the previous night. He’d woken several times to hear him pacing and talking, and when he looked out from behind his bedroom door, he’d been alarmed to see no sign of his mother, which meant that his father had to have been chattering away to himself.

And Michael’s state of nervous excitement continued throughout the day. When he wasn’t talking to Marty Meagle or Frank on the telephone, he was conducting a muttered monologue about the revenge he was going to exact on Alvah and Easey, although Theo had noticed that not only did his father not want to show himself at the window, but he’d also sounded mighty relieved when Theo reported that there was no sign of Easey on the picket line.

Michael’s cheek and jaw were heavily bruised where Easey had hit him, and he constantly ran his hand up and down over the injured area, as if to keep reminding himself of the reality of what had happened. The movement seemed odd and compulsive to Theo. He had the impression that the punch had unhinged his father in some way, undermining his sense of invulnerability and puncturing the thick shell of his self-belief.

The confrontation outside the factory was much more vitriolic at the end of the day. The strikers’ rage against the scabs who had taken their jobs had intensified with each passing hour, and they swarmed around the exit when the first workers started coming out, led by Frank, who tried unsuccessfully to keep them walking. Instead, they froze and then turned tail as one and rushed back inside. Several of the strikers tried to follow them, but Theo could see that Frank had the door locked.

Now the Pinkerton men waded in, indiscriminately hitting out at the strikers with their billy clubs. But, to Theo’s surprise, the strikers stood their ground, using their placards to fight back. Several even succeeded in overpowering the Pinkertons and turned the batons on their attackers.

The Pinkertons were outnumbered and soon had to beat a ragged retreat to the other side of the street, leaving the enraged strikers to resume hammering on the door of the factory. And they might have gotten in had it not been for the sudden arrival in the street of several police vans, accompanied by a wail of sirens.

They parked outside Theo’s window and so his view of what happened next was blocked, but when they pulled away a few minutes later, there was nobody left in sight. The workers had gone home and the strikers had either run away or been arrested, leaving only their broken placards littering the gutter and the sidewalk as evidence of what had occurred.

And soon they were gone too. An old woman in a tattered overcoat came tottering down the street in the twilight, wheeling a battered baby buggy, and stopped outside the factory. Methodically, she bent down and picked up the cardboard signs and sticks. As Theo watched, We are not Slaves followed No to Wage Cuts and Better to Starve Quick Than Starve Slow into the covered interior of the carriage. Then, once everything was safely stowed away, the old woman resumed her slow progress, pushing on toward Broadway.

“She’s done well for herself. That’ll make for a good fire tonight,” said Frank, chuckling. He’d just come into the office and was looking out of the window over Theo’s shoulder.

“I wonder what she makes of all those signs,” said Theo.

“I doubt she even reads them. She’s surviving. That’s all. It’s a full-time occupation these days.”

Behind them, Michael was muttering again, paying no attention to their conversation as he shuffled papers across his desk.

“Everyone got away safely,” Frank told him. “But whether they’ll be back tomorrow, I don’t know. It was touch and go out there before the police arrived.”

“They’ll be back,” said Michael, without looking up from what he was doing. “They need the money.”

“They’re scared. That’s all I’m saying.”

“And you? Are you scared?” Michael asked, fixing his gaze on Frank so that he could gauge the truthfulness of his answer.

“I was when I was out there. I’m not anymore.”

“Yes, that makes sense, I suppose. But for me it’s different. I never used to be scared of anyone or anything, and now I’m nervous all the time. I can’t sleep. I’m like a cat on hot bricks. I hate it.” As Michael talked, he had gone back to stroking his jaw and cheek.

“You should get that looked at,” said Frank. “Easey packs quite a punch. I’ve heard he worked in a slaughterhouse over in the Meatpacking District when he was starting out, rolling heavy barrels and stacking great slabs of meat on racks thirty feet high. You don’t lose that kind of strength.”

“His kick would have been worse than his punch,” said Michael.

“I know,” said Frank. “Don’t think I’m not grateful.”

Michael put up his hand in acknowledgment and then dropped it wearily, looking over toward Theo with a trace of a smile. “Quite a time we’re having of it, aren’t we, son?”

Theo nodded, unable to think of any more adequate response.

“It’s not what I wanted,” Michael said. “I wanted ...” He stopped, unable to put what he was trying to say into words. “For it to be better than this,” he finished lamely.

“It will be,” said Frank. “We’ve got to keep going. That’s all.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Michael, taking a deep breath and sitting up in his chair. “I built this factory, and I’m not going to let that bastard Alvah destroy it.” He thumped the surface of his desk with the bottom of his fist, and a pile of papers fell on the floor.

Behind Frank there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Hirsch appeared in response to Michael’s loud “ Come in. ”

“Mr. Meagle’s here to see you,” she said.

“Good. Yes, show him in,” said Michael, getting up and coming around from behind his desk to greet the detective, who performed a strange physical double take as he extended his hand and then immediately withdrew from Michael’s warm clasp of it, just like Alvah had done with Theo when they were first introduced back in the fall. “Thank you, Marty,” Michael told him. “You’ve done us proud today.”

Theo was shocked at his father’s sudden change of mood, veering from weariness to energetic hand-shaking in less than a minute. But then he recalled how much his father enjoyed his cloak-and-dagger dealings with the detective and felt less surprised at his enthusiasm.

“Our success has come at some cost, I’m afraid,” said Marty, looking as solemn and mournful as a professional pallbearer. “Several of my men have incurred injuries, which require hospital treatment.”

“Your success!” repeated Frank, scoffing. “Your lot ran away; it was the cops who made the difference.”

“That is not my understanding of what happened,” said Marty, drawing himself up and radiating righteous indignation.

“Well, you weren’t there.”

“All right, Frank. That’s enough of that,” said Michael. “You know what they say, Marty: you can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs. Or heads, for that matter,” he added, smiling.

“I have my report if you’d like to go over it,” said Marty frigidly. He tapped his briefcase and looked askance at Frank and Theo.

Michael nodded. “Frank, why don’t you take Theo out for something to eat?” he said. “It’s on me. You deserve it, after all you’ve done today. Good work, both of you. Good work!”

Theo followed Frank out of the door, and as he was closing it, he heard his father asking: “Have you got it, Marty? Have you got it?” There was no mistaking the eagerness in his voice.

“What was that about?” Theo asked Frank as they got out onto the street.

“I’ve no idea,” said Frank. “But whatever it is will cost money, that much you can be sure of. I dread to think what old Marty’s charged us for today, but whatever the figure is, we can’t afford it. That much is guaranteed. He’ll bleed us dry by the time he’s finished.”

“That’s what Easey said Alvah was going to do.”

“Yes. Him too. They’re damn vultures, the whole lot of them,” said Frank angrily. “But for now, I say we forget about them. I don’t know about you, but all that violence has made me hungry. I vote we go to the best steakhouse in the Tenderloin. What do you think?”

“Sure,” said Theo. “I think I can manage that.”

If Michael had hoped that the combined brutality of the police and the Pinkertons would deter the strikers from returning, then he was sadly mistaken.

Next morning, they were back, but in greater numbers, and Alvah, now wearing a flat worker’s cap, had brought a loudspeaker to encourage them. They had also made new, bigger placards to replace the ones they had lost. Not Mice but Men one of them proclaimed, and Theo couldn’t help but admire their bravery.

“Marty says the new ones are from the union, but I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut they’re Communists,” said Michael bitterly. “The Reds are always ready to cause trouble whenever they see a chance, pushing their dirty noses into other people’s business. But they won’t stop us. Marty’s got more men here today. It won’t be like yesterday.”

But it was. Only worse. The fighting began again as soon as the workers started to arrive. The Pinkerton men forced their way to the door, where Frank was standing on the inside with the key, ready to open, and then tried to escort the workers down the makeshift corridor they had formed between their two lines, while the strikers surged against their backs, some using makeshift clubs that they had concealed inside their coats.

Some of the workers got through, but as many others turned tail and ran back toward Seventh Avenue. The strikers made no effort to pursue them, concentrating all their attention on laying siege to the door of the factory, and Theo could see the workers who’d escaped standing at the corner of the street, talking to each other and watching anxiously to see how everything would turn out.

Michael, meanwhile, was talking to the police department on the telephone, venting his frustration on the desk officer at the other end of the line, who kept telling him that help was on the way. In response to a sign from his father, Theo opened the window and Michael held the mouthpiece out toward the street. “Hear that?” he shouted into the telephone. “No sirens; nothing! So where the hell are your men?” But his protests made no difference, and when he asked for the precinct captain and lieutenant by name, he was told they were busy and that they would get back to him later in the morning.

“Busy!” Michael spat out the word as he crashed the telephone back down on its cradle. “Someone’s got to them. That’s what’s happened. Paid a big slice of dough into their benevolent fund. Bastards!”

Near the door of the factory, the groups of picketers and Pinkerton men began to separate. There was no need for further violence, now that no one was trying to get through the door. Up at the corner, the workers who hadn’t made it inside began to drift away. None were prepared to run the gauntlet of the picket line again.

Watching them go, the strikers held up their placards in triumph and began to sing. After a moment, Theo recognized the tune and was at once borne back on a tide of memory to the empty, echoing stadium opposite the City College on the day of the Crash. In his mind’s eye, he could see the men and boys, black and brown and white, standing ramrod still and looking up into the clouds while they sang the workers’ anthem with such extraordinary fervor.

Theo turned away, overcome by shame that he was the enemy of these poor people who were asking only to be paid a living wage for their ceaseless, mind-numbing work. He thought of them bent over their machines, ruthlessly exploited by men like his father from the dawn of their lives to a premature dusk, enslaved in all but name. He felt disgusted with himself and wished he was anywhere but where he was.

Michael, however, was impervious to his son’s soul-searching. “See, I told you so,” he said furiously, pointing through the window. “That’s ‘The Internationale’ they’re singing. They’re Communists, every last one of them.”

Bad news came thick and fast after that.

Frank came down from the factory and crossed the road. Theo was surprised that the strikers let him pass without incident, but then he thought it was of a piece with the way they had not protested outside Michael’s office. They were obviously under instructions to leave the management alone—perhaps because Alvah wanted to make sure Michael retained a ringside seat to watch the destruction of his business.

“What’s happening?” asked Michael when Frank came in.

Frank shook his head. He looked beaten, Theo thought—a shadow of the man he’d had dinner with the night before.

“If you’ve come over to tell me we haven’t got enough workers to keep the factory running, then you can save your breath because I know that already,” said Michael bitterly. “I saw them for myself, the cowards, scurrying away at the first sign of trouble. Not even waiting to see if Marty’s men could help them through.”

“They’re scabs,” said Frank. “We were never going to find heroes in half a day, were we?”

“No, I guess not. But that doesn’t mean we can’t find more,” said Michael. He stopped talking, looking hard at Frank. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” he said. “Go on. Spit it out. I can take it.”

“The managers at Kramer’s and Weiss’s called. They’re canceling their orders. All of them. They won’t do business with us until we take everyone back.”

“Why?”

“They said they’ve got no choice, that they’ll have strikes, too, if they don’t cut us loose.”

Michael sat back hard in his chair. He looked like he had taken a physical blow to the body, one that had knocked the stuffing out of him.

“Maybe it’s them who warned off the police,” he said.

“Probably,” said Frank. “I didn’t ask them. What do you want to do now?”

Michael shrugged. “Does it matter?”

It was Frank’s turn to stare. “We’ve got to do something,” he said.

“All right. What?”

“You know what. We’ve got to get Alvah in here and do a deal.”

“He won’t. It’s all or nothing with him. Always has been. He won’t listen to reason. Too busy playing to the gallery.”

“Okay, maybe you’re right. But if he won’t talk, we’ll have to give him what he wants, and hope something turns up. You never know.”

Frank waited for a moment, but Michael did not respond. “I’ll go and get him,” he said and went out of the door.

“Do you want me to leave? Go to the Automat or something?” Theo asked, looking over at his father, who had remained where he was since Frank left, sitting back half slumped in his chair, staring at the floor.

“No, stay,” said Michael, looking up with a wan smile. “There’s no point missing the ending when you’ve sat through the play. And there’s lessons to be learned here. Lessons you wouldn’t learn in school.”

“What lessons?” Theo asked. He felt he’d learned quite enough already and wanted to go somewhere he could be alone, away from all the pain and misery he’d witnessed over the previous few days. Running in Central Park like he used to do, running away from all this.

“Life lessons,” said Michael. “How men like Alvah destroy other men’s dreams, everything they’ve built, brick by brick. Until there’s nothing left.”

The door opened and Frank came back in. “I’ve got him outside,” he said. “Shall I bring him in?”

Michael nodded. Frank beckoned, and Alvah appeared in the doorway.

“So you haven’t brought your loudspeaker, I see,” said Michael, looking his enemy up and down from head to toe. “With that and the cap and the beard, you looked just like Lenin. Did you know that, Alvah? Was that what you had in mind?”

“No,” said Alvah. “I hadn’t thought of it. I’ve been too busy fighting your goons and beating back your scabs, trying to get you to pay your workers a decent wage.”

“Oh, spare me your speeches!” said Michael contemptuously. “You don’t give a damn about them. You’re going to be fine at the end of this. You’re a good cutter and you’ll walk into another job, but they won’t. They’ll lose everything because they listened to you.”

“They’ll have dignity and they’ll be paid what they deserve,” said Alvah. “They’re not your slaves.”

“No, they’re pawns in this game you’ve been playing with me. Pawns you’ve sacrificed so you can win. We both know that.” Michael waved his hand dismissively. “But what I don’t understand, and what I want you to explain to me, is why you’re playing it in the first place. What do you hope to accomplish with all this destruction? Tell me that. Please. I really want to know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. Are you a Communist, Alvah? A Lenin? Is that it?”

Alvah turned to Frank. “This is pointless,” he said. “You told me he would listen.”

“I am listening, Alvah,” said Michael. “I’m waiting for you to answer my question.”

“All right, I’ll tell you what I am,” said Alvah, finally getting angry. “I’m a Jew. Not a God-believing Jew with a yarmulke on his head, but a Jew who’s proud of it, not ashamed like you. I’m a Jew who tries to look after his own people. But you—you suck on their blood like a vampire and stop them from observing the Sabbath. You’ve been betraying your people for years—in the Lower East and now here. And someone needs to call you to account. Now will you agree to our demands?”

“If I do, the business will fail,” said Michael.

“No, it won’t. You’ll find a way.”

Michael shrugged his shoulders and sat back in his chair. “I’ll sign what you want,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. You deal with it, Frank. I’m tired.”