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Michael took Theo to Yankee Stadium for his fourteenth birthday (making up for not having done so on his thirteenth), and Babe Ruth hit a home run off the third pitch of his last inning, fired by the Red Sox pitcher low and inside.

Theo never forgot the moment: the score deadlocked and all those tens of thousands of people around him silently concentrated on that one distant figure in the blue cap and striped number 3 jersey, willing him to give them what they all craved. Everything frozen, and then the flash of the action: the pitcher’s arm drawn back and Babe pulling away from the plate and stepping in to connect with such violence and exquisite precision.

The ball sailed high into the azure late-afternoon sky and descended in a sweet arc straight toward Theo high up in the bleachers. He stood with his hands extended, certain in that moment that he would catch it, that it had to be, but then it passed over his head and was gone.

And the game was over. The waves of cheering flowed through the stadium as Ruth trotted around the bases and tapped his foot on home plate. He looked up, took off his cap with a theatrical gesture, waved it to the crowd, and disappeared from view.

Afterward, in the crush of bodies leaving the stadium, Theo looked over at his father and saw his eyes were shining.

“Wasn’t he magnificent?” Michael said.

Theo nodded.

“Think of it: he had nothing—went to a reform school, for God’s sake—but out there he fears no one, takes second place to no one, and there’s nothing he can’t do,” said Michael with wonder in his voice.

“But not for much longer,” said a man standing behind them. “He’s thirty-six, almost over the hill. Enjoy it while you can, son. Nothing lasts forever.”

“The Babe will,” said Michael defiantly, but the man was gone, taking the magic of the day with him.

And two days later, Theo went to work at his father’s factory.

They took a bus up Broadway and got off in Herald Square because Michael said he wanted to walk the rest of the way. Theo dawdled, slowing their pace. He felt as if a door was closing in his life and that once he reached the factory, it would close forever, shutting off all connection to a past that he was still finding it hard to let go of.

But Michael showed no signs of impatience. He was excited but kept level with his son by stepping sideways and then forward, almost as if he were waltzing. And all the time he kept up a constant stream of chatter like a verbally incontinent tour guide. He seemed unaware of his son’s misery, or at least had made a decision to appear so, following a strategy determined in advance. Whichever was the case, his father’s insensitivity riled Theo, whose resentment against him was still as strong as ever. Days out at Yankee Stadium were no more than a temporary sticking plaster over a wound that had not healed, and it was only fear of his father and a sense of realism—a quality that Theo possessed in advance of his years—that kept him from further protest.

“This whole district used to be called the Tenderloin,” said Michael, waving his arm expansively. “Do you know why?”

Theo shook his head glumly.

“Well, I’ll tell you. It used to be a bad neighborhood. Worse than Harlem, worse than Hell’s Kitchen even. The locals called it Satan’s Circus, if that gives you an idea of what it was like. There was every kind of vice here—saloons, gambling houses, you name it—and when this police captain called Williams—Clubber Williams, he was known as, for the way he used his billy club—got transferred here, he rubbed his hands together and said: ‘I’ve been eating chuck steak since I’ve been on the force, now I’m going to have me some tenderloin!’”

Michael imitated the rubbing for a moment and then stopped and slapped his side, laughing uproariously. But Theo looked puzzled. He’d become interested in spite of himself in what his father was saying, but now he didn’t get the joke.

“Don’t you get it?” said Michael. “Clubber was talking about how much money he was going to make from taking kickbacks. And boy, he did! He was a millionaire by the time he died, and nobody could lay a finger on him.”

“He was a crook,” said Theo.

“Yes, of course he was. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a successful one,” said Michael with a sly smile. “It’s not easy to make a million, you know.”

Now they were on Seventh Avenue, passing high art deco loft buildings with elaborately patterned marble facades. At the intersections, the traffic was heavily congested with delivery trucks double- and even triple-parked on the cross streets, while they were being loaded and unloaded by sweating warehousemen. Push boys threaded their way between them, wheeling metal racks laden with swaying dresses and coats. And all the time, Theo’s father was shouting above the cacophonous noise, pointing out landmarks and telling Theo who owned what and whether they were going up or down in the world.

Michael was going up, or at least that was what he told Theo to explain his recent move to the building that they had now reached. And, at least initially, Theo believed him. They crossed a large entrance hall with a wide staircase and several elevators, and Michael opened a door in the corner with Michael Sterling engraved in gold capitals on the frosted glass. Inside, a middle-aged lady wearing bright-pink lipstick and thick horn-rimmed glasses interrupted her typing to greet Michael and be introduced to Theo.

“This is a red-letter day, Mrs. Hirsch,” said Michael, keeping his hand proprietorially on Theo’s shoulder.

“Indeed, it is,” said the secretary, beaming at Theo, who managed a weak smile in return. “I’m sure young Master Sterling will be an asset to the firm.”

“Thank you. I believe he will,” said Michael, obviously pleased. “And now, don’t let me interrupt you further. I’m going to show the young master around.”

Beyond Mrs. Hirsch’s room was a long gallerylike showroom with built-in mahogany sample cabinets and a double row of tailors’ dummies hung with an array of garments in different styles, from shimmering evening gowns flowing to the floor to bias-cut, body-skimming dresses and smart summer suits.

“This is where we bring the customers,” said Michael proudly, stroking a satin sleeve. “They come in from all over the country. Penn Station’s just down the road, you know.”

Theo nodded. He was impressed, but past his father’s chatter he sensed a stillness in the room, a museum-like quality that was at odds with the picture of busy commercial activity that his father was trying to convey.

Behind the showroom was Michael’s office, which was as untidy as the showroom was neat. Papers and account books overflowed from open filing cabinets onto chairs and other surfaces and mounted to a tottering pile on his big desk at the back.

“Don’t worry. There’s order in the chaos,” said Michael, seeing his son’s surprise and looking around the office as if for the first time. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t do with some help. This is where you’ll be, at least to start with, while you’re learning the ropes,” he said, pointing to a smaller desk under the window, currently the only uncluttered surface in the room, with only an inkstand and blotter on the top.

Outside in the street, more of the ubiquitous push boys were at work, and a rack of pink dresses with elaborate ruffles kept pace comically with a man in a pinstripe suit, distracting Theo for a moment from the weight of the world, which he felt settling down on his slight shoulders.

It wasn’t until the afternoon that Theo got his tour of the factory.

“It’s best to wait for Frank,” Michael had explained. “You’ll like him.”

And, rather to his surprise, Theo did. Frank Vogel had been Michael’s manager for a long time. They’d been together when Michael was running sweatshops in the Lower East, and it was obvious that Michael trusted him completely. Theo could see why. There was an openness about Frank that was instantly appealing and he spoke plainly, telling the truth as he saw it.

He shook Theo’s hand and then stood back, looking him up and down. He was a tall, heavy man with strength in his arms and penetrating green eyes that reminded Theo of his grandmother’s—the kind that look deep down into people and assess them for who they really are.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Fourteen.” Theo felt annoyed with himself that he sounded so jittery, almost stuttering over the word.

“Well, I was two years younger than you when I started, and I remember I felt as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. But I soon got used to it. And you will too.”

“Thank you, Frank,” said Michael a little testily. “But my son’s not a cat and he’s got no reason to be nervous, so don’t go putting ideas in his head. Shall we show him round?”

“Right away, boss,” said Frank, standing aside for Michael to lead the way and winking at Theo as he followed him out of the door.

To Theo’s surprise, the factory was not in the same building as his father’s office. Instead, they crossed the street and went in through a warehouse entrance diagonally opposite to the window above Theo’s desk.

At the back, a big man in a dirty white singlet that bulged out over his stomach was standing with a metal rack of dresses, waiting for the elevator to descend. A sign on the gate read Goods Only .

“Wait up, Easey,” said Frank. “We’ll ride with you.”

The big man grunted. When they got closer, Theo could see in the dim light that his head was shaped like a cannonball: completely round and bald with two small bullet-like eyes above a mouth and nose that were twisted as if from an old injury, freezing his facial expression into a permanent scowl.

The elevator arrived, settling in place with an alarming noise of creaking and clanking, and Easey pulled back the iron grille and pushed his handcart inside. Theo noticed that he limped as he walked. The rest of them fitted uncomfortably into the small space that was left.

Easey was now hidden behind the dresses, but looking down below their hemlines, Theo could see that the shoe on his left foot was much bigger than on the right. It was more like a boot. Theo thought of the man’s deformed clubfoot inside and felt ashamed of the instinctive revulsion that led him to shrink back against the elevator’s grille.

“What’s the problem with the dresses, Easey?” asked Frank. “I thought you were taking them over to Kramer’s.”

“They said they weren’t right. Alvah needs to look at them again.” Easey’s voice was unexpectedly high-pitched, squeaky even, but its mean tone fitted with the impression of the man that Theo had gotten from seeing his face in the warehouse down below.

“Alvah needs to get it right the first time,” said Frank.

Easey didn’t answer. The elevator had reached the sixth floor, and he was already pushing out his handcart as the others got out. Theo felt a scrape on the back of his heel, which caused him to lift his foot in pain, but Easey had already turned a corner and was out of sight before he could say anything. The clubfoot clearly didn’t stop Easey from moving quickly when he wanted to, and for the rest of the day, Theo was limping too.

Although it was much bigger, the factory initially reminded Theo of his grandfather’s sweatshop. There were the same bare bulbs hanging down from the high ceilings, the same overpowering heat in the humid, fiber-filled air that made it hard to breathe, and the same black-and-gold Singer sewing machines at which lines of women in headscarves were hard at work, their fingers moving like lightning as the needles punched hundreds of stitches every minute through the fabric.

But as he walked around the factory floor, Theo soon realized that there were far more people here than in the sweatshop and many more machines. His father, ever the tour guide, named the different workers and their occupations as they moved from one area to the next, but soon they all blurred in Theo’s mind and the whole place seemed a mass of basters and trimmers and spreaders and pressers, of Jacobs and Nathans and Isaacs, all indistinguishable from each other.

Theo was left with a general impression that, away from the sewing machines, most of his father’s employees were men, and most had Jewish names and wore yarmulkes on their heads. But beyond that, he garnered no real understanding of what they were doing, just that they seemed to have no great affection for his father. They barely looked up when Michael told them who Theo was, remaining grimly intent on keeping up the pace of their work. Michael, however, seemed blissfully unaware of their hostility, glowing with pride as he took Theo around.

“And now I’ve saved the best for last,” he said happily, stopping outside a closed wooden door in a plywood wall that had been used to partition off a corner of the factory floor, creating a separate room inside. He knocked, which surprised Theo, and then went in.

The cutter’s room was very different from the rest of the factory. Theo sensed that immediately. The ventilation was clearly better, because he could breathe easier and it wasn’t so hot. It was quieter, too, and the big window was sparkling clean.

At least half the floor space was taken up by a large rectangular table covered with paper patterns in different shapes, inscribed here and there with notes written in the same careful hand. Over toward the window, pieces of muslin were pinned to two tailor’s dummies hung with tape measures, while to the sides of the room, shelves along one wall were crammed with portfolios labeled in the same handwriting. Two electric fabric-cutting machines with sharp blades were ranged against the other, but neither were in use when they came in.

At the center of the table, a man was working. He was wearing a waistcoat and his shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows, exposing the thick black hair on his forearms. Theo could see his face in profile: the carefully groomed mustache and small goatee, the long aquiline nose, and the curly dark hair oiled into place. Theo guessed him to be in his early thirties.

In his hand he had a pair of long silver scissors that he was using to cut a piece of pale fabric, and he did not look up from his task when Theo and the others entered. Instead, his thumb and middle finger continued to operate the scissors, moving with an even rhythm that was machinelike in its precision. The level of concentration required was extraordinary, and it wasn’t just Theo who was aware of it. Michael had begun to speak when he came in but stopped, remaining where he was until the cutter finally put down his scissors and looked up, and it was only then that Theo became aware that there was another person in the room.

“That’ll be all, Easey,” the cutter said. “I’ll see you later.”

The warehouseman had been invisible behind the opened door, but now he came out of the corner where he had been standing and pushed past Theo on his way out. Theo felt an elbow in his side. It didn’t hurt, but he felt dirtied by the contact and then immediately afterward experienced that same sense of shame he had felt in the elevator.

“What was that all about, Al?” asked Frank. “If there’s a problem with Kramer’s, then you need to talk to me—”

“No, he doesn’t. Not now,” interrupted Michael, sounding irritated. “This is much more important. Al, I want you to meet my son, Theodore. He’s going to be working here with us, learning the ropes. Theo, this is our chief cutter, Alvah Katz.”

Michael had put his hand on Theo’s shoulder as he spoke, and now to Theo’s surprise and discomfort, his father pushed him slightly forward toward the table.

For a moment the cutter looked intently at Theo, examining him in the same way he would a garment on one of his dummies. There was no warmth in his gray eyes.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said when he was done, extending his hand, which Theo took. But as soon as there was contact between them, Alvah withdrew, turning his attention back to Michael. “I do have a question, Mr. Sterling.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“You introduced your son as Theodore, but is that what you would like him to be called? Or would Mr. Theodore be better, or Master Theodore, or even perhaps Master Sterling, to distinguish him from your good self?”

“I don’t know,” said Michael. “I hadn’t thought about it. What do you suggest?”

“It’s not for me to suggest,” said Alvah. “But perhaps it will depend on what role your son will be taking on.”

“As I said, he’ll be learning the ropes. He’s going to be helping me in the business.”

“So, will he be your deputy, your number two? Vice president of the company?”

“Yes, eventually. When he’s ready.”

“I see,” said Alvah, looking grave.

“You see what?”

“Just that some of the workforce may not be very happy about having a teenager put in charge. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, particularly when he’s so inexperienced.”

“He’s learning the ropes. How many times do I have to tell you that?” said Michael, getting angry. “And the workers will do what I tell them to do or take the consequences. They should be grateful for having a job at all, with what’s happening in the country.”

“I’m afraid I don’t agree. I—”

“I don’t give a damn whether you agree,” shouted Michael, cutting him off. And then stopped suddenly, passing a hand through his hair and taking a deep breath. “God, Alvah, you never give up, do you? Twisting everything I say, always looking for trouble, like you can’t help yourself. No, don’t bother answering,” he said, raising his hand. “You’ll just make it worse. You can call my son Master Sterling. It’ll do you good to show some respect.”

Michael left the room without waiting for a reply. But Theo caught Alvah Katz’s eye as he turned to follow his father and saw that he was smiling. A mean, sardonic smile with no humor in it. Theo sensed the man’s powerful malice and his capacity for cruelty, and suddenly felt frightened for his father.

Two days later, Theo had another encounter with the cutter, this time in his father’s office.