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I am going to make this ruddy short, so yeh little bollixes can get up an off on yer way.  Randy, good job.  Here’s yeh pay, and be off then.”  There was a shuffle, a grunt of appreciation, and exiting footsteps.  So he was in on it as well, Frank thought.  “Yeh are to give us half of the money yeh earn in each job done with The Street, and report back ‘ere within an hour of completin’ it.  Or we’ll get some people to tell some people you’re payin’ some people.  And the money better be feckin’ half, or ye’ll find it in yehself unable to ruddy piss all over deh meat shop anymore.  That glit’er starts tonight.  So, Frank, hand me some of that money in yer pocket.”

“I don’t know a hair about any mon”—

“Nobody walks like that with any dignity…”  Frank felt his pocket searched and a fat sum of his money taken.  “And my theory never lies…” the person chuckled derisively.  “The Whyos aren’t tolerant of this bull, yeh follow?  Now get up, and be gone.”

Frank rose and felt himself bump against Juve as they were both steered to the exit.

“And Frank.”

Frank felt ice clasp his heart.  “Yeh?”

“You’re right smackin’ lucky the third family don’t know yer profile.”

It wasn’t until Frank had entered their house into the fretful arms of his mother, introduced Juve and their story, set up a bed for him in the kitchen, greeted his red-eyed brother, shown his mother and Beagan the money, dealt with their exhilaration, parried her mother’s sharp questions both on the money and on the reasons of coming home well after midnight, and counted his and Juve’s money that he settled down on the hard floor next to his mother’s and brother’s shared bed that he considered what had just happened.  What would he do tomorrow, with The Street and The Whyos families equally ready to flare if he placed a toe out of line?  What would happen if he got caught by one, or both?  What would happen to Juve even if he were responsible?  And had he really just offered and allowed a boy who had possibly murdered a child into his mother’s house?  How could he adapt to this life?  How could he go on, with his mother and brother using the money to pay the rent, restore the heating, electricity, and food supplies, the money that had been stolen artfully from a meat store?  He’d lived in Hell’s Kitchen for perhaps two years, gotten involved in the gang business, and, on his first day joining them, cheated death at least twice.  His father had left, his mother and brother were in constant, dire need of succor, and he was the only person that could pull things into order.  Which, he thought, seemed to be spiraling out of control.