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February 20tth, 1931.

I have been working for the different yet equally dangerous families for fourteen days.  How I keep going, I know not.  But as I now look around at our apartment, writing this, I realize I am no longer crouching near a candle, squinting at the page.  I am working at a full, clean desk, with light bulbs illuminating my page as I write.  My brother is almost healthy enough to venture outside and me mother, Kayleigh, can talk for ten minutes without her voice cracking, or needing the support of an object.

I often wonder when my time will come, where the double agent takes his fall.  An innocent boy, working for the well-being of his family.  Though I don’t classify meself as an innocent boy now.  My sins will catch up with me.  Robbing stores, distractions, shady payouts.  I actually have failed more than three missions, and have nearly been arrested three times. 

Me Uncle Tommy’s having his fourth wedding tomorrow.  We board the ferry today, and stay for six weeks.  Me family’s strength has been accumulated over the last few weeks just to make this ferry.  Me money too.

Today I made a mistake.  Today I didn’t want to work.  Today I didn’t want to pay.  Today changed me whole life, top to bottom, soul to devil.

            Frank had been working for the gangs for fourteen days at this point, his reputation for strategy and deception phenomenal.  His income was being raised, he was completing his payouts with The Whyos, and, most importantly, he was beginning to perceive the difference the money made.  His mother and brother were becoming more independent, he was able to eat almost everyday, and the electricity and heating were restored.  He was going to take a break by going to New Jersey, and, when he returned, they might just be financially stable enough for him to return to school and exit the mob world.  He had had his failures, however, as he reminisced about his ‘triple luck streak.’  One time, the razzers had nearly arrested him three times after one too many risky sequenced robberies.  He turned the curb, heading over to the usual spot next to Steven’s and the Meat Shop (the store owner having begun paying routinely once again), slid through the pipe, and was halfway through when he heard voices.  Freezing on all fours, his ears strained for the voices to continue their conversation; he feared the cops may have discovered their safe haven.