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bring none of your loot back here. It’ll only get me arrested.
    At that point, Dan was lifting whatever he could get his hands on, nails, shirts, purses, pens, he’d stuff his pockets and go hurtling into a crowd, stumbling across streets and sidewalks, almost getting himself killed as he made his escape. That’s how he landed on Blackwells Island. Mosie took him back when he was released. She’s the one paid for the funeral. After Dan died, someone slit her throat, ransacked her place, took whatever money she’d stored up. Metropolitans didn’t waste much time trying to find out who done it. More interested in protecting places like Brooks Brothers and collecting their tribute. Poor Mosie. But that’s the way in this town: The good go to the grave, the greedy open their own bank, which is what Waldo Capshaw could do if he wanted. The worst of the lot. A nose longer and sharper than a rat’s, him perched behind that uptown facade, the purple drapes framing the windows and the shades all drawn, the trappings of a respectability Waldo wanted the world to think he was born to. Liked to act like he was a gentleman, only everybody knew he was nothing but a fence, the tightest and meanest ever lived. Left a note at the hotel last evening:
Must see you the day after tomorrow. Can you be at my place at four?
    Maybe, Waldo. If there ain’t anything better to do.
    Manning was back in his position behind the bar. He fired round after round of whiskey atthe hordes in front of him. From outside a shout went up. A group of urchins ran down the street. “The boolys is coming!” they cried. “The booly dogs is here!”
    The bar began to empty. The sidewalk was crammed with people. They were quiet and sullen until a column of police turned off the Bowery and headed down Catherine Street, then they erupted into hoots and catcalls.
    Manning went to the rear of the bar and lugged out a large, flat piece of wood. “Give me a hand,” he said to Dunne as he dragged it through the front door. He tried to fit it across the window but couldn’t get it to stay in place. Dunne hadn’t moved. Manning rapped on the window and yelled at him, “Please, man, give me a hand! They’ll wreck everythin’ once they get started, won’t matter who it belongs to!” His voice was muffled by the glass. It had a faraway tone. “For God’s sake, man, please!”
    Dunne stepped outside. He grabbed the end of the panel and helped lift it into place. Manning twisted two snap bolts to secure it. The column of police had halted outside Brooks Brothers. The head clerk rushed out and talked animatedly to the policeman in charge.
    â€œAch,” Manning said. “We’re in for it now. Not even John Morrissey can stop it.”
    Many of the men were armed with sticks, bottles, paving stones, or baling hooks, which they held at their sides out of view of the police. The children continued to frolic in the street, running up to the Metropolitans, taunting them, and then running away. The chief policeman went on talking with the Brooks Brothers clerk, seemingly unperturbed by the size and mood of the mob.
    Manning pointed to the corner of Cherry Street, where another column of police had appeared. “It’s gonna be another Bull Run!” he cried. “It’ll be ruin for us all!” He went back to the entrance of the saloon. “You better warn Morrissey!” He slammed the door shut behind him and pulled down a tattered green shade.
    The two columns ofpolice merged into one solid body of four ranks, ten men to a rank. Each Metropolitan held his locust stick in front of him. After a few minutes, the chief policeman gave the order for them to move forward. Men lifted their weapons and waved them at the police. There was a collective roar, and the crowd surged into the street. Dunne felt himself being dragged along. “Bloody peelers!” the man beside