“I was no good at it, so I gave it up.”

“You gave up quite a lot of things from what I hear.”

Eddie shrugged. His defection and his loss of faith were common knowledge in the neighborhood. On the way to Sheriff Street, a bearded old man in a broad-brimmed black hat, perhaps a member of his father’s shul, had spat on the ground when he passed by. Among the elder Cohen’s circle, a son who didn’t know enough to respect his father wasn’t worth much. One who didn’t respect his own people was beneath contempt.

“I was sorry to hear about Levy.” Hochman pushed a silver lighter across the desk. “He was a good photographer. A good man.”

Eddie lit the cigar and choked, humbled to have the exact same response he’d had when he finally accepted his first stogie from his employer. He’d done a particularly good job of tracking down a missing fiancé and Hochman had invited him into his office, an invitation he could brag about to the other boys. Eddie remembered being surprised by the conversation on that day. Hochman had asked what he thought of love, now that he was in the business. Nothing much, Eddie had replied. You don’t see how powerful a force it is? Hochman had asked. How it rules men’s lives?

I see misery. Nothing more.

If that’s true, son, Hochman had said, maybe you’re not as smart as I thought you were.

Hochman grinned when Eddie coughed. “Still not a smoker.” Clearly, he liked to get the better of people and show them their own failings. It made for easier negotiations.

“I suppose not.” Eddie propped up the cigar in a bronze ashtray, a beautiful piece, most likely a gift from a satisfied customer.

“Tiffany,” Hochman informed him.

“I suppose that means something to some people.” Eddie shrugged. “To me, it’s an ashtray.”

The older man leaned back in his chair. As a boy Eddie hadn’t noticed that his boss’s chair was larger by half than the chair that faced it, perhaps to ensure that a visitor would feel himself diminished in the presence of a superior man.

“You didn’t give notice when you left. I expected more from you.”

“I’m sure it was easy enough for you to find my replacement. We were all the same to you, weren’t we? Good little spies.”

“I gave you an opportunity. Working for me you ate better, you dressed better. You can’t deny you had a better life. Just as important—you learned valuable lessons. All my boys do.”

“I learned that people betrayed each other, that they fled from their responsibilities and treated each other like shit. Was that the lesson you wanted for us?”

“Not at all.” Hochman had aged since Eddie had last seen him, yet was still imposing with his large, leonine head and a mane of white hair which people said he powdered each morning. “It might have been shit to you, but the Times and the Herald and the Tribune still turn to me when they have a case they can’t solve. They still write about the boy I discovered under the Brooklyn Bridge when the police force couldn’t find a trace of him.”

Eddie’s hackles were raised. “I solved that case.”

“You found him, Ezekiel, but you solved nothing. Did you know he was murdered?”

Eddie tilted his chair forward, a strange heat rising in his face. He didn’t like to think about that night, even now. Still, he knew what he’d seen. “He’d frozen to death. Everyone I spoke to said he had the habit of wandering around the city at night. He died of exposure to the cold.”

“You didn’t grasp why he would do such a thing in such brutal weather. Was he a fool, or was he something else? You would have needed to possess empathy for another person in order to see what was in front of you. You would have had to cast off your own skin, and slip into his. In the case of Louis—if you remember, that was his name—his mother had a boarder, a Russian who drank and had a temper. He had begun beating the boy, who was certainly too afraid to tell his mother the truth about his situation. They needed the money, and I’m sure Louis thought they would starve without the income. I imagine the Russian threatened him with what he might do to the mother if he were exposed. One night, things went too far. The Russian wrapped Louis in a blanket and carried him to the embankment, leaving him beneath the bridge. The mother recognized the blanket as one she owned. She assumed her son had taken it with him, which I knew was highly unlikely. A wandering boy does not clutch a blanket when he climbs out the window. He wants to be free, not dragged down. I suppose you failed to notice the bruises around his throat. These marks led me to the truth.”