shuffled forward and Shan with it. A whiff of roasted chicken breezed past. Given Shan’s congested nose, perhaps he only imagined it, but it struck as the aroma of a king’s feast.
“Ah, now! Would ye look at that.”
A male brogue caught Shan’s ear. Its familiar comfort beckoned like rays of a summer sun. He swung around to find a teenager in stained knickers, a smudge on his nose, speaking to boys his age. He held up a coin for them to see.
“Richer than the Rockefellers, I am. Wouldn’t ye say?”
A stocky red-haired one sneered. “Maybe now you can afford a feckin’ brain.”
The others laughed, and suddenly Shan noticed his own hand was empty. The sixpence—it must have fallen to the ground, his fingers too numb to notice.
“I dropped that”—the group snapped to face him—“it belongs to me.”
The boy with the sixpence bit off a laugh. “Aye, sure it does.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Let me guess.” The same boy widened his eyes in exaggerated shock. “You’re a leprechaun and it fell out of your pot o’ gold.”
More snide laughter.
Its monetary worth didn’t matter to Shan; a sixpence bought nothing in America. And clearly it was proving a failure in all levels of luck. Rather, the true value lay in its connection to his past, a final tie that if severed might forever set him adrift.
In some way, the boy would understand this. Surely he couldn’t deny their common ground. “Please, I’m from Ireland, like you. Just trying to get by.”
The boy drew his head back. He surveyed Shan from head to toe. “Can you believe it, lads? All this time, I’ve dreamt of meeting me long-lost brother. I had no idea this Yank was part of our clan.”
Shan was becoming so accustomed to suppressing his brogue, to revive it now carried the odd feeling of putting on a show.
Regardless, it was clear the thief wasn’t going to budge. Shan had nothing to offer in trade. And without the coin, Shan himself had nothing at all. There was only one way to reclaim it.
Before the group could react, he lunged for the money. The boy managed to stretch it out of reach and pushed back with his free hand. Shan tried to maintain his footing but landed on the ground. An icy puddle flooded his trousers. The group broke into jeers. Shan’s arms and legs quivered. Not from the cold, but from anger rising like mercury, boiling through his veins. A primal instinct took hold. Like a madman, he shot to his feet and charged back with a bellow that came from deep within. It sounded of something barbaric and raw.
There was a glint in the teenager’s eyes, of surprise and fear, a split second before Shan’s fist slammed into his jaw. On another day Shan would have paused to measure the effect, but a mounting blackness had been uncaged. Every ounce of it sent his arms swinging and pummeling, powered by fury, unwilling to stop until the enemy was reduced to a sack of meat and bones.
Shan faintly registered the other boys hitting his back. But then a punch connected to his kidneys, paralyzing him enough to be flung to the ground. His chin and palms scraped gravel. Clamoring shouts echoed in his ears. In a blink he was flipped over and a sea of fists descended. His forearms flew into an X, an old reflex, absorbing blows that came in sloppy succession.
“Enough, I said!” At the man’s booming voice, the din fell away as if dropped off a cliff. “Clear out, the bunch of you hoodlums!”
Shan saw the scuttling of feet through the gap beneath his arms, still raised as a shield. His heart thrashed in his chest.
“Goddamned micks,” the man muttered. “Hey, kid. Let’s go. You hurt or what?”
From the outskirts of Shan’s mind came a lyric from Billy Murray’s “Foolish Questions.” How a person could fall twenty-seven floors down an elevator shaft, and while he’s lying there inert, the first thing he’d be asked was: Oh, are you hurt?
“Come on. On your feet.” Rain dripped from the bill of the
“Ah, now! Would ye look at that.”
A male brogue caught Shan’s ear. Its familiar comfort beckoned like rays of a summer sun. He swung around to find a teenager in stained knickers, a smudge on his nose, speaking to boys his age. He held up a coin for them to see.
“Richer than the Rockefellers, I am. Wouldn’t ye say?”
A stocky red-haired one sneered. “Maybe now you can afford a feckin’ brain.”
The others laughed, and suddenly Shan noticed his own hand was empty. The sixpence—it must have fallen to the ground, his fingers too numb to notice.
“I dropped that”—the group snapped to face him—“it belongs to me.”
The boy with the sixpence bit off a laugh. “Aye, sure it does.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Let me guess.” The same boy widened his eyes in exaggerated shock. “You’re a leprechaun and it fell out of your pot o’ gold.”
More snide laughter.
Its monetary worth didn’t matter to Shan; a sixpence bought nothing in America. And clearly it was proving a failure in all levels of luck. Rather, the true value lay in its connection to his past, a final tie that if severed might forever set him adrift.
In some way, the boy would understand this. Surely he couldn’t deny their common ground. “Please, I’m from Ireland, like you. Just trying to get by.”
The boy drew his head back. He surveyed Shan from head to toe. “Can you believe it, lads? All this time, I’ve dreamt of meeting me long-lost brother. I had no idea this Yank was part of our clan.”
Shan was becoming so accustomed to suppressing his brogue, to revive it now carried the odd feeling of putting on a show.
Regardless, it was clear the thief wasn’t going to budge. Shan had nothing to offer in trade. And without the coin, Shan himself had nothing at all. There was only one way to reclaim it.
Before the group could react, he lunged for the money. The boy managed to stretch it out of reach and pushed back with his free hand. Shan tried to maintain his footing but landed on the ground. An icy puddle flooded his trousers. The group broke into jeers. Shan’s arms and legs quivered. Not from the cold, but from anger rising like mercury, boiling through his veins. A primal instinct took hold. Like a madman, he shot to his feet and charged back with a bellow that came from deep within. It sounded of something barbaric and raw.
There was a glint in the teenager’s eyes, of surprise and fear, a split second before Shan’s fist slammed into his jaw. On another day Shan would have paused to measure the effect, but a mounting blackness had been uncaged. Every ounce of it sent his arms swinging and pummeling, powered by fury, unwilling to stop until the enemy was reduced to a sack of meat and bones.
Shan faintly registered the other boys hitting his back. But then a punch connected to his kidneys, paralyzing him enough to be flung to the ground. His chin and palms scraped gravel. Clamoring shouts echoed in his ears. In a blink he was flipped over and a sea of fists descended. His forearms flew into an X, an old reflex, absorbing blows that came in sloppy succession.
“Enough, I said!” At the man’s booming voice, the din fell away as if dropped off a cliff. “Clear out, the bunch of you hoodlums!”
Shan saw the scuttling of feet through the gap beneath his arms, still raised as a shield. His heart thrashed in his chest.
“Goddamned micks,” the man muttered. “Hey, kid. Let’s go. You hurt or what?”
From the outskirts of Shan’s mind came a lyric from Billy Murray’s “Foolish Questions.” How a person could fall twenty-seven floors down an elevator shaft, and while he’s lying there inert, the first thing he’d be asked was: Oh, are you hurt?
“Come on. On your feet.” Rain dripped from the bill of the
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