Ten: December 1924 (Part 1)

Things had gone swimmingly for four weeks after the heist on Elder Street, as Ernie Walker disposed of the stolen items from his lair in a storage room at the back of The Ten Bells and shared a portion of the proceeds with Alfred Newkirk. They'd involved Peter in another little weekend caper—this time, as lookout—and the boy knew that they'd hit a few more residences late at night without him. Mam didn't know it, but Da no longer bothered to go to work as a day laborer, yet his pockets jingled every night. Everyone was well fed for a change, and Peter even had a properly fitting pair of thick-soled boots with leather laces, just in time for winter.

It was December 19, the Friday before Christmas, when Peter arrived at The Ten Bells pub at 9 p.m. in search of his father. As usual, he had come straight from his Shabbos goy duties at the Levines' house to plead with Da for the week's "wages," if that was what he was supposed to call them now. What was it the minister had said at chapel last week? "Wages of sin," Peter reminded himself. So, yes, he reasoned, the word still worked, job or no job.

Peter arrived to find his father lifting up a pert blonde barmaid to sit on the bar for a chat as he leaned in with his pint of ale. The boy let out a few well-timed coughs, and his father turned around to face him. Even a boy of 10 could see that Alfred was handsome and still young and fit enough to attract the ladies. He was always neatly turned out, clothes tidy, with his light brown hair, untouched by gray, finely parted and oiled into place. His dark eyes shone, and his smile revealed something rare for a working class man in the East End—good teeth. Peter saw instantly that his father was in a cheerful mood, so he smiled brightly back at him, tilting his head sideways.

"Mam says she needs to pay the landlord, Da," Peter said. "She said you're not to drink the wages. I'm to bring them home to her." He thrust out his hand.

Alfred guffawed. "The cheek of this lad. He's just like his mother," he said, squeezing his companion around the waist. "What do you think, Sally. Should we help the old girl out?"

"Oh, Freddy, pay up," Sally responded, smiling over his shoulder at Peter. "She's your wife, and she's got all them kids to think about. Look at this lovely lad of yours. He's got your smile, Freddy, but those must be his Mum's eyes." She leaned forward to address Peter. "Hello, young chap. What do they call you? Are you a Freddy too?"

Peter looked to his father for permission to speak, and got a nod.

"I'm Peter, Miss," he said, taking a moment to dip his head shyly. "And you're very pretty," he added, looking up through his eyelashes for effect.

Sally chortled. "Oh my lord, Freddy, he gets that from you. How old are you, Peter Newkirk?"

"I was 10 last month, Miss. How old are you, 18? My Da's 33, aren't you Daddy?" He smiled with practiced innocence at his father.

"That's enough, boy," Freddy interjected as Sally laughed into her hand. "Here," he said, handing over a fistful of coins. "Take this and go home to your Mammy right now before I box your ears. No, wait. Stop and say hello to the men before you leave." He took the boy by the shoulder, turned him around, and pointed. "You see Ernie over there, and Mr. Burke is in back in the storage room, checking on a few things. See if they needs you for anything."

Peter eyed the crowns and shillings before shoving them in the pocket of his woolen school shorts. Two pounds and 10 shillings. It wasn't enough, and Peter knew it. Tired from a long day of school and work, the child considered declaring victory and going home. Instead, Peter smiled and parked himself at the table, sticky with spilled beer and cigarette ashes. He forced himself to chat amiably with creepy old Ernie Walker while waiting for an opportunity to extract some more coins from his Da's pockets. He practiced a bit by leaning affectionately into Ernie like any boy might with a father or uncle, and fished up a few florins for his trouble.

Then the peelers swarmed in, and shouts of "dealing in stolen goods" pulsated in Peter's eardrums. Alfred patted his barmaid on the knee and took off at a clip for the back door. Ernie hefted himself to his feet and waddled along behind him, treading on Peter's foot as he passed. Poor old Ernie never stood a chance, but Alfred might have made a clean break if three rounds of ale and whiskey hadn't interfered with his balance. Peter followed the cops to the back doorway of the pub and peered out to see his father stumble into the rubbish bins and land on his face.

A bobby was hauling Alfred to his feet as Peter retreated back inside. "It's my lucky day," he thought as he approached the table. Ernie and Da had taken off their overcoats and draped them over a chair; sure enough, there were plenty of coins still in their pockets. Peter cleaned out Ernie's pockets, gathered his Da's coat, and ambled away from the pub, passing his old man and his horrid accomplice just as the handcuffs were snapped into place. It was a cold night, and Peter decided to slip on the coat. With the hem dragging behind him, he headed home.

He was halfway down Commercial Street when a slight figure appeared from the shadows, startling him. But under a street lamp, he could see it was a friendly face. Thank goodness for Mr. Alfred Burke.

Peter ran to Alfie, throwing himself into the wiry thief's arms. He looked up and saw the concern in the old fellow's face as Alfie pulled him into a dark doorway. Alfie knelt down, his hand on the boy's cheek.

"You're all right now," Alfie told Peter. "But let's take off this coat. Someone might notice it and start asking questions, and we don't want that. Never do anything to call attention to yourself."

Peter slipped off the coat and handed it to Alfie. "The coins," he said. "Me Mam needs the wages."

Alfie felt in the pockets and shook his head. He would have to deliver it to Mary himself. Still kneeling, he explained it softly to the boy.

"It's too many coins for a boy your age, Peter. Remember what I told you," Alfie said patiently. "No one will think twice about a boy with shillings and sixpence, but you can't go about with pounds in your pockets. If a policeman stops you, between the coat and the money, he'll know it isn't yours."

Peter nodded. He wasn't afraid of the dark any more, not really, but suddenly he didn't want to walk home alone.

"Will you come with me?" Peter asked beseechingly. "Will you tell me Mam?"

Alfie was folding the coat into a small bundle, removing his belt to hold it snug.

"Of course I will," Alfie said. He took the boy by the hand. "Let's be off. Oh, and Peter?"

"Yes, Mr. Burke?"

"Say 'my Mum,' or 'my mother,' not 'me Mam,'" Alfie said with a smile. "It's a little thing, but it makes such a difference in how people think of you."

"Like the peelers?" Peter inquired.

"You mean the policemen, dear boy, and yes, that's precisely who I mean," Alfie said as they continued down Commercial Street. "You'd be surprised what a difference word choice and proper pronouns make, really," he said, launching into a discourse on the dangers of dropped H's and glottal stops.