Which was frankly disturbing to the first New Yorkers who saw him, what with Paddy having had no facilities for drying or even properly cleaning alligator skin. So his alligator boots had bits of alligator intestine trailing behind.
On the plus side, no one asked him for spare change.
Paddy went straight from the dock to the headquarters of the Toomany Society, which was housed in Toomany Hall. The Toomany Society offered help to newly arrived immigrants.
“What do you do for a living?” the woman at the desk asked.
“I used to grow oats.”
“That’ll be really useful here in New York. We have so many vast fields of oats.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” Paddy asked.
“Actually, no. I mean, this isn’t New York like it might be in the future, say, the far-off twenty-first century. This is New York in the early twentieth century. And believe it or not, we still have farms here. A hardworking oater can eke out a miserable existence working sixteen backbreaking hours a day, seven days a week in harsh conditions. You’ll marry a dance hall girl, spawn ill-mannered brats, grow old before your time, and die of some miserable disease, possibly consumption. But hey, it’s a living.”
“What are my other choices?” Paddy asked.
The woman shrugged. “You’re not fit for anything but oat farming or banking—and you don’t have the wardrobe for banking. And then, there’s always crime.”
“Tell me about this ‘crime’ of which you speak.”
“Well, hmm . . . I suppose you’d join a criminal gang, extort money from shopkeepers, rob banks, dress in flashy clothes, and mostly sit around all day drinking with other criminals in between acts of mayhem.”
Paddy pointed a jaunty finger at her and said, “Bingo.”
Chapter Eight
My favorite color used to be purple!” Mack cried out as Stefan and Jarrah pedaled frantically.
The Tong Elves were just behind them.
Nine Iron Trout was just ahead, ready to impale them.
Clearly the Pale Queen’s minions weren’t waiting around for the thirty-five days to be up. They were looking for a quick kill.
Or in Nine Iron’s case, a slow kill.
Panicky vendors were trying desperately to save squids and snakes-on-a-stick from the threatening flames. All the commotion was lit by cheery neon lights shining off candy-striped awnings.
Stefan had powerful legs. But the weight of a not-exactly-steady Mack flailing all over the handlebars slowed him down a bit.
Mack didn’t snap entirely back to reality until he saw Nine Iron’s cane-sword within about eight feet of skewering him like a fried scorpion.
“Hey!” he yelled.
Stefan tried to veer right to pass the safe side of the pedicab, but quick-peddling Tong Elves cut him off.
“Left! Closer!” Mack shouted.
Maybe Stefan obeyed or maybe he just wobbled, but either way Mack’s left hand came just close enough to a tray of mixed skewers.
>
He snatched them up, transferred them to his right hand, and with Nine Iron’s deadly sword just two feet from his heart, flung the skewers like darts.
The sudden movement sent Stefan even farther left, crashing through a grease fire and slip-sliding through a couple of dozen frantic lobsters who were no doubt hoping to reach the ocean. (Sorry: no.)
The sword missed by millimeters.