The alley behind Pennsylvania Avenue was dark and slick with summer rain. It was a quiet evening, except for the steady tapidy tap of TinyTim’s polished leather shoes.

He wasn’t called TinyTim because he limped like the kid in that Dickens book. Hell nah, Tim "TinyTim" Mancini was just under four foot six but what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in nerve. His old man, Frankie Mancini, had run with a rival crew back in the day and vanished the year Tim was born. Word on the street said the Hudson swallowed him after he crossed someone higher up. TinyTim never bought that. He believed his father had been set up and he was gonna one day find out why.

Now, at 24, he was in. Junior Goomba for the Orphans crew in Brooklyn, working under the quiet but deadly Dixxon. Dixxon had a way of making people disappear without a trace. People said he liked Tim. Tim wasn't so sure but he was keen to make an impression on him.

Tonight was Tim’s first real job, a collection from a guy who forgot the rules. A jeweller in the Bronx, who’d been paying slow and low.

“You sure you’re ready for this, Tim?” asked BigRaga, Dixxon’s right hand man. He towered over TinyTim like a tree over a mailbox.

Tim adjusted his leather gloves. “You asking me that again? Sounds like you're doubting me.”

BigRaga laughed but Tim didn’t. He was focused and determined tonight.