“This is the double tap,” the cop told Jason, demonstrating on the mannequin at the Punch Drunk bar. “You hit the inside of the elbow, the funny bone, with the flat of the sap, using a forehand blow, then hit the outside of the elbow or the point of the elbow with a follow-up backhand blow. Or, you strike backhanded with the flat of the sap to the kneecap or outer knee, then immediately follow with a forehand strike to the inner knee with the flat. It’s called a double tap because it hits with a quick 1-2, like a jab-straight combination in boxing, pa-pow!”

Jason took out his own trainer and practiced the double tap, striking backhanded and forehanded, then vice versa, hitting the elbows and knees with quick 1-2 combinations that delivered maximum impact with minimal movement.

“Suppose the guy is holding a weapon,” the cop began. “We strike to the fingers holding the weapon, using a forehand blow, then hit the back of the hand with the flat in a return backhand blow. Or we can switch it, hitting the back of his hand with a backhand blow, then hitting the inside of his fist, targeting the delicate fingers, with a forehand blow. But make it quick—pa-pow!”

Jason practiced the move, even though the mannequin held an umbrella. He imagined the dummy held a knife or a gun while he struck a lightning back-and-forth combination against the inside and the outside of the hand.

“Now try this,” the cop said, and lightly dropped his hand onto Jason’s shoulder.

Jason felt agonizing pain radiate across his shoulder blade. Like the sap, it didn’t hurt so much as it scared, because Jason realized that whatever the cop had just done, that there was an excruciating, crippling level of pain waiting for Jason if the cop decided to take it up a notch.

“Let’s go over here,” the cop suggested, pointing to the heavy bag and leading Jason by the elbow. Pain shot up from Jason’s funny bone like an electric current, and Jason realized he was getting a one or two on a scale of ten, but still couldn’t figure out what was going on.

“It’s the palm sap,” the cop explained, opening his hand to display it to Jason. “We have a lump of lead or a small brick of lead encased in leather, with a strap that runs around the back of the hand. The palm sap is practically invisible, so all you have to do is slap a man on the back, or on the point of the elbow, and the pain is agonizing. To anyone watching, and even the subject himself, you’ve done nothing. And if you slap a guy with it, you can knock him out.”

The cop went over to the speed bag. “I see that look. Don’t discount the slap as a sissy move. Even without the palm sap, you can blast a guy with it, and it doesn’t hurt your hand like punching does. Trust me, you don’t want to trade punches with guys, especially big guys—it hurts you as much as it hurts them. And with your hand damaged, you going to have a hard time using your gun if you need it.”

The cop slipped off his palm slap and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he struck the speed bag, surprising Jason with the power behind the blow. “The mechanics behind the slap, or the wallop, are like the hook punch in boxing: you’re not hitting with the arm. The arm stays bent, and the power comes from torque in the hips. The key is not to hit with your fingers or the base of the inside knuckles, but with the hollow of the hand—that’s where you want the load in the palm sap to rest.”

The cop struck the speed bag with another resounding slap, then motioned for Jason to try it. With gradual corrections, Jason learned to hit with the hollow of his palm, and to power the wallop not by swinging his hand, but by twisting his hips, which whipped his arm and hand into the target.

“Last thing,” the cop added. “With the palm sap, you can still use your hand to grab your opponent. Believe it or not, decades ago I was a champion wrestler. Now I specialize in dirty wrestling. Come on.”

The cop squared up as a wrestler would. “This is the neck tie, or collar tie.” The cop placed his right hand at the back of Jason’s neck, and placed his left hand inside Jason’s right elbow, and motioned for Jason to mirror him.

“Only I cheat. I can hit with the sap at the back of the head,” which the cop did, lightly connecting with the back of Jason’s skull, which hinted at the hell he could unleash, “or I go for the brachial stun.” Here the cop chopped with his forearm against the side of Jason’s neck, then immediately followed up with the neck tie.

The brief, light contact on the side of his neck made Jason woozy for a moment.

“Here, this is an extra one I’ve got,’ the cop said, and handed Jason his palm sap.

“Thanks,” Jason replied, and pocketed the weapon, feeling its heft. He saw the glowing prize icon on his watch, and spotted a note attached to the palm sap, resembling a price tag. “Tool: palm sap, depleted uranium.”

“I heard someone took apart some Dominican thugs at the Rincone the other day.” The cop quickly raised his hand when Jason started to speak. “I don’t know who that was, and I don’t want to know. They say it was a couple of guys with lead pipes, but I think it was one guy with a sap. Whoever it was, that was good work, and it shows what the sap is capable of. Don’t dismiss it as a weapon, but work to develop it. It won’t fail you.”

“Thanks again,” Jason said with a wave as he made his way out of the bar and headed back to the rescue mission.

Jason was striding down the chilly sidewalk, and the wind seemed to slide down the concrete sidewalk, pouring over the brick and glass of the buildings like icy water through a sluice gate. He spotted a boy with a stack of newspapers in one hand, holding a single newspaper in his upraised right hand. “Deadly plague strikes the city! Read it now! Get the mayor’s new edict!” the kid shouted as a wave of pedestrians flowed around him. Fishing a dime out of his pocket, Jason bought a copy of the newspaper and took it up the stairs to the rescue mission, where Jason got himself a cup of coffee and sat down to read the newspaper.

“Can I read that when you’re through?” Harvey, one of the men, asked him.

“Sure,” Jason replied. “I just thought I’d see what the mayor is up to.”

The front page headline was about the new Mitral virus that was sweeping through the city and killing .002% of those who were infected with the disease. Almost all of the fatalities were over the age of 65 and/or had co-morbidities, meaning that they were diabetics, obese, obese diabetics, people with cancer, patients who were in the hospital following an operation, and so on.

There was also a picture of the mayor, which made Jason do a double take. The mayor was an ape, a silver back gorilla, to be exact. The mayor did not resemble an ape, or remind you of an ape, but he was an actual, honest-to-goodness full-blown primate, complete with fur and big black lips like a bowl, even if they were partially concealed by a surgical mask. What was it the monkey said, “magical realism”? And if Jason was constantly getting advice from a talking capuchin money, then a gorilla mayor wasn’t that much of a stretch.

“BUTTAFUOCO MANDATES MASKS,” the headline announced. “Buttafuoco” was Italian for “seat of fire,” and was commonly mispronounced as “but uh few cō.” As Jason read the story, he learned that by executive order the mayor had mandated that everyone within New York City would have to wear a mask outside of their homes, or pay a fine, and after the third offense, they would serve a jail term. The mayor was visible in the front page picture, a monstrous black gorilla, standing in his office beside several women and the vice-mayor, looking like a scene from Planet of the Apes.

How was the mayor able to pass what was in effect a law, simply by saying so, as though he were the emperor? Where was the city council or the legislature on the mask mandate? Where was the evidence that mask-wearing stopped the spread of a virus? True, doctors and nurses wore masks in hospital settings, but that was not to stop the spread of a respiratory virus, but to keep hospital employees from infecting patients’ wounds. There were rumors that Buttafuoco was groping women in the mayor’s office and elsewhere, but the mayor’s hold on the unions and the reins of his party, not to mention the obsequious, butt-kissing press, meant that he had unlimited immunity.

“Thanks for buying the coffee, Brother Jason.” Pastor Roy leaned over and patted Jason’s shoulder as he looked at the headlines.

“It’s my pleasure, Pastor,” Jason replied. “Frankly, I couldn’t handle the old coffee, which tasted like a combination of paint thinner and chicory. And now that I’ve got a contract with the Department of Health, I can afford to get the guys something.”

“We go through a lot of coffee here, especially in the cold months, so it’s been a blessing.” Pastor Roy squeezed Jason’s shoulder and then moved on to talk with the other men who were seated at the tables.

Jason handed Harvey his newspaper and went to his room. He had some sap moves, like the double tap, to practice on the mannequin he got from a dumpsite in New Jersey, and thought he’d work with the new palm sap. Jason entered his room, and was pleased at the sight of his bed, which had linens on it and had been freshly made. He remembered happy times with Sister Belinda on the bed, which made him smile. Jason saw the few items of clothing in his stand-up closet, including an almost-new suit that he’d got from the thrift store. Several flowers sat in a vase on the table, struggling to remain upright, and Jason thought that it was time to get some replacements.

He slipped off his blazer, unbuttoned and rolled up his shirt cuffs, then began practicing with the training sap on the mannequin in the corner. He worked on the double tap, hitting the inside and the outside of the elbow as quickly as possible, and soon learned to work with the spring steel of the sap, which aided in whipping the flat end from one side to another. Jason had gone through the sap moves and drawn out the palm sap the cop gave him. He was working on the neck tie, the brachial stun, and the back of the head hit into the collar tie, when there was a knock at the door.

Jason opened the door, and was surprised to see Jim Cirillo standing there, holding a small suitcase. “Officer Cirillo, come in, please! It’s an honor.” Jason suddenly became self-conscious of his crude apartment. A quick glance at his watch showed him that the gold ribbon was glowing on his game display, which meant that he was about to get a bonus in the game.

The officer, a heavy man with a full black and gray beard, entered the room and gave the mannequin a quizzical look before taking a seat at the table, while Jason pulled up the other chair beside him.

“A friend of mine died recently,” Jim began, “and didn’t have any family to give his gun collection to. Nobody was interested. Rather than sell it, his widow wanted someone else to benefit from it, someone who would value it.”

The officer opened up the suitcase and took out boxes, revealing two snubnose revolvers in .38 special, a blackjack, which was a round, weighted weapon like the sap, and a Colt 1911 .45 automatic matching the one he already owned, which was no coincidence, he was certain. Officer Cirillo took out boxes of ammunition, which ran the gamut from wadcutters to hollow points, and a cleaning kit, complete with lube and polishing cloths. Jason briefly scanned the attached note, and saw that they were all tools, meaning that they had no special powers, so he would have to learn how to use them to maximize their effectiveness.

“Wow, I feel like I’m looking into a pirate’s treasure chest,” Jason said in awe.

Jim smiled. “You’re exactly the person to have this. Frank had two daughters and a son who were totally indifferent, and would rather have the radio, his bowling ball, or the Packard.”

The officer pushed the whole lot of it toward Jason. Jason was still staring wide-eyed at the collection, and he thought that the fact he’d paid off his first major debt today was no coincidence.

“Look at these revolvers here,” Officer Cirillo said, picking up one of the snubnoses. “You’ve got five shots of .38 special, but the key is that they’re hammerless, which means you can fire them through the side pocket of a blazer or an overcoat. But because they’re in the pocket, and exposed to lint and junk, you’ve got to keep your pockets clean—no coins, keys, candy wrappers—and really work to keep these little revolvers clean.”

The officer opened up the cylinder, kicked out the rounds, then reinserted them into the cylinder and closed it back up. “Get yourself an old sweater and jacket, something throw away, and practice firing through the pocket. You’re aiming for the gut at close range. Get to where you can shoot with both hands without drawing the gun out of the pocket. It just might save your life.”

Jason handled the guns as though they were sacred relics. This generous donation had saved him a couple of hundred dollars, which allowed him to invest in practice ammo. Most importantly, he had guns now, not at some point in the future.

“Be certain to thank the widow for me,” Jason said. “This is really generous, and for me, it’s better than winning the lottery.”

“Lottery?” the cop asked.

Jason suddenly realized the legal lottery didn’t exist in New York City in the 1920s. “Uh, better than winning the numbers.”

“Great,’ the officer replied, then turned serious. “I just hope that’s a figure of speech and that you’re really not playing the numbers.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s a figure of speech.” Jason smiled, knowing that the numbers racket was an illegal enterprise run by the mob.

“I’ll let her know,” Jim said as he got up and went to the door. “That’ll make her happy.”

The legendary New York City cop was leaving Jason’s room, when he spied Sister Jamie waiting outside. Looking at Sister Jaime, he immediately knew something was wrong.