Death of Riley by Rhys Bowen

start with. Have you ever met a boy who didn't have dirt under his fingernails? And your feet? Oh, you've got them nice and dirty, but see how the little toe is pressed against the next one? That comes from years of wearing pointed shoes. Ever see a boy wearing pointed toed shoes? And then there's the smell of mothballs. Very odd that your clothes were stored away until this very moment, don't you think?”
    I nodded. “So I have a lot to learn, I know. That's why I want you to teach me.”
    “Do you think what I know can be taught?” he demanded. “If you hadn't slipped up with those details, I'd still have caught you out. You know why? Because you didn't think and react like a boy. You came up the steps daintily, one hand on the rail. A boy would have taken them two at a time, probably, and he'd always be alert. A boy in the city is used to being on the lookout for danger. He's had plenty of cuffs around the head and he doesn't want another one. And when he's on an errand like this, trying to convince me that he can do a man's job, he'd show a touch of bravado. You can't just dress the part. You have to get inside the head.”
    “How did you learn all this?” I asked.
    “Me? I've had a lifetime on the streets, my dear. Nothing sharpens skills like survival.” He brushed off his greasy hands. “Let me give you a little demonstration.”
    He went through into a back room I hadn't noticed before and closed the door behind him. While I was waiting, I looked around. Under the clutter was a sparsely furnished room, the table being the only piece of real furniture. I went across to look out of the back window, which opened onto more outbuildings and another alleyway filled with garbage cans. I jumped when I heard a tap at the front door.
    “Mr. Riley?” I called. “Someone at the door.” Then I went to answer it.
    An elderly Jewish man stood there, bearded, dressed in the long black coat and tall black hat I had seen so often on the Lower East Side. “Mr. Riley? Is he, perchance, at home?” His voice was little more than a whisper and there was a touch of European accent. “It is a matter of great urgency, great delicacy, you understand.”
    “Just a minute. I'll go and get him,” I said.
    I went and tapped on the door to the inner room. “Mr. Riley. Someone for you.”
    “I don't think you'll find him in there,” the Jewish man said. Before I could answer, he'd peeled off the long straggly beard and Riley himself stood there grinning at me.
    “That was truly amazing. And so quick, too. I never suspected…”
    “Of course you didn't. However, if I was using that character on Essex or Delancey, I'd have to play my cards right. I don't speak much Yiddish, you see. I'd soon be caught out.” He took off the hat and coat and hung them on a peg on the wall.
    “But how did you learn all this? Who taught you how. to do the makeup?”
    “A long story, my dear.” He looked at me, long and hard. “Tell you what. After all the trouble you've gone to, the least I can do is offer to share my supper with you.”
    “Thank you. You're very kind.” I'd have stayed if it had been tripe or pig's feet—my two least favorite foods. Anything to keep me there a moment longer.
    He spread out a piece of newspaper in front of me on the desk and motioned for me to pull up a packing case. “Got a bit behind with the paperwork,” he said.
    “Which is why you need an assistant,” I reminded him.
    “Hmmph,” he said, cutting the meat pie in half and putting some on a piece of newspaper for me. “Have to use your fingers. Sorry about that.”
    “Your name,” I began. “It's not really Riley, is it? You're a Londoner, not from Ireland.”
    “That's where you're wrong. I was born in Killarney.”
    “Then the accent is a fake? It's very convincing.”
    He chuckled. “No, the accent's real enough. I was born in Killarney but we left when I was two. My parents were clever enough to use the little they'd saved to get out