“Danny told me not to call him ‘Mister,’ ’less we were in company.”
“Fast friends you are, yeah?”
Shit. Luther hoped he hadn’t tipped his hand. “Don’t know I’d call us friends.”
“But you like him. It’s clear on your face.”
“He’s different. Not sure I ever met a white man quite like him. Never met a white woman quite like you, though.”
“I’m not white, Luther. I’m Irish.”
“Yeah? What color they?”
She smiled. “Potato-gray.”
Luther laughed and pointed at himself. “Sandpaper-brown. Pleased to meet you.”
Nora gave him a quick curtsy. “A pleasure, sir.”
After one of the Sunday dinners, McKenna insisted on driving Luther home, and Luther, shrugging into his coat in the hall, couldn’t think of a reply quick enough.
“’Tis awful cold,” McKenna said, “and I promised Mary Pat I’d be home before the cows.” He stood from the table and kissed Mrs. Coughlin on the cheek. “Would you pull my coat from the hook, Luther? There’s a fine lad.”
Danny wasn’t at this dinner and Luther looked around the room, saw that no one else was paying much attention.
“Ah, we’ll see you soon, folks.”
“’Night, Eddie,” Thomas Coughlin said. “’Night, Luther.”
“’Night, sir,” Luther said.
Eddie drove down East Broadway and turned right on West Broadway where, even on a cold Sunday night, the atmosphere was as raucous and unpredictable as anything in Greenwood had been on a Friday night. Dice games being played out in the open, whores leaning out of windowsills, loud music from every saloon, and there were so many saloons you couldn’t count them all. Progress, even in a big, heavy car, was slow.
“Ohio?” McKenna said.
Luther smiled. “Yes, sir. You were close with Kentucky. I figured you’d get it that night, but…”
“Ah, I knew it.” McKenna snapped his fingers. “Just the wrong side of the river. Which town?”
Outside, the noise of West Broadway dunned the car and the lights of it melted across the windshield like ice cream. “Just outside Columbus, sir.”
“Ever been in a police car before?”
“Never, suh.”
McKenna chuckled loud, as if he were spitting rocks. “Ah, Luther, you may find this hard to believe but before Tom Coughlin and I became brothers of the badge, we spent a fair amount of time on the wrong side of the law. Saw us some paddy wagons we did and, sure, no small amount of Friday-night drunk tanks.” He waved his hand. “It’s the way of things for the immigrant class, this oat sowing, this figuring out of the mores. I just assumed you’d taken part in the same rituals.”
“I’m not an immigrant, suh.”
McKenna looked over at him. “What’s that?”
“I was born here, suh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just…you said it was the way of things for immigrants, and that may be so, but I was saying that I’m not—”
“What may be so?”
“Sir?”
“What may be so?” McKenna smiled at him as they rolled under a streetlight.
“Suh, I don’t know what you—”
“You said.”
“Suh?”
“You said. You said jail may be the way of things for immigrants.”
“No, suh, I didn’t.”
McKenna tugged on his earlobe. “Me head must be filled with the wax then.”
Luther said nothing, just stared out the windshield as they stopped at a light at the corner of D and West Broadway.
“Do you have something against immigrants?” Eddie McKenna said.
“No, suh. No.”
“Think we haven’t earned our seat at the table yet?”
“No.”
“Supposed to wait for our children’s children to achieve that honor on our behalf, are we?”
“Suh, I never meant to—”
McKenna wagged a finger at Luther and laughed loudly. “I got you there, Luther. I pulled your leg there, I did.” He slapped Luther’s knee and let loose another hearty laugh as the light turned green. He continued up Broadway.
“Good one, suh. You sure had me.”
“I sho’ did!” McKenna said and slapped the dashboard. They drove over the Broadway Bridge. “Do you like working for the Coughlins?”
“I do, suh, yes.”
“And the Giddreauxs?”
“Suh?”
“The Giddreauxs, son. You don’t think I know of them? Isaiah’s quite the high-toned-Negroid-celebrity up in these parts. Has the ear of Du Bois, they say. Has a vision of colored equality, of all things, in our fair city. Won’t that be something?”
“Yes, suh.”
“Sure, that’d be grand stuff indeed.” He smiled the warmest of smiles. “Of course, you’d find some folk who would argue the Giddreauxs are not friends to your people. That they are, in fact, enemies. That they will push this dream of equality to a dire conclusion, and the blood of your race will flood these streets. That’s what some would say.” He placed a hand to his own chest. “Some. Not all, not all. ’Tis a shame there has to be so much discord in this world. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, suh.”
“A tragic shame.” McKenna shook his head and tsk-tsked as he turned onto St. Botolph Street. “Your family?”
“Suh?”
McKenna peered at the doors of the homes as he rolled slowly up the street. “Did you leave family behind in Canton?”
“Columbus, suh.”
“Columbus, right.”
“No, suh. Just me.”
“What brought you all the way to Boston, then?”
“That’s the one.”
“Huh?”
“The Giddreauxs’ house, suh, you just passed it.”
McKenna applied the brakes. “Well, then,” he said. “Another time.”
“I look forward to it, suh.”
“Stay warm, Luther! Bundle up!”
“I will. Thank you, suh.” Luther climbed out of the car. He walked around behind it and reached the sidewalk, hearing McKenna’s window roll down as he did.
“You read about it,” McKenna said.
Luther turned. “Which, suh?”
“Boston!” McKenna’s eyebrows were raised happily.
“Not really, sir.”
McKenna nodded, as if it all made perfect sense to him. “Eight hundred miles.”
“Suh?”
“The distance,” McKenna said, “between Boston and Columbus.” He patted his car door. “Good night to you, Luther.”
“Good night, suh.”
Luther stood on the sidewalk and watched McKenna drive off. He raised his arms and got a look at his hands—shaking, but not too bad. Not too bad at all. Considering.
CHAPTER seventeen
Danny met Steve Coyle for a drink at the Warren Tavern in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, the day more winter than autumn. Steve made several jokes about Danny’s beard and asked him about his case, even though Danny had to repeat, with apologies, that he couldn’t discuss an open investigation with a civilian.
“But it’s me,” Steve said, then held up a hand. “Just kidding, just kidding. I understand.” He gave Danny a smile that was huge and weak at the same time. “I do.”
So they talked about old cases, old days, old times. Danny had one drink for every three Steve had. Steve lived in the West End these days in a windowless room of a rooming-house basement that had been partitioned into six sections, all of which smelled thickly of coal.
“No indoor plumbing still,” Steve said. “Believe that? Out to the shed in the backyard like it was 1910. Like we’re in western Mass., or jigaboos.” He shook his head. “And if you’re not in the house by eleven? The old geezer locks you out for the night. Some way to live.” He gave Danny his big weak smile again and drank some more. “Soon as I g
et my cart, though? Things’ll change, I’ll tell you that.”
Steve’s latest employment plan involved setting up a fruit cart outside Faneuil Hall Marketplace. The fact that there were already a dozen such carts owned by some very violent, if not outright vicious, men didn’t seem to dissuade him. The fact that the fruit wholesalers were so leery toward new operators they charged “inaugural” rates for the first six months, which made it impossible to break even, was something Steve dismissed as “hearsay.” The fact that City Hall had stopped giving out merchant medallions for that area two years ago didn’t trouble him either. “All the people I know at the Hall?” he’d said to Danny. “Hell, they’ll pay me to set up shop.”
Danny didn’t point out that two weeks earlier Steve had told Danny he was the only person from the old days who answered his calls. He just nodded and smiled his encouragement. What else could you do?
“Another?” Steve said.
Danny looked at his watch. He was meeting Nathan Bishop for dinner at seven. He shook his head. “Can’t do it.”
Steve, who’d already signaled the bartender, covered the dejection that flashed across his eyes with his too-big smile and a laugh-bark. “All set, Kevin.”
The bartender scowled and removed his hand from the tap. “You owe me a dollar twenty, Coyle. And you best have it this time, rummy.”
Steve patted his pockets but Danny said, “I got it.”
“You sure?”
“Sure.” Danny slid out of the booth and approached the bar. “Hey, Kevin. Got a sec’?”
The bartender came over like he was doing a favor. “What?”
Danny placed the dollar and four nickels on the bar. “For you.”
“Must be my birthday.”
When he reached for the money, Danny caught his wrist and pulled it toward him.
“Smile or I break it.”
“What?”
“Smile like we’re chatting about the Sox or I’ll break your fucking wrist.”
Kevin smiled, his jaw clenched, eyes starting to bulge.
“I ever hear you call my friend ‘rummy’ again, you fucking bartender, I’ll knock out all your teeth and feed them back to you through your ass.”
“I—”
Danny twisted the flesh in his hand. “Don’t you do a fucking thing but nod.”
Kevin bit his lower lip and nodded four times.
“And his next round’s on the house,” Danny said and let go of his wrist.
They walked up Hanover in the fading of the day’s light. Danny planned to slip into his rooming house and grab a few pieces of warmer clothing to bring back to his cover apartment. Steve said he just wanted to wander through his old neighborhood. They’d reached Prince Street when crowds ran past them toward Salem Street. When they reached the corner where Danny’s building stood, they saw a sea of people surrounding a black Hudson Super Six, a few men and several boys jumping on and off the running boards and the hood.
“What the hell?” Steve said.
“Officer Danny! Officer Danny!” Mrs. DiMassi waved frantically at him from the stoop. Danny lowered his head for a moment—weeks of undercover work possibly blown because an old woman recognized him, beard and all, from twenty yards away. Through the throng, Danny saw that the driver of the car had a straw hat, as did the passenger.
“They try and take my niece,” Mrs. DiMassi said when he and Steve reached her. “They try and take Arabella.”
Danny, with a fresh angle on the car, could see Rayme Finch behind the wheel, tooting the horn as he tried to move the car forward.
The crowd wasn’t having it. They weren’t throwing anything yet, but they were yelling and clenching their fists and shouting curses in Italian. Danny saw two members of the Black Hand moving along the edges of the mob.
“She’s in the car?” Danny said.
“In back,” Mrs. DiMassi cried. “They take her.”
Danny gave her hand a tug of encouragement and began pushing his way through the crowd. Finch’s eyes met his and narrowed. After about ten seconds, recognition found Finch’s face. It was quickly replaced, though. Not with fear of the crowd, just stubborn determination as he kept the car in gear and tried to inch forward.
Someone pushed Danny, and he almost lost his balance but was buffeted by a pair of middle-aged women with beefy arms. A kid climbed a streetlamp pole with an orange in his hand. If the kid had a decent throwing arm this would get scary fast.
Danny reached the car, and Finch cracked the window. Arabella was curled up on the backseat, her eyes wide, her fingers grasping her crucifix, her lips moving in prayer.
“Get her out,” Danny said.
“Move the crowd.”
“You want a riot?” Danny said.
“You want some dead Italians in the street?” Finch banged on the horn with his fist. “Get them the fuck out of the way, Coughlin.”
“This girl knows nothing about anarchists,” Danny said.
“She was seen with Federico Ficara.”
Danny looked in at Arabella. She looked back at him with eyes that comprehended nothing except the growing fury of the mob. An elbow pushed off Danny’s lower back and he was pressed hard against the car.
“Steve!” he called. “You back there?”
“About ten feet.”
“Can you get me some room?”
“Have to use my cane.”
“Fine with me.” Danny turned back, pressed his face into the crack of window Rayme Finch had afforded him, and said, “You saw her with Federico?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About half an hour ago. Down by the bread factory.”
“You personally?”
“No. Another agent. Federico ducked him, but we got a positive ID on this girl.”
The top of someone’s head drove itself into Danny’s back. He swatted at it, tagged a chin.
He pressed his lips to the window crack. “If you leave with her, and then return her to the neighborhood, Finch? She will be assassinated. You hear me? You’re killing her. Let her out. Let me handle it.” Another body jostled his back and a man climbed up on the hood. “I can barely breathe out here.”
Finch said, “We can’t back down now.”
A second guy climbed on the hood and the car began to rock.
“Finch! You’ve already fucked her by putting her in the car. Some people are going to think she is an informant, no matter what. But we can save this situation if you let her out now. Otherwise…” Another body slammed into Danny’s. “Jesus, Finch! Unlock the fucking door.”
“You and me are going to have a talk.”
“Fine. We’ll talk. Open the door.”
Finch gave him one last long look to let him know this wasn’t over, not by a damn sight, and then he reached back and unlocked the rear door and Danny got his hand on the handle and turned to the crowd. “There’s been a mistake. Ci è stato un errore. Back up. Sostegno! Sostegno! She’s coming out. Sta uscendo. Back up. Sostegno!”
To his surprise, the crowd took a few steps back and Danny opened the door and pulled the shaking girl across the seat. Several people let out whoops and claps, and Danny hugged Arabella to his body and headed for the sidewalk. She clutched her hands to her chest and Danny could feel something hard and square under her arms. He looked in her eyes, but all he saw there was fear.
Danny held tight to Arabella and nodded his thanks to the people he passed. He gave Finch one last look and gestured up the street with his head. Another smattering of cheers broke out and the crowd began to thin around the car. Finch nudged the car forward a few feet and the mob backed up farther and the tires rolled. Then the first orange hit. The fruit was cold and sounded more like a rock. That was followed by an apple, then a potato, and then the car was pelted with fruit and vegetables. But it made steady progress up Salem Street. Some urchins ran alongside, shouting at it, but there were smiles on their faces and the jeers from the crowd had a festive air to them.
Danny reached the sidewalk and Mrs. DiMassi took her niece from him and led her toward the stairs. Danny watched the taillights of Finch’s Hudson reach the corner. Steve Coyle stood beside him, wiping his head with a handkerchief and looking out at the street littered with half-frozen fruit.
“Calls for a drink, uh?” He handed Danny his flask.
Danny took a drink but said nothing. He looked at Arabella Mosca huddled in her aunt’s arms. He wondered whose side he was on anymore.
“I’m going to need to talk to her, Mrs. DiMassi.”
Mrs. DiMassi looked up into his face.
“Now,” he said.
Arabella Mosca was a small woman with wide almond eyes and short blue-black hair. She didn’t speak a word of English outside of hello, good-bye, and thank you. She sat on the couch in her aunt’s sitting room, her hands still clenched within Mrs. DiMassi’s, and she had yet to remove her coat.
Danny said to Mrs. DiMassi, “Could you ask her what she’s hiding beneath her coat?”
Mrs. DiMassi glanced at her niece’s coat and frowned. She pointed and asked her to open her coat.
Arabella tilted her chin down toward her chest and shook her head vehemently.
“Please,” Danny said.
Mrs. DiMassi wasn’t the type to say “please” to a younger relative. Instead, she slapped her. Arabella barely reacted. She lowered her head farther and shook it again. Mrs. DiMassi reared back on the couch and cocked her arm.
Danny stuck his upper body between them. “Arabella,” he said in halting Italian, “they will deport your husband.”
Her chin came off her chest.
He nodded. “The men in straw hats. They will.”
A torrent of Italian flew from Arabella’s mouth and Mrs. DiMassi held up a hand, Arabella talking so fast even she seemed to be having trouble following. She turned to Danny.
“She said they can’t do this. He has job.”
“He’s an illegal,” Danny said.
“Bah,” she said. “Half this neighborhood illegal. They deport everyone?”
Danny shook his head. “Just the ones who annoy them. Tell her.”
Mrs. DiMassi held her hand out below Arabella’s chin. “Dammi quel che tieni sotto il cappotto, o tuo marito passera’il prossimo Natale a Palermo.”
The Given Day Page 29
