Danny reached through the stack of papers Denton had fanned across the table. “But the numbers bear us out.” He lifted the article he’d clipped from last week’s Traveler on the leaps in the prices of coal, oil, milk, and public transportation.
“But if we ask for three hundred when they’re still digging in their heels on two?”
Danny sighed and rubbed his own forehead. “Let’s just throw it on the table. When they balk, we can come down to two-fifty for veterans, two-ten for new recruits, start building a scale.”
Mark took a sip of his beer, the worst in the city, but also the cheapest. He rubbed the foam off his upper lip with the back of his hand and glanced at the Traveler clipping again. “Might work, might work. What if they flat out rebuff us? They say there’s no money, none, zip?”
“Then we have to come at them on the company-store issue. Ask if they think it’s right that policemen have to pay for their own uniforms and greatcoats and guns and bullets. Ask them how they expect a first-year patrolman working for the 1905 wage and paying for his own equipment to feed his children.”
“I like the children.” Mark gave him a wry smile. “Be ready to play that up if we meet any reporters on the way out and it hasn’t gone our way.”
Danny nodded. “Another thing? We’ve got to bring the average workweek down by ten hours and get time-and-a-half for all special details. The president’s coming back through here in a month, right? Getting off the boat from France and parading right through these streets. You know they’re going to put every cop on that regardless of what he’s already worked that week. Let’s demand time-and-a-half starting there.”
“We’re going to put their backs up with that.”
“Exactly. And once their backs are up, we say we’ll forgo all these demands if they just give us the raise they promised plus the cost-of-living increase.”
Mark stewed on that, sipping his beer, looking out at the snow falling past the graying windows of late afternoon. “We’ve got to hit them with the health-code violations, too,” he said. “I saw rats at the Oh-Nine the other night looked like bullets wouldn’t stun them. We hit them with that, the company-store thing, and the special details?” He sat back. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” He clinked his glass off Danny’s. “Now remember something—they will not say yes tomorrow. They’ll hem and haw. When we meet the press afterward, we act conciliatory. We say some progress has been made. But we also call attention to the issues. We mention that Peters and Curtis are fine men who are honestly trying to help us with the company-store problem. To which the reporters will say…?”
“What company-store problem?” Danny smiled, seeing it now.
“Precisely. Same thing on the cost of living. ‘Well, we know Mayor Peters surely hopes to address the disparity between what the men earn and the high price of coal.’”
“Coal’s good,” Danny said, “but it’s still a bit abstract. The children are our aces.”
Mark chuckled. “You’re getting a real feel for this.”
“Lest we forget”—Danny raised his glass—“I am my father’s son.”
In the morning he dressed in his only suit, one Nora had picked out during their secret days of courting in ’17. It was dark blue, a French-back, double-breasted pinstripe and, given the weight he’d lost trying to look like a hungry Bolshevik, too big for him. Still, once he added his hat and ran his fingers along the welt-edge brim to get the curl the way he wanted it, he looked smart, dapper even. As he fiddled with his high collar and made the knot in his tie a little wider to compensate for the gap between the collar and his throat, he practiced somber looks in the mirror, serious looks. He worried he looked too dapper, too much the young rake. Would Curtis and Peters take him seriously? He removed the hat and furrowed his brow. He opened and closed his suit jacket several times. He decided it looked best closed. He practiced the brow-furrow again. He added more Macassar oil to his hair and put the hat back on.
He walked to headquarters at Pemberton Square. It was a beautiful morning, cold but windless, the sky a bright band of steel and the air smelling of chimney smoke, melting snow, hot brick, and roast fowl.
He ran into Mark Denton coming along School Street. They smiled. They nodded. They walked up onto Beacon Hill together.
“Nervous?” Danny asked.
“A bit,” Mark said. “I left Emma and the kids home alone on Christmas morning, so it better be for something. How about you?”
“I choose not to think about it.”
“Wise.”
The front of headquarters was empty, no reporters on the steps. No one at all. They would have expected to see the mayor’s driver, at least, or Curtis’s.
“Around back,” Mark Denton said with an emphatic nod. “Everyone’s around back, probably already nipping from Christmas flasks.”
“That’s it,” Danny said.
They went through the front door and removed their hats and topcoats. They found a small man in a dark suit and red bow tie waiting for them, a slim valise on his lap. His eyes were too big for his small face and gave him a demeanor of perpetual surprise. He was no older than Danny, but his hairline had receded halfway up his head, and the exposed skin was still a bit pink, as if the balding had all occurred last night.
“Stuart Nichols, personal secretary to Commissioner Curtis. If you’ll follow me.”
He didn’t offer his hand or meet their eyes. He rose from the bench and climbed the wide marble stairs and they fell into place behind him.
“Merry Christmas,” Mark Denton said to his back.
Stuart Nichols looked quickly over his shoulder, then straight ahead.
Mark looked over at Danny. Danny shrugged.
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Danny said.
“Why, thank you, Officer.” Denton barely suppressed a smile, reminding Danny of his and Connor’s days as altar boys. “And a Happy New Year to you, sir.”
Stuart Nichols was either oblivious or didn’t care. At the top of the stairs he led them down a corridor and then stopped outside a frosted glass door with the words BPD COMMISSIONER stenciled in gold leaf. He opened the door and led them into a small anteroom and went behind the desk and lifted the phone.
“They’re here, Commissioner. Yes, sir.”
He hung up the phone. “Take a seat, gentlemen.”
Mark and Danny sat on the leather couch across from the desk and Danny tried to ignore the feeling that something was askew. They sat there for five minutes as Nichols opened his valise, removed a leather-bound notebook, and jotted in it with a silver fountain pen, the nib scratching across the page.
“Is the mayor here yet?” Mark asked, but the phone rang.
Nichols picked it up, listened, and replaced it in the cradle. “He’ll see you now.”
He went back to his notebook and Danny and Mark stood facing the oak door that led into the office. Mark reached for the brass knob and turned it and Danny followed him over the threshold into Curtis’s office.
Curtis sat behind his desk. His ears seemed half as big as his head, the lobes hanging down like flaps. His flesh was florid and splotchy and breath exited his nose with an audible rasp. He flicked his eyes at them. He said, “Captain Coughlin’s son, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The one who killed the bomber last month.” He nodded, as if the killing were something he’d planned himself. He looked at some papers spread across his desk. “It’s Daniel, is that right?”
“Aiden, sir. But people call me Danny.”
Curtis gave that a small grimace.
“Take a seat, gentlemen.” Behind him an oval window took up most of the wall. The city lay beyond, sharp and still on Christmas morning, white fields and red brick and cobblestone, the harbor stretching off the end of the landmass like a pale blue pan as fingers of chimney smoke climbed and quivered through the sky.
“Patrolman Denton,” Curtis said. “You’re with the Ninth Precinct. Correct?”
“Yes
, sir.”
Curtis scribbled something on a notepad and kept his eyes there as Danny took his seat beside Mark. “And Patrolman Coughlin—the First Precinct?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another scratch of the pen.
“Is the mayor on his way, sir?” Denton draped his coat across his knee and the right arm of the chair.
“The mayor is in Maine.” Curtis consulted a piece of paper before writing again in his notepad. “It’s Christmas. He’s with his family.”
“Then, sir…” Mark looked over at Danny. He looked back at Curtis. “Sir, we had a meeting scheduled for ten o’clock with yourself and Mayor Peters.”
“It’s Christmas,” Curtis repeated and opened a drawer. He rummaged for a bit and came out with another piece of paper which he placed to his left. “A Christian holiday. Mayor Peters deserves a day off, I would think, on our Lord’s birthday.”
“But the meeting was scheduled for—”
“Patrolman Denton, it’s come to my attention that you’ve missed several roll calls on the night shift at the Ninth Precinct.”
“Sir?”
Curtis lifted the piece of paper to his left. “This is your watch commander’s duty report. You’ve missed or been tardy for nine roll calls in as many weeks.”
He met their eyes for the first time.
Mark shifted in his chair. “Sir, I’m not here as a patrolman. I’m here as the chief officer of the Boston Social Club. And in that capacity, I respectfully submit that—”
“This is a clear dereliction of duty.” Curtis waved the paper in the air. “It’s in black and white, Patrolman. The Commonwealth expects its peace officers to earn their pay. And yet you haven’t. Where have you been that you couldn’t attend nine roll calls?”
“Sir, I don’t think this is the issue at hand. We’re going down a—”
“It very much is the issue at hand, Patrolman. You signed a contract. You swore to protect and serve the people of this great Commonwealth. You swore, Patrolman, to abide by and fulfill the duties assigned to you by the Boston Police Department. One of those duties, expressly stated in Article Seven of that contract, is attendance at roll call. And yet I have sworn affidavits from both the watch commander and the duty sergeant at the Ninth Precinct that you have elected not to perform this essential duty.”
“Sir, I respectfully submit that there were a few occasions when I was unable to attend roll call due to my duties with the BSC but that—”
“You don’t have duties with the BSC. You elect to perform labor on its behalf.”
“—but that…In all cases, sir, I was given clearance by both the watch commander and the duty sergeant.”
Curtis nodded. “May I finish?” he said.
Mark looked at him, the muscles in his cheek and jaw gone taut.
“May I finish?” Curtis repeated. “May I speak without fear of interruption? Because I find it rude, Patrolman. Do you find it rude to be interrupted?”
“I do, sir. That’s why I—”
Curtis held up a hand. “Let me dispel the notion that you hold some moral high ground, Patrolman, because you most certainly do not. Your watch commander and your duty sergeant both admitted that they overlooked your tardiness or outright absence from roll call because they themselves are both members of this social club. However, they did not possess the right to make such a decision.” He spread his hands. “It’s not within their purview. Only a rank of captain or higher can make such allowances.”
“Sir, I—”
“So, Patrolman Denton—”
“Sir, if I—”
“I am not finished, sir. Would you please allow me to finish?” Curtis propped his elbow on the desk and pointed at Mark. His splotchy face shook. “Did you or did you not show gross indifference to your duties as a patrol officer?”
“Sir, I was under the impress—”
“Answer the question.”
“Sir, I believe—”
“Yes or no, Patrolman. Do you think the people of this city want excuses? I’ve talked to them, sir, and they do not. Did you, or did you not, fail to appear at roll call?”
He hunched his shoulder forward, the finger still pointed. Danny would have thought it comical if it had come from any other source, on any other day, in any other country. But Curtis had come to the table with something they’d never expected, something they would have thought outmoded and out-lived in the modern age: a kind of fundamental righteousness that only the fundamental possessed. Unfettered by doubt, it achieved the appearance of moral intelligence and a resolute conscience. The terrible thing was how small it made you feel, how weaponless. How could you fight righteous rage if the only arms you bore were logic and sanity?
Denton opened up his attaché case and pulled out the pages he’d been working on for weeks. “Sir, if I could turn your attention to the raise we were promised in—”
“We?” Curtis said.
“Yes, the Boston Police Department, sir.”
“You dare claim to represent these fine men?” Curtis scowled. “I’ve spoken to many a man since taking office, and I can tell you that they do not elect to call you ‘Leader,’ Patrolman Denton. They are tired of you putting words in their mouths and painting them as malcontents. Why, I spoke to a flatfoot at the Twelfth just yesterday and you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Commissioner Curtis, we police at the One-Two are proud to serve our city in a time of need, sir. You tell the folks out there in the neighborhoods that we won’t go Bolsheviki. We’re police officers.’”
Mark removed his own pen and notebook. “If I could have his name, sir, I’d be happy to speak with him regarding any grievances he may have with me.”
Curtis waved it away. “I have talked to several dozen men, Patrolman Denton, from all over the city. Several dozen. And none of them, I promise you, is Bolsheviki.”
“Nor am I, sir.”
“Patrolman Coughlin.” Curtis turned over another sheet of paper. “You were on special duty of late, as I understand it. Investigating terrorist cells in the city?”
Danny nodded.
“And how did that progress?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Fine?” Curtis tugged at the flesh over his wing collar. “I’ve read Lieutenant McKenna’s duty reports. They’re padded with ambiguous projections with no basis in any reality. That led me to study the files of his previous Special Squads and once again I’m at a loss to discern any return on the public’s trust. Now this, Officer Coughlin, is exactly the kind of busywork that I find detracts from a police officer’s sworn duties. Could you describe for me specifically what kind of progress you feel you made with these—what are their names?—Lettish Workers before your cover was blown?”
“Lettish Workingman’s Society, sir,” Danny said. “And the progress is a bit difficult to ascertain. I was undercover, attempting to get closer to Louis Fraina, the leader of the group, a known subversive, and the editor of Revolutionary Age.”
“To what end?”
“We have reason to believe they’re planning an attack in this city.”
“When?”
“May Day seems a likely target date, but there have been whispers that—”
“Whispers,” Curtis said. “I question whether we have a terrorist problem at all.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I—”
Curtis nodded half a dozen times. “Yes, you shot one. I am quite aware of it, as I’m sure your great-great-grandchildren will be. But he was one man. The only one, in my opinion, operating in this city. Are you trying to scare businesses away from this city? Do you think if it becomes common knowledge that we’re engaged in some far-flung operation designated to expose dozens of terrorist sects within our city limits that any reasonable-minded company would set up shop here. Why, they’ll run to New York, men! To Philadelphia! Providence!”
“Lieutenant McKenna and several members of the Justice Department,” Danny said, “believe that May Day is a target date for natio
nal revolt.”
Curtis’s gaze remained on his desktop and in the silence that followed Danny wondered if he’d heard anything he’d said.
“You had a pair of anarchists making bombs right under your nose. Yes?”
Mark looked over at him. Danny nodded.
“And so you took this assignment to atone and managed to kill one of them.”
Danny said, “Something like that, sir.”
“Do you have a blood thirst for subversives, Officer?”
Danny said, “I don’t like the violent ones, sir, but I wouldn’t call it a blood thirst.”
Curtis nodded. “And what of subversives right now within our own department, men who are spreading discontent among the ranks, men who would Russianize this honorable protectorate of the public interest? Men who gather and talk of striking, of putting their petty interests before the common good?”
Mark stood. “Let’s go, Dan.”
Curtis narrowed his eyes and they were dark marbles of wasted promise. “If you do not sit, I will suspend you—right here and right now—and you can fight your battle for reinstatement through a judge.”
Mark sat. “You are making a grave mistake, sir. When the press hear about—”
“They stayed home today,” Curtis said.
“What?”
“Once they were informed late last night that Mayor Peters would not be in attendance and that the main order of business would have very little to do with this ‘union’ you call a social club, they decided to spend time with their families. Do you know any well enough to possess their home telephone numbers, Patrolman Denton?”
Danny felt numb and sickly warm as Curtis turned his attention back to him.
“Patrolman Coughlin, I feel you are wasted in street patrol. I would like you to join Detective Sergeant Steven Harris in Internal Affairs.”
Danny felt the numbness leave him. He shook his head. “No, sir.”
“You’re refusing a request from your commissioner? You, who slept with a bomb thrower? A bomb thrower who, as far as we know, is still lurking in our streets?”
“I am, sir, but respectfully.”
“There is no respect in the denial of a superior’s request.”
The Given Day Page 35
