“I’m sorry you see it that way, sir.”
Curtis leaned back in his chair. “So you’re a friend of the workingman, of the Bolsheviki, of the subversive who masquerades as the ‘common man.’”
“I believe the Boston Social Club represents the men of the BPD, sir.”
“I do not,” Curtis said. He drummed his hand on the desktop.
“That’s clear, sir.” This time Danny stood up.
Curtis allowed himself a pinched smile as Mark stood as well. Danny and Mark donned their topcoats and Curtis leaned back in his chair.
“The days of this department being run, sub rosa, by men like Edward McKenna and your father are over. The days the department capitulates to the demands of Bolsheviki are long gone as well. Patrolman Denton, stand at attention if you please, sir.”
Mark turned his shoulders and placed his hands behind his back.
“You are reassigned to Precinct Fifteen in Charlestown. You are to report there immediately. That means this afternoon, Patrolman, and begin your duties on the split shift from noon to midnight.”
Mark knew exactly what that meant: There’d be no way to hold meetings at Fay Hall if he was locked down in Charlestown from twelve to twelve.
“Officer Coughlin, at attention. You are reassigned as well.”
“To, sir?”
“A special detail. You’re familiar with those as a matter of record.”
“Yes, sir.”
The commissioner leaned back in his chair and ran his hand over his belly. “You’re on strike detail until further notice. Anytime the workingman walks out on the good men who deem to pay him, you will be there to ensure that no violence takes place. You’ll be loaned out on an as-needed basis to police departments across the state. Until further notice, Officer Coughlin, you’re a strike breaker.”
Curtis placed his elbows on the desk and peered at Danny, waiting for a reaction.
“As you say, sir,” Danny said.
“Welcome to the new Boston Police Department,” Curtis said. “You’re dismissed, gentlemen.”
Walking out of the office, Danny was in such a state of shock that he assumed nothing else could add to it, but then he saw the men waiting their turn in the anteroom:
Trescott, recording secretary for the BSC.
McRae, treasurer.
Slatterly, vice president.
Fenton, press secretary.
It was McRae who stood and said, “What the hell’s going on? I got a call half an hour ago telling me to report to Pemberton immediately. Dan? Mark?”
Mark looked shell-shocked. He placed a hand on McRae’s arm. “It’s a bloodbath,” he whispered.
Outside, on the stairs, they lit cigarettes and tried to regain their composure.
“They can’t do this,” Mark said.
“They just did.”
“Temporary,” Mark said. “Temporary. I’ll call our lawyer, Clarence Rowley. He’ll scream bloody murder. He’ll get an injunction.”
“What injunction?” Danny said. “He didn’t suspend us, Mark. He just reassigned us. It’s within his power. There’s nothing to sue over.”
“When the press hears, they’ll…” His voice drifted off and he took a drag off his cigarette.
“Maybe,” Danny said. “If it’s a slow news day.”
“Jesus,” Mark said softly. “Jesus.”
Danny stared out at the empty streets and then up at the empty sky. Such a beautiful day, crisp and windless and clear.
CHAPTER twenty-two
Danny, his father, and Eddie McKenna met in the study before Christmas dinner. Eddie wouldn’t be staying; he had his own family to join at home on Telegraph Hill a few blocks away. He took a long gulp from his brandy snifter. “Tom, the man’s on a crusade. And he thinks we’re the infidels. He sent an order to my office last night that I’m to retrain all my men on crowd control and riot procedure. He wants them requalified for mounted duty as well. And now he’s going after the social club?”
Thomas Coughlin came to him with the brandy decanter and refilled his glass. “We’ll ride it out, Eddie. We’ve ridden out worse.”
Eddie nodded, bolstered by the pat of Thomas Coughlin’s hand on his back.
Thomas said to Danny, “Your man, Denton, he’s contacting the BSC lawyer?”
Danny said, “Rowley, yeah.”
Thomas sat back against the desk and rubbed his palm over the back of his head and frowned, a sign he was thinking furiously. “He played it smart. If he’d suspended you, that’s one thing, but reassignment—while it may look bad—is a card he can play very well if you buck back against him. And lest we forget—he’s got you on that terrorist you shacked up with.”
Danny refilled his own drink, noticing the last one had gone down rather quickly. “And how’s he know about that? I thought it was suppressed.”
His father’s eyes widened. “It didn’t come from me, if that’s what you’re implying. You, Eddie?”
Eddie said, “You had some kind of dustup, I heard, with some Justice agents a few weeks back. On Salem Street? Pulled some girl out of a car?”
Danny nodded. “It’s how I found Federico Ficara.”
McKenna shrugged. “Justice leaks like a freshly failed virgin, Dan. Always has.”
“Fuck.” Danny slapped the side of a leather chair.
“As far as Commissioner Curtis sees it right now,” Thomas said, “it’s vendetta hour. Payback, gentlemen. For every time he took it up the behind from Lomasney and the ward bosses when he was mayor. For every lowly position he was farmed out to across the Commonwealth since 1897. For all the dinners he wasn’t invited to, all the parties he found out about after the fact. For every time his missus looked embarrassed to be seen with him. He is a Brahmin, gents, through and through. And until a week ago, he was a Brahmin in disgrace.” His father swirled the brandy in his glass and reached into the ashtray for his cigar. “That would give any man an unfortunate sense of the epic when it came to settling his accounts.”
“So what do we do, Thomas?”
“You bide your time. Keep your head down.”
“Same advice I gave the boy just last week.” Eddie smiled at Danny.
“I’m serious. You, Eddie, you will have to swallow a lot of pride in the coming months. I’m a captain—he can call me on the carpet for a few things but my ship is tight and my precinct has seen a six percent drop in violent crime since I took over. That’s here,” he said and pointed at the floor, “at the Twelfth, historically the most crime-ridden nonwop district in the city. He can’t do much to me unless I give him ammunition, and I will be resolute in my refusal to do so. But you’re a lieutenant and you don’t keep open books. He’s going to put the screws to you, boy, something hard. Twist them tight, he will.”
“So…?”
“So, if he wants you warming up the horses and keeping your men standing at parade rest until the return of the Christ, you hop to. And you,” he said to Danny, “you steer clear of the BSC.”
“No.” Danny drained his drink and stood to refill it.
“Did you just hear what I—”
“I’ll do his strikebreaking for him and I won’t complain. I’ll polish my buttons and shine my shoes, but I’m not turning tail on the BSC.”
“He’ll crucify you then.”
There was a soft knock on the door. “Thomas?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Dinner in five minutes.”
“Thank you, love.”
Ellen Coughlin’s footfalls receded as Eddie took his coat from the stand. “Looks to be a hell of a New Year, gents.”
“Buck up, Eddie,” Thomas said. “We are the wards and the wards control this city. Don’t forget it.”
“I won’t, Tom, thanks. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“To you as well, Dan.”
“Merry Christmas, Eddie. Our best to Mary Pat.”
“Sure, she’ll be glad to hear that, she will.”
He let himself out of the office and Danny found his father’s gaze on him again as he took another pull from his drink.
“Curtis really took the wind out of you, didn’t he, boy?”
“I’ll get it back.”
Neither said anything for a moment. They could hear the scrape of chairs and the bump of heavy bowls and plates on the dining room table.
“Von Clausewitz said that war is politics by other means.” Thomas smiled softly and took a drink. “I’ve always felt he got it backward.”
Connor had returned from work less than an hour ago. He’d been detached to a suspected arson and still smelled of soot and smoke. A four-alarm fire, he said, passing the potatoes to Joe, two dead. And obviously for the insurance which added up to a few hundred more than the owners could have gotten in a legitimate sale. The Polish, he said with a roll of his eyes.
“You have to be more careful,” his mother said. “You’re not just living for yourself anymore.”
Danny saw Nora blush at that, saw Connor throw her a wink and a smile.
“I know, Ma. I know. I will. I promise.”
Danny looked at his father, sitting to his right at the head of the table. His father met his eyes and his were flat.
“Did I miss an announcement?” Danny said.
“Oh, sh—” Connor looked at their mother. “Shoot,” he said and looked at Nora, then back at Danny. “She said yes, Dan. Nora. She said yes.”
Nora lifted her head and her eyes met Danny’s. They were charged with a pride and vanity that he found repulsive.
It was her smile that was weak.
Danny took a sip of the drink he’d carried with him out of his father’s office. He cut into his slice of ham. He felt the eyes of the whole table on him. He was expected to say something. Connor watched him, waiting with an open mouth. His mother looked at him curiously. Joe’s fork froze above his plate.
Danny put down his fork and knife. He plastered a smile on his face that felt big and bright. Hell, it felt huge. He saw Joe relax and his mother’s eyes lose their confusion. He willed the smile into his eyes, felt them widen in their sockets. He raised his glass.
“That’s just great!” He raised his glass higher. “Congratulations to the both of you. I’m so happy for you.”
Connor laughed and raised his own glass.
“To Connor and Nora!” Danny boomed.
“To Connor and Nora!” The rest of the family raised their glasses and met them in the center of the table.
It was between dinner and dessert that Nora found him as he was coming back out of his father’s study with another refill of scotch.
“I tried to tell you,” she said. “I called the rooming house three times yesterday.”
“I didn’t get home till after six.”
“Oh.”
He clapped one hand on her shoulder. “No, it’s great. It’s terrific. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
She rubbed her shoulder. “I’m glad.”
“When’s the date?”
“We thought March seventeenth.”
“Saint Patrick’s Day. Perfect. This time next year? Heck, you might have a child for Christmas.”
“I might.”
“Hey—twins!” he said. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
He drained his glass. She stared up into his face as if searching. Searching for what, he had no idea. What was left to search for? Decisions, clearly, had been made.
“Do you—”
“What?”
“Want to, I don’t know what to say…”
“So, don’t.”
“Ask anything? Know anything?”
“Nope,” he said. “I’m going to get another drink. You?”
He walked into the study and found the decanter and noticed how much less was in it than when he’d arrived earlier in the afternoon.
“Danny.”
“Don’t.” He turned to her with a smile.
“Don’t what?”
“Say my name.”
“Why can’t I—?”
“Like it means anything,” he said. “Change the tone. All right? Just do that. When you say it.”
She twisted her wrist in one hand and then dropped both hands to her sides. “I…”
“What?” He took a strong pull from his glass.
“I can’t abide a man feels sorry for himself.”
He shrugged. “Heavens. How Irish of you.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Just getting started.”
“I’m sorry.”
He laughed.
“I am.”
“Let me ask you something—you know the old man is looking into things back in the Old Sod. I told you that.”
She nodded, her eyes on the carpet.
“Is that why you’re rushing the wedding?”
She raised her head, met his eyes, said nothing.
“You really think it’ll save you if the family finds out you’re already married?”
“I think…” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear it. “I think if I’m wed to Connor, your father will never disown me. He’ll do what he does best—whatever is necessary.”
“You’re that afraid of being disowned.”
“I’m that afraid of being alone,” she said. “Of going hungry again. Of being…” She shook her head.
“What?”
Her eyes found the rug again. “Helpless.”
“My, my, Nora, quite the survivor, eh?” He chuckled. “You make me want to puke.”
She said, “I what?”
“All over the carpet,” he said.
Her petticoat swished as she crossed the study and poured herself an Irish whiskey. She threw back half of it and turned to him. “Who the fuck are you, then, boy?”
“Pretty mouth,” he said. “Gorgeous.”
“I make you want to vomit, Danny?”
“At the moment.”
“And why’s that, then?”
He crossed to her. He thought of lifting her up by her smooth white throat. He thought of eating her heart so it could never look back through her eyes at him.
“You don’t love him,” he said.
“I do.”
“Not the way you loved me.”
“Who says I did?”
“You did.”
“You say.”
“You say.” He took her shoulders in his hands.
“Off me now.”
“You say.”
“Off me now. Unhand me.”
He dropped his forehead to the flesh just below her throat. He felt more alone than when the bomb landed on the floor of Salutation Street Precinct, more alone and more sick of his very self than he’d ever expected to feel.
“I love you.”
She pushed his head back. “You love yourself, boy. You—”
“No—”
She gripped his ears, stared into him. “Yes. You love yourself. The grand music of it. I’m tone-deaf, Danny. I couldn’t keep up.”
He straightened and sucked air in through his nostrils, cleared his eyes. “Do you love him? Do you?”
“I’ll learn,” she said and drained the rest of her glass.
“You didn’t have to learn with me.”
“And look where that got us,” she said and walked out of his father’s study.
They had just sat down again for dessert when the doorbell rang.
Danny could feel the booze darkening his blood, growing thick in his limbs, perched dire and vengeful in his brain.
Joe answered the bell. After the front door had been open long enough for the night air to have reached the dining room, Thomas called, “Joe, who is it? Shut the door.”
They heard the door shut, heard a soft muffled exchange between Joe and a voice Danny didn’t recognize. It was low and thick, the words unintelligible from where he sat.
“Dad?” Joe stood in the doorway.
A man came through the doorway behind him. He was tall
but stoop-shouldered, with a long, hungry face covered in a dark, matted beard shot through with tangles of gray over the chin. His eyes were dark and small but somehow managed to protrude from their sockets. The hair on the top of his head was shaven to a white stubble. His clothes were cheap and tattered; Danny could smell them from the other side of the room.
He gave them all a smile, his few remaining teeth the yellow of a damp cigarette left drying in the sun.
“How are you God-fearing folk tonight? Well, I trust?”
Thomas Coughlin stood. “What’s this?”
The man’s eyes found Nora.
“And how are you, then, luv?”
Nora seemed struck dead where she sat, with one hand on her teacup, her eyes blank and unmoving.
The man held up a hand. “Sorry to disturb you folks, I am. You must be Captain Coughlin, sir.”
Joe moved carefully away from the man, sliding along the wall until he reached the far end of the table near his mother and Connor.
“I’m Thomas Coughlin,” he said. “And you’re in my home on Christmas, man, so you best get to telling me your business.”
The man held up two soiled palms. “My name’s Quentin Finn. I believe that’s my wife sitting at your table there, sir.”
Connor’s chair hit the floor when he stood. “Who the—?”
“Connor,” their father said. “Hold your temper, boy.”
“Aye,” Quentin Finn said, “that’s her sure as it’s Christmas, it is. Miss me, luv?”
Nora opened her mouth but no words left it. Danny watched parts of her grow small and covered up and hopeless. She kept moving her mouth, and still no words would come. The lie she’d given birth to when she’d arrived in this city, the lie she’d first told when she’d been sitting naked and gray with her teeth clacking from the cold in their kitchen five years before, the lie she’d built every day of her life on since, spilled. Spilled all over the room until the mess of it was reconstituted and reborn as its opposite: truth.
A hideous truth, Danny noted. At least twice her age. She’d kissed that mouth? Slid her tongue through those teeth?
“I said—you miss me, luv?”
Thomas Coughlin held up a hand. “You’ll need to be clearer, Mr. Finn.”
Quentin Finn narrowed his eyes at him. “Clearer about what, sir? I married this woman. Gave her me name. Shared title to me land in Donegal. She’s my wife, sir. And I’ve come to take her home.”
The Given Day Page 36
