"I mean I got nothing," Danny said.

McKenna dropped his pencil and sighed. "Jesus' sakes."

"What?" Danny said, feeling a hair better with the whiskey in his coffee. "Foreign radicals--surprise--mistrust Americans. And they're paranoid enough to at least consider that I could be a plant, no matter how solid the Sante cover is. And even if they are sold on the cover?

Danny Sante ain't looked on as management material yet. Least not by the Letts. They're still feeling me out."

"You seen Louis Fraina?"

Danny nodded. "Seen him give a speech. But I haven't met him. He stays away from the rank and file, surrounds himself with higher-ups and goons."

"You seen your old girlfriend?"

Danny grimaced. "If I'd seen her, she'd be in jail now."

McKenna took a sip from his flask. "You been looking?"

"I've been all over this damn state. I even crossed into Connecticut a few times."

"Locally?"

"The Justice guys are crawling all over the North End looking for Tessa and Federico. So the whole neighborhood is tense. Closed up. No one is going to talk to me. No one's going to talk to any Americano."

McKenna sighed and rubbed his face with the heels of his hands. "Well, I knew it wasn't going to be easy."

"Nope."

"Just keep plugging."

Jesus, Danny thought. This--this--was detective work? Fishing without a net?

"I'll get you something."

"Besides a hangover?"

Danny gave him a weak smile.

McKenna rubbed his face again and yawned. "Fucking terrorists, I swear to Christ." He yawned again. "Oh, you never came across Nathan Bishop, did you? The doctor."

"No."

McKenna winked. "That's 'cause he just did thirty days in the Chelsea drunk tank. They kicked him loose two days ago. I asked one of the bulls there if he's known to them and they said he likes the Capitol Tavern. Apparently, they send his mail there."

"The Capitol Tavern," Danny said. "That cellar- dive in the West End?"

"The same." McKenna nodded. "Maybe you can earn a hangover there, serve your country at the same time."

Danny spent three nights at the Capitol Tavern before Nathan Bishop spoke to him. He'd seen Bishop right off, as he came through the door the very first night and took a seat at the bar. Bishop sat alone at a table lit only by a small candle in the wall above it. He read a small book the first night and from a stack of newspapers the next two. He drank whiskey, the bottle on the table beside the glass, but he nursed his drinks the first two nights, never putting a real dent in the bottle, and walking out as steadily as he'd walked in. Danny began to wonder if Finch and Hoover's profile had been correct.

The third night, though, he pushed his newspapers aside early and took longer pulls from the glass and chain-smoked. At fi rst he stared at nothing but his own cigarette smoke, and his eyes seemed loose and faraway. Gradually his eyes found the rest of the bar and a smile grew on his face, as if someone had pasted it there too hastily.

When Danny first heard him sing, he couldn't connect the voice to the man. Bishop was small, wispy, a delicate man with delicate features and delicate bones. His voice, however, was a booming, barreling, train-roar of a thing.

"Here he goes." The bartender sighed yet didn't seem dissatisfi ed.

It was a Joe Hill song, "The Preacher and the Slave," that Nathan Bishop chose for his fi rst rendition of the night, his deep baritone giving the protest song a distinctly Celtic flavor that went with the tall hearth and dim lighting in the Capitol Tavern, the low baying of the tugboat horns in the harbor.

"Long-haired preachers come out every night," he sang. "Try to tell you what's wrong and what's right. But when asked how 'bout something to eat, they will answer in voices so sweet: 'You will eat, bye and bye, in that glorious land above the sky way up high. Work and pray, live on hay, you'll get pie in the sky when you die.' That's a lie, that's a lie . . ."

He smiled sweetly, eyes at half-mast, as the few patrons in the bar clapped lightly. It was Danny who kept it going. He stood from his stool and raised his glass and sang out, "Holy Rollers and Jumpers come out, and they holler, they jump and they shout. 'Give your money to Jesus,' they say. 'He will cure all diseases today.'"

Danny put his arm around the guy beside him, a chimney sweep with a bad hip, and the chimney sweep raised his own glass. Nathan Bishop worked his way out from behind his table, making sure to scoop up both his whiskey bottle and his whiskey glass, and joined them at the bar as two merchant marines jumped in, loud as hell and way off key, but who cared as they all swung their elbows and their drinks from side to side:

"If you fi ght hard for children and wife Try to get something good in this life, You're a sinner and bad man, they tell, When you die you will sure go to hell."

The last line came out in shouts and torn laughs, and then the bartender rang the bell behind the bar and promised a free round.

"We're singing for our supper, boys!" one of the merchant marines cried out.

"You're getting the free drink to stop singing!" the bartender shouted over the laughter. "Them's the terms and none other."

They were all drunk enough to cheer to that and then they bellied up for their free drinks and shook hands all around--Daniel Sante meet Abe Rowley, Abe Rowley meet Terrance Bonn and Gus Sweet, Terrance Bonn and Gus Sweet meet Nathan Bishop, Nathan Bishop meet Daniel Sante.

"Hell of a voice there, Nathan."

"Thank you. Good on yours as well, Daniel."

"Habit of yours, is it, to just start singing out in a bar?"

"Across the pond, where I'm from, it's quite common. It was getting fairly gloomy in here until I took up the cause, wouldn't you say?"

"I wouldn't argue."

"Well, then, cheers."

"Cheers."

They met their glasses, then threw back their shots.

Seven drinks and four songs later they ate the stew that the bar- tender kept cooking in the fireplace all day. It was horrid; the meat was brown and unidentifiable and the potatoes were gray and chewy. If Danny had to guess, he'd bet the grit it left on his teeth came from sawdust. But it filled them. After, they sat and drank and Danny told his Daniel Sante lies about western Pennsylvania and Thomson Lead.

"That's just it, isn't it?" Nathan said, rolling his cigarette from a pouch on his lap. "You ask for anything in this world and the answer is always 'No.' Then you're forced to take from those who themselves took before you--and in much bigger slices, I might add--and they dare call you a thief. It's fairly absurd." He offered Danny the cigarette he'd just rolled.

Danny held up a hand. "Thanks, no. I buy 'em in the packs." He pulled his Murads from his shirt pocket and placed them on the table.

Nathan lit his. "How'd you get that scar?"

"This?" Danny pointed to his neck. "Methane explosion." "In the mines?"

Danny nodded.

"My father was a miner," Nathan said. "Not here."

"Across the pond?"

"Just so." He smiled. "Just outside of Manchester in the North. It's where I grew up."

"Tough country I've always heard."

"Yes, it is. Sinfully dreary, as well. A palette of grays and the occasional brown. My father died there. In a mine. Can you imagine?" "Dying in a mine?" Danny said. "Yes."

"He was strong, my father. That's the most unfortunate aspect of the whole sordid mess. You see?"

Danny shook his head.

"Well, take me for instance. I'm no physical specimen. Uncoordinated, terrible at sports, nearsighted, bowlegged, and asthmatic." Danny laughed. "You leave anything out?"

Nathan laughed and held up a hand. "Several things. But that's it, you see? I'm physically weak. If a tunnel collapsed and I had several hundred pounds of dirt on me, maybe a half-ton wood beam in the mix, a terribly limited supply of oxygen, well, I'd just succumb. I'd die like a good Englishman, quietly and without complaint."

"Your father, though," Danny said.

"Crawled," Nathan said. "They found his shoes where the walls had collapsed on him. It was three hundred feet from where they found his corpse. He crawled. With a broken back, through hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds of dirt and rock while the mining company waited two days to begin excavation. They were worried that rescue attempts could put the walls of the main tunnel at risk. Had my father known that, I wonder if it would have stopped his crawling sooner or pushed him on another fi fty feet."

They sat in silence for a time, the fire spitting and hissing its way along some logs that still held a bit of dampness. Nathan Bishop poured himself another drink and then tilted the bottle over Danny's glass, poured just as generously.

"It's wrong," he said.

"What's that?"

"What men of means demand of men without them. And then they expect the poor to be grateful for the scraps. They have the cheek to act offended--morally offended--if the poor don't play along. They should all be burned at the stake."

Danny could feel the liquor in him turning sludgy. "Who?" "The rich." He gave Danny a lazy smile. "Burn them all."

Danny found himself at Fay Hall again for another meeting of the BSC. On tonight's agenda, the department's continued refusal to treat infl uenza-related sickness among the men as work related. Steve Coyle, a little drunker than one would have hoped, spoke of his ongoing fi ght to get some kind of disability payments from the department he'd served twelve years.

After the flu discussion was exhausted, they moved on to a preliminary proposal for the department to assume part of the expense of replacing damaged or severely worn uniforms.

"It's the most innocuous salvo we can fire," Mark Denton said. "If they reject it, then we can point to it later to show their refusal to grant us any concessions at all."

"Point for who?" Adrian Melkins asked.

"The press," Mark Denton said. "Sooner or later, this fight will be fought in the papers. I want them on our side."

After the meeting, as the men milled by the coffee urns or passed their flasks, Danny found himself thinking of his father and then of Nathan Bishop's.

"Nice beard," Mark Denton said. "You grow cats in that thing?"

"Undercover work," Danny said. He pictured Bishop's father crawling through a collapsed mine. Pictured his son still trying to drink it away. "What do you need?"

"Huh?"

"From me," Danny said.

Mark took a step back, appraised him. "I've been trying to fi gure out since the first time you showed up here whether you're a plant or not." "Who'd plant me?"

Denton laughed. "That's rich. Eddie McKenna's godson, Tommy Coughlin's son. Who'd plant you? Hilarious."

"If I was a plant, why'd you ask for my help?"

"To see how fast you jumped at the offer. I'll admit, you not jumping right away gave me pause. Now here you are, though, asking me how you can help out."

"That's right."

"I guess it's my turn to say I'll think about it," Denton said.

Eddie McKenna sometimes conducted business meetings on his roof. He lived in a Queen Anne atop Telegraph Hill in South Boston. His view--of Thomas Park, Dorchester Heights, the downtown skyline, the Fort Point Channel, and Boston Harbor--was, much like his persona, expansive. The roof was tarred and flat as sheet metal; Eddie kept a small table and two chairs out there, along with a metal shed where he stored his tools and those his wife, Mary Pat, used in the tiny garden behind their house. He was fond of saying that he had the view and he had the roof and he had the love of a good woman so he couldn't begrudge the good Lord for forsaking him a yard.

It was, like most of the things Eddie McKenna said, as full of the truth as it was full of shit. Yes, Thomas Coughlin, had once told Danny, Eddie's cellar was barely able to hold its fill of coal, and yes, his yard could support a tomato plant, a basil plant, and possibly a small rosebush but certainly none of the tools needed to tend them. This was of little import, however, because tools weren't all Eddie McKenna kept in the shed.

"What else?" Danny had asked.

Thomas wagged a finger. "I'm not that drunk, boy."

Tonight, he stood with his godfather by the shed with a glass of Irish and one of the fine cigars Eddie received monthly from a friend on the Tampa PD. The air smelled damp and smoky the way it did in heavy fog, but the skies were clear. Danny had given Eddie his report on meeting Nathan Bishop, on Bishop's comment about what should be done to the rich, and Eddie had barely acknowledged he'd heard.

But when Danny handed over yet another list--this one half names/ half license plates of a meeting of the Co alition of the Friends of the Southern Italian Peoples, Eddie perked right up. He took the list from Danny and scanned it quickly. He opened the door to his garden shed and removed the cracked leather satchel he carried everywhere and added the piece of paper to it. He put the satchel back in the shed and closed the door.

"No padlock?" Danny said.

Eddie cocked his head. "For tools now?"

"And satchels."

Eddie smiled. "Who in their right mind would ever so much as ap- proach this abode with less than honest intentions?"

Danny gave that a smile, but a perfunctory one. He smoked his cigar and looked out at the city and breathed in the smell of the harbor. "What are we doing here, Eddie?"

"It's a nice night."

"No. I mean with this investigation."

"We're hunting radicals. We're protecting and serving this great land."

"By compiling lists?"

"You seem a bit off your feed, Dan."

"What's that mean?"

"Not yourself. Have you been getting enough sleep?"

"No one's talking about May Day. Not how you expected them to anyway."

"Well, it's not like they're going to go a galavanting about, shouting their nefarious aims from the rooftops, are they? You've barely been on them a month."

"They're talkers, the lot of them. But that's all they are."

"The anarchists?"

"No," Danny said. "They're fucking terrorists. But the rest? You've got me checking out plumbers unions, carpenters, every toothless socialist knitting group you can find. For what? Names? I don't understand."

"Are we to wait until they do blow us up before we decide to take them seriously?"

"Who? The plumbers?"

"Be serious."

"The Bolshies?" Danny said. "The socialists? I'm not sure they have the capacity to blow up anything outside of their own chests." "They're terrorists."

"They're dissidents."

"Maybe you need some time off."

"Maybe I just need a clearer sense of exactly what the hell we're doing here."

Eddie put an arm around his shoulder and led him to the roof edge. They looked out at the city--its parks and gray streets, brick buildings, black rooftops, the lights of downtown reflecting off the dark waters that coursed through it.

"We're protecting this, Dan. This right here. That's what we're doing." He took a pull of his cigar. "Home and hearth. And nothing less than that indeed."

With Nathan Bishop, another night at the Capitol Tavern, Nathan taciturn until the third drink kicked in and then: "Has anyone ever hit you?"

"What?"

He held up his fists. "You know."

"Sure. I used to box," he said. Then: "In Pennsylvania."

"But have you ever been physically pushed aside?"

"Pushed aside?" Danny shook his head. "Not that I can remember. Why?"

"I wonder if you know how exceptional that is. To walk through this world without fear of other men."

Danny had never thought of it like that before. It suddenly embarrassed him that he'd moved through his entire life expecting it to work for him. And it usually had.

"It must be nice," Nathan said. "That's all."

"What do you do?" Danny asked.

"What do you do?"

"I'm looking for work. But you? Your hands aren't those of a laborer. Your clothes, either."

Nathan touched the lapel of his coat. "These aren't expensive clothes."

"They're not rags either. They match your shoes."

Nathan Bishop gave that a crooked smile. "Interesting observation. You a cop?"

"Yes," Danny said and lit a cigarette.

"I'm a doctor."

"A copper and a doctor. You can fix whoever I shoot."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"No really."

"Okay, I'm not a copper. You a doctor, though?"

"I was." Bishop stubbed his cigarette out. He took a slow pull of his drink.

"Can you quit being a doctor?"

"You can quit anything." Bishop took another drink and let out a long sigh. "I was a surgeon once. Most of the people I saved didn't deserve to be saved."

"They were rich?"

Danny saw an exasperation cross Bishop's face that he was becoming familiar with. It meant Bishop was heading for the place where his anger would dominate him, where he couldn't be calmed down until he'd exhausted himself.

"They were oblivious," he said, his tongue lathering the word with contempt. "If you said to them, 'People die every day. In the North End, in the West End, in South Boston, in Chelsea. And the thing that's killing them is one thing. Poverty. That's all. Simple as that.' " He rolled another cigarette and leaned over the table as he did, slurped his drink from the glass with his hands still in his lap. "You know what people say when you tell them that? They say, 'What can I do?' As if that's an answer. What can you do? You can very well fucking help.

That's what you can do, you bourgeois piece of shit. What can you do? What can't you do? Roll up your fucking sleeves, get off your fat fucking arse, and move your wife's fatter fucking arse off the same cushion, and go down to where your mates--your brother and sister fellow fucking human beings--are quite authentically starving to death. And do whatever you need to do to help them. That's what the bloody fuck you can bloody well fucking do."

Nathan Bishop slammed back the rest of his drink. He dropped the glass to the scarred wood table and looked around the bar, his eyes red and sharp.

In the heavy air that often followed one of Nathan's tirades, Danny said nothing. He could feel the men at the nearest table shift in awkwardness. One of them suddenly began talking about Ruth, about the newest trade rumors. Nathan breathed heavily through his nostrils while he reached for the bottle and placed his cigarette between his lips. He got a shaky hand on the bottle. He poured himself another drink. He leaned back in his chair and flicked his thumbnail over a match and lit his cigarette.

"That's what you can do," he whispered.

In the Sowbelly Saloon, Danny tried to see through the crowd of Roxbury Letts to the back table where Louis Fraina sat tonight in a dark brown suit and a slim black tie sipping from a small glass of amber liquor. It was only the blaze of his eyes behind a pair of small round spectacles that gave him away as something other than a college professor who'd entered the wrong bar. That, and the deference the others showed him, placing his drink carefully on the table in front of him, asking him questions with the jutting chins of anxious children, checking to see whether he was watching when they expounded on a point. It was said that Fraina, Italian by birth, spoke Rus sian as close to fluently as could be asked of one not raised in the Motherland, an assessment rumored to have been first delivered by Trotsky himself. Fraina kept a black moleskin notebook open on the table in front of him, and he'd occasionally jot notes in it with a pencil or fl ip through the pages. He rarely looked up, and when he did, it was only to acknowledge a speaker's point with a soft flick of his eyelids. Not once had he and Danny exchanged so much as a glance.

The other Letts, though, had finally stopped treating Danny with the amused politeness one reserved for children and the feeble-minded. He wouldn't say they trusted him yet, but they were getting used to having him around.

Even so, they spoke in accents so thick they'd soon tire of conversation with him and jump ship as soon as another Lett interrupted in the mother tongue. That night, they had a full docket of problems and solutions that had carried over from the meeting into the bar.

Problem: The United States had launched a covert war against the provisional Bolshevik government of the new Rus sia. Wilson had authorized the detachment of the 339th, who'd joined up with British forces and seized the Rus sian port of Archangel on the White Sea. Hoping to cut the supplies of Lenin and Trotsky and starve them out during a long winter, the American and British forces were instead facing an early winter freeze and were rumored to be at the mercy of their White Rus sian allies, a corrupt group of warlords and tribal gangsters. This embarrassing quagmire was just one more instance of Western Capitalism attempting to crush the will of the great people's movement.

Solution: Workers everywhere should unite and engage in civil unrest until the Americans and the British withdrew their troops.

Problem: The oppressed firemen and policemen of Montreal were being violently devalued by the state and stripped of their rights.

Solution: Until the Canadian government capitulated to the police and firemen and paid them a fair wage, workers everywhere should unite in civil unrest.

Problem: Revolution was in the air in Hungary and Bavaria and Greece and even France. In Germany, the Spartacists were moving on Berlin. In New York, the Harbor Workers Union had refused to report for duty, and across the country unions were warning of "No Beer, No Work" sit-downs if Prohibition became the law of the land.

Solution: In support of all these comrades, the workers of the world should unite in civil unrest.

Should.

Could.

Might.

No actual plans for revolution that Danny could hear. No specifi c plotting of the insurrectionary deed.

Just more drinking. More talk that turned into drunken shouts and shattered stools. And it wasn't just the men shattering stools and shouting that night but the women as well, although it was often hard to tell them apart. The workers revolution had no place for the sexist caste system of the United Capitalist States of America--but most women in the bar were hard-faced and industrial-gray, as sexless in their coarse clothes and coarse accents as the men they called comrades. They were without humor (a common affliction among the Letts) and, worse, politically opposed to it--humor was seen as a sentimental disease, a by-product of romanticism, and romantic notions were just one more opiate the ruling class used to keep its masses from seeing the truth.

"Laugh all you want," Hetta Losivich said that night. "Laugh so that you look like fools, like hyenas. And the industrialists will laugh at you because they have you exactly where they want you. Impotent. Laughing, but impotent."

A brawny Estonian named Pyotr Glaviach slapped Danny on the shoulder. "Pampoolats, yes? Tomorrow, yes?"

Danny looked up at him. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Glaviach had a beard so unruly it looked as if he'd been interrupted swallowing a raccoon. It shook now as he tilted his head back and roared with laughter. He was one of those rare Letts who laughed, as if to make up for the paucity in the rest of the ranks. It wasn't a laughter Danny particularly trusted, however, since he'd heard that Pyotr Glaviach had been a charter member of the original Letts, men who'd banded together in 1912 to pitch the first guerrilla skirmishes against Nicholas II. These inaugural Letts had waged a campaign of hit-and-hide against czarist soldiers who'd outnumbered them eighty to one. They lived outdoors during the Russian winter on a diet of half-frozen potatoes and massacred whole villages if they suspected a single Romanov sympathizer lived there.

Pyotr Glaviach said, "We go out tomorrow and we hand out pampoolat. For the workers, yes? You see?"

Danny didn't see. He shook his head. "Pampoo-what?"

Pyotr Glaviach slapped his hands together impatiently. "Pampoolat, you donkey man. Pampoolat."

"I don't--"

"Flyers," a man behind Danny said. "I think he means flyers." Danny turned in his booth. Nathan Bishop stood there, one elbow resting on the top of Danny's seat back.

"Yes, yes," Pyotr Glaviach said. "We hand out flyers. We spread the news."

"Tell him 'okay,' " Nathan Bishop says. "He loves that word." "Okay," Danny said to Glaviach and gave him a thumbs-up. "Ho-kay! Ho-kay, meester! You meet me here," Glaviach said. He gave him a big thumbs-up back. "Eight o'clock."

Danny sighed. "I'll be here."

"We have fun," Glaviach said and slapped Danny on the back. "Maybe meet pretty women." He roared again and then stumbled away.

Bishop slid into the booth and handed him a mug of beer. "The only way you'll meet pretty women in this movement is to kidnap the daughters of our enemies."

Danny said, "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're a Lett?"

"Are you?"

"Hoping to be."

Nathan shrugged. "I wouldn't say I belong to any one organization. I help out. I've known Lou for a long time."

"Lou?"

"Comrade Fraina," Nathan said and gestured with his chin. "Would you like to meet him some day?"

"Are you kidding? I'd be honored."

Bishop gave that a small, private smile. "You have any worthwhile talents?"

"I write."

"Well?"

"I hope so."

"Give me some samples, I'll see what I can do." He looked around the bar. "God, that's a depressing thought."

"What? Me meeting Comrade Fraina?"

"Huh? No. Glaviach got me thinking. There really isn't a good- looking woman in any of the movements. Not a . . . Well, there's one." "There's one?"

He nodded. "How could I have forgotten? There is one." He whistled. "Bloody gorgeous, she is."

"She here?"

He laughed. "If she were here, you'd know it."

"What's her name?"

Bishop's head moved so swiftly Danny feared he'd blown his cover. Bishop looked him in the eyes and seemed to be studying his face. Danny took a sip of his beer.

Bishop looked back out at the crowd. "She has lots of them." chapter fourteen Luther got off the freight in Boston, where Uncle Hollis's chicken-scratch map directed him and found Dover Street easily enough. He followed it to Columbus Avenue and followed Columbus through the heart of the South End. When he found St. Botolph Street, he walked down a row of redbrick town houses along a sidewalk carpeted in damp leaves until he found number 121 and he went up the stairs and rang the bell.

The man who lived at 121 was Isaiah Giddreaux, the father of Uncle Hollis's second wife, Brenda. Hollis had married four times. The first and third had left him, Brenda had died of typhus, and about five years back Hollis and the fourth had kind of mutually misplaced each other. Hollis had told Luther that as much as he missed Brenda, and he missed her something terrible on many a day, he sometimes missed her father just as much. Isaiah Giddreaux had moved east back in '05 to join up with Dr. Du Bois's Niagara Movement, but he and Hollis had remained in touch.

The door was opened by a small slim man wearing a dark wool three-piece suit and a navy-blue tie speckled with white dots. His hair was speckled with white, too, and cropped close to his skull, and he wore round spectacles that revealed calm, clear eyes behind their panes.

He extended his hand. "You must be Luther Laurence." Luther shook the hand. "Isaiah?"

Isaiah said, "Mr. Giddreaux if you please, son."

"Mr. Giddreaux, yes, sir."

For a small man Isaiah seemed tall. He stood as straight as any man Luther had ever seen, his hands folded in front of his belt buckle, his eyes so clear it was impossible to read them. They could have been the eyes of a lamb lying down in the last spot of sun on a summer evening. Or those of a lion, waiting for the lamb to get sleepy.

"Your Uncle Hollis is well, I trust?" He led Luther down the front hall.

"He is, sir."

"How's that rheumatism of his?"

"His knees ache awful in the afternoons but otherwise he feels in top form."

Isaiah looked over his shoulder as he led him up a wide staircase. "He's done marrying I hope."

"I believe so, sir."

Luther hadn't been in a brownstone before. The breadth of it surprised him. He'd have never been able to tell from the street how deep the rooms went or how high the ceilings got. It was as nicely appointed as any of the homes on Detroit Avenue, with heavy chandeliers and dark gumwood beams and French sofas and settees. The Giddreauxs had the master bedroom on the top floor, and there were three more bedrooms on the second, one of which Isaiah led Luther to and opened the door long enough for him to drop his bag on the floor. He got a glimpse of a nice brass bed and walnut dresser with a porcelain wash pot on top before Isaiah ushered him back out again. Isaiah and his wife, Yvette, owned the whole place, three floors and a widow's walk on top that looked out over the entire neighborhood. The South End, Luther discerned from Isaiah's description, was a budding Greenwood unto itself, the place where Negroes had carved out a little something for themselves with restaurants served their kind of food and clubs played their kind of music. Isaiah told Luther the neighborhood had been born out of a need for servant housing, the servants being those who attended to the needs of the rich old- money folk on Beacon Hill and in Back Bay, and the reason the buildings were so nice--all red- brick town houses and chocolate bowfront brownstones--was that the servants had taken pains to live in the style of their employers.

They took the stairs back down to the parlor, where a pot of tea waited for them.

"Your uncle speaks highly of you, Mr. Laurence."

"He does?"

Isaiah nodded. "He says you have some jackrabbit in your blood but sincerely hopes that one day you'll slow down and fi nd enough peace to be an upstanding man."

Luther couldn't think of a reply to that.

Isaiah reached for the pot and poured them each a cup, then handed Luther's to him. Isaiah poured a single drop of milk into his cup and stirred it slowly. "Did your uncle tell you much about me?"

"Only that you were his wife's father and you were at Niagara with Du Bois."

"Doctor Du Bois. I was."

"You know him?" Luther asked. "Dr. Du Bois?"

Isaiah nodded. "I know him well. When the NAACP decided to open an office here in Boston he asked me to run it."

"That's quite an honor, sir."

Isaiah gave that a tiny nod. He dropped a cube of sugar into his cup and stirred. "Tell me about Tulsa."

Luther poured some milk into his tea and took a small sip. "Sir?" "You committed a crime. Yes?" He lifted his cup to his lips. "Hollis deigned not to be specific what that crime was."

"Then with all due respect, Mr. Giddreaux, I . . . deign the same." Isaiah shifted and tugged his pant leg down until it covered the top of his sock. "I've heard folks speak of a shooting in a disreputable nightclub in Greenwood. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Luther met the man's gaze. He said nothing.

Isaiah took another sip of tea. "Did you feel you had a choice?" Luther looked at the rug.

"Shall I repeat myself?"

Luther kept his eyes on the rug. It was blue and red and yellow and all the colors swirled together. He supposed it was expensive. The swirls.

"Did you feel you had a choice?" Isaiah's voice was as calm as his teacup.

Luther raised his eyes to him and still said nothing.

"And yet you killed your own kind."

"Evil got a way of not caring about kinds, sir." Luther's hand shook as he lowered his cup to the coffee table. "Evil just muck things around till things go all sideways."

"That's how you defi ne evil?"

Luther looked around this room, as fine as any in the fine houses on Detroit Avenue. "You know it when you see it."

Isaiah sipped his tea. "Some would say a murderer is evil. Would you agree?"

"I'd agree some would say it."

"You committed murder."

Luther said nothing.

"Ergo . . ." Isaiah held out his hand.

"All due respect? I never said I committed anything, sir."

They sat silent for a bit, a clock ticking behind Luther. A car horn beeped faintly from a few blocks away. Isaiah finished his tea and placed the cup back on the tray.

"You'll meet my wife later. Yvette. We've just purchased a building to use as the NAACP office here. You'll volunteer there."

"I'll what?"

"You'll volunteer there. Hollis tells me you're good with your hands, and we have repairs that need seeing to in the building before we can open for business. You'll pull your weight here, Luther."

Pull my weight. Shit. When's the last time this old man pulled any weight outside of lifting a teacup? Seemed the same shit Luther had left behind in Tulsa--moneyed colored folk acting like their money gave them the right to order you around. And this old fool acting like he could see inside Luther, talking about evil like he'd know it if it sat down beside him and bought him a drink. Man was probably a step or two away from whipping out a Bible. But he reminded himself of the pledge he'd made in the train car to create the New Luther, the better Luther, and promised he would give it time before he made up his mind about Isaiah Giddreaux. This man worked with W. E. B. Du Bois, and Du Bois was one of only two men in this country that Luther felt worthy of his admiration. The other, of course, was Jack Johnson. Jack didn't take shit from no one, black or white.

"I know of a white family that needs a houseman. Could you handle that work?"

"Can't see why not."

"They are good people as far as whites can be." He spread his hands. "There is one caveat--the household in question is headed by a police captain. If you were to attempt an alias, I suspect he would ferret it out."

"No need," Luther said. "Trick is to never mention Tulsa. I'm just Luther Laurence, late of Columbus." Luther wished he could feel something beyond his own weariness. Spots had started popping in the air between him and Isaiah. "Thank you, sir."

Isaiah nodded. "Let's get you upstairs. We'll wake you for dinner."

Luther dreamed of playing baseball in floodwaters. Of outfi elders washed away in the tide. Of trying to hit above the waterline and men laughing every time his bat head slapped off the muddy water that rose above his waist, up over his ribs, while Babe Ruth and Cully flew past in a crop duster, dropping grenades that failed to explode.

He woke to an older woman pouring hot water into the wash pot on his dresser. She looked back over her shoulder at him, and for a moment he thought she was his mother. They were the same height and had the same light skin speckled with dark freckles over the cheekbones. But this woman's hair was gray and she was thinner than his mother. Same warmth, though, same kindliness living in the body, like the soul was too good to be kept covered.

"You must be Luther."

Luther sat up. "I am, ma'am."

"That's good. Be a frightful thing if some other man stole up here and took your place." She lay a straight razor, tub of shaving cream, brush and bowl by the pot. "Mr. Giddreaux expects a man to come to the dinner table clean-shaven, and dinner's almost served. We'll work on cleaning up the rest of you afterward. Sound right?"

Luther swung his legs off the bed and suppressed a yawn. "Yes, ma'am."

She held out a delicate hand, so small it could have been a doll's. "I'm Yvette Giddreaux, Luther. Welcome to my home."

While they waited for Isaiah to hear back from the police captain, Luther accompanied Yvette Giddreaux to the proposed NAACP offices on Shawmut Avenue. The building was Second Empire style, a baroque monster of chocolate stone skin with a mansard roof. First time Luther'd seen the style outside of a book. He stepped in close and looked up as he walked along the sidewalk. The lines of the building were straight, no bowing, no humps, either. The structure had shifted with the weight of itself, but no more so than would be expected from a building Luther guessed dated back to the 1830s or so. He took a good look at the tilt of the corners and decided the foundation hadn't racked, so the shell was in good shape. He stepped off the sidewalk and walked along the edge of the street, looking up at the roof.

"Mrs. Giddreaux?"

"Yes, Luther."

"Seem to be a piece of this roof missing."

He looked over at her. She held her purse tight in front of her and gave him a look of such innocence it could only be a front.

She said, "I believe I heard something to that effect, yes."

Luther continued moving his gaze from the point on the ridgeline where he'd spotted the gap, and he found a dip exactly where he was hoping he wouldn't--in the center of the spine. Mrs. Giddreaux was still giving him that wide- eyed innocence, and he placed his hand softly under her elbow as he led her inside.

Most of the first-floor ceiling was gone. What remained leaked. The staircase just to his right was black. The walls were missing their plaster in half a dozen places, the lathes and studs exposed, and scorched black in half a dozen more. The floor was so eaten away by fi re and water that even the subflooring was damaged. All the windows were boarded.

Luther whistled. "You buy this place at auction?"

"About so," she said. "What do you think?"

"Any way you can get your money back?"

She slapped his elbow. The first time, but he was sure it wouldn't be the last. He resisted the urge to hug her to him, the way he'd done with his mother and sister, loving that they'd always fought him, that it had always cost him a shot to the ribs or the hip.

"Let me guess," Luther said, "George Washington never slept here, but his footman did?"

She bared her teeth at him, little fists placed to little hips. "Can you fi x it?"

Luther laughed and heard the echo bounce through the dripping building. "No."

She looked up at him. Her face was stony. Her eyes were gay. "But of what usefulness does that speak, Luther?"

"Can't nobody fi x this. I'm just amazed the city didn't condemn it." "They tried."

Luther looked at her and let out a long sigh. "You know how much money it'll take to make this livable?"

"Don't you worry about money. Can you fix it?"

"I honestly don't know." He whistled again, taking it all in, the months, if not years, of work. "Don't suppose I'll be getting much in the way of help?"

"We'll round up some volunteers every now and then, and when you need something, you just make a list. I can't promise we'll get you everything you need or that any of it will arrive in the time you need it, but we'll try."

Luther nodded and looked down into her kind face. "You understand, ma'am, that the effort this will take will be biblical?"

Another slap on the elbow. "You best set to it then."

Luther sighed. "Yes, ma'am."

Captain Thomas Coughlin opened the door to his study and gave Luther a wide, warm smile. "You must be Mr. Laurence." "Yes, sir, Captain Coughlin."

"Nora, that'll be all for now."

"Yes, sir," the Irish girl Luther'd just met said. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Laurence."

"You, too, Miss O'Shea."

She bowed and took her leave.

"Come in, come in." Captain Coughlin swung the door wide, and Luther entered a study that smelled of good tobacco, a recent fi re in the hearth, and the dying autumn. Captain Coughlin led him to a leather chair and went around the other side of a large mahogany desk and took his seat by the window.

"Isaiah Giddreaux said you're from Ohio."

"Yes, suh."

"I heard you say 'sir.' "

"Suh?"

"Just a moment ago. When we met." His light blue eyes glittered. "You said 'sir,' not 'suh.' Which will it be, son?"

"Which do you prefer, Captain?"

Captain Coughlin waved an unlit cigar at the question. "Whichever makes you comfortable, Mr. Laurence."

"Yes, sir."

Another smile, this one not so much warm as self- satisfi ed. "Columbus, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what did you do there?"

"I worked for the Anderson Armaments Corporation, sir." "And before that?"

"I did carpentry, sir, some masonry work, piping, you name it."

Captain Coughlin leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. He lit his cigar and stared through the flame and the smoke at Luther until the tip was fat with red. "You've never worked in a household, however."

"No, sir, I have not."

Captain Coughlin leaned his head back and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

Luther said, "But I'm a fast learner, sir. And there's nothing I can't fix. And I look right smart, too, in tails and white gloves."

Captain Coughlin chuckled. "A sense of wit. Bully for you, son. Indeed." He ran a hand over the back of his head. "It's not a full-time position that's being offered. Nor do I offer any lodging."

"I understand, sir."

"You would work roughly forty hours a week, and most of it would be driving Mrs. Coughlin to mass, cleaning, maintenance, and the serving of meals. Do you cook?"

"I can, sir."

"Not a bother. Nora will do most of that." Captain Coughlin gave another wave of his cigar. "She's the lass you just met. She lives with us. She does chores as well, but she's gone most of the day, working at a factory. You'll meet Mrs. Coughlin soon," he said, and his eyes glittered again. "I may be the head of the household, but God was remiss in telling her. You follow my meaning? Anything she asks, you hop to."

"Yes, sir."

"Stay on the east side of the neighborhood."

"Sir?"

Captain Coughlin brought his feet off the desk. "The east side, Mr. Laurence. The west side is fairly infamous for its intolerance of coloreds."

"Yes, sir."

"Word will get out, of course, that you work for me and that's fair warning, sure, to most ruffians, even west- siders, but you can never be too careful."

"Thank you for the advice, sir."

The captain's eyes fell on him through the smoke again. This time they were part of the smoke, swirling in it, swimming around Luther, looking into his eyes, his heart, his soul. Luther had seen hints of this ability in cops before--they didn't call them copper's eyes for nothing--but Captain Coughlin's gaze achieved a level of invasion Luther had never come across in a man before. Hoped to never come across twice.

"Who taught you to read, Luther?" The captain's voice was soft. "A Mrs. Murtrey, sir. Hamilton School, just outside of Columbus." "What else she teach you?"

"Sir?"

"What else, Luther?" Captain Coughlin took another slow drag from his cigar.

"I don't understand the question, sir."

"What else?" the captain said for a third time.

"Sir, I'm not following you."

"Grew up poor, I imagine?" The captain leaned forward ever so slightly, and Luther resisted the urge to push his chair back.

Luther nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Sharecropping?"

"Not me so much, sir. My mother and father, though, yeah."

Captain Coughlin nodded, his lips pursed and pained. "Was born into nothing myself. A two-room thatched hut we shared with fl ies and field rats, it was. No place to be a child. Certainly no place to be an intelligent child. You know what an intelligent child learns in those circumstances, Mr. Laurence?"

"No, sir."

"Yes, you do, son." Captain Coughlin smiled a third time since Luther had met him, and this smile snaked into the air like the captain's gaze and circled. "Don't muck about with me, son."

"I'm just not sure what kind of ground I'm standing on, sir."

Captain Coughlin gave that a cock of his head and then a nod. "An intelligent child born to less than advantageous surroundings, Luther, learns to charm." He reached across the desk; his fingers twirled through the smoke. "He learns to hide behind that charm so that no one ever sees what he's really thinking. Or feeling."

He went to a decanter behind his desk and poured two helpings of amber liquid into crystal scotch glasses. He brought the drinks around the desk and handed one to Luther, the first time Luther'd ever been handed a glass by a white man.

"I'm going to hire you, Luther, because you intrigue me." The captain sat on the edge of the desk and clinked his glass off Luther's. He reached behind him and came back with an envelope. He handed it to Luther. "Avery Wallace left that for whoever replaced him. You'll note its seal has not been tampered with."

Luther saw a maroon wax seal on the back of the envelope. He turned it back over, saw that it was addressed to: MY REPLACEMENT.

FROM AVERY WALLACE.

Luther took a drink of scotch. As good as any he'd ever tasted. "Thank you, sir."

Captain Coughlin nodded. "I respected Avery's privacy. I'll respect yours. But don't ever think I don't know you, son. I know you like I know the mirror."

"Yes, sir."

" 'Yes, sir,' what?"

"Yes, sir, you know me."

"And what do I know?"

"That I'm smarter than I let on."

The captain said, "And what else?"

Luther met his eyes. "I'm not as smart as you."

A fourth smile. Cocked up the right side and certain. Another clink of the glasses.

"Welcome to my home, Luther Laurence."

Luther read the note from Avery Wallace on the streetcar back to the Giddreauxs.

To my replacement, If you are reading this, I am dead. If you are reading this, you are also Negro, as was I, because the white folk on K, L, and M Streets only hire Negro housemen. The Coughlin family is not so bad for white folk. The Captain is never to be trifled with but he will treat you fair if you don't cross him. His sons are mostly good. Mister Connor will snap at you every now and again. Joe is just a boy and will talk your ear off if you let him. Danny is a strange. He definitely does his own thinking. He is like the Captain, though, he will treat you fair and like a man. Nora is a funny thinker herself but there is not any wool over her eyes. You can trust her. Be careful with Mrs. Coughlin. Do what she asks and never question her. Stay well clear of the Captain's friend, Lieutenant McKenna. He is something the Lord should have dropped. Good luck.

Sincerely, Avery Wallace Luther looked up from the letter as the streetcar crossed the Broadway Bridge while the Fort Point Channel ran silver and sluggish below.

So this was his new life. So this was his new city.

Every morning, at six-fifty sharp, Mrs. Ellen Coughlin left the residence at 221 K Street and ventured down the stairs, where Luther waited by the family car, a six-cylinder Auburn. Mrs. Coughlin would acknowledge him with a nod as she accepted his hand and climbed into the passenger seat. Once she was settled, Luther would close the door as softly as Captain Coughlin had instructed and drive Mrs.

Coughlin a few short blocks to the seven o'clock mass at Gate of Heaven Church. He would remain outside the car for the duration of the mass and often chat with another houseman, Clayton Tomes, who worked for Mrs. Amy Wagenfeld, a widow who lived on M Street, South Boston's most prestigious address, in a town house overlooking Independence Square Park.

Mrs. Ellen Coughlin and Mrs. Amy Wagenfeld were not friends-- as far as Luther and Clayton could tell, old white women didn't have friends--but their valets eventually formed a bond. Both were from the Midwest--Clayton grew up in Indiana not far from French Lick--and both were valets for employers who would have had little use for them had they placed just one foot in the twentieth century. Luther's fi rst job after returning Mrs. Coughlin to her household every morning was to cut wood for the stove, while Clayton's was to haul coal to the basement.

"This day and age?" Clayton said. "Whole country--'least what can afford it--is going electrical, but Mrs. Wagenfeld, she want no part of it."

"Mrs. Coughlin neither," Luther said. "Enough kerosene in that house to burn down the block, spend half my day cleaning gas soot off the walls, but the captain say she won't even discuss the subject. Said it took him five years to convince her to get indoor plumbing and stop using a backyard privy."

"White women," Clayton would say, then repeat it with a sigh. "White women."

When Luther took Mrs. Coughlin back to K Street and opened the front door for her, she would give him a soft, "Thank you, Luther," and after he'd served her breakfast, he'd rarely see her for the rest of the day. In a month, their interactions consisted solely of her "thank you" and his "my pleasure, ma'am." She never asked where he lived, if he had family, or where he hailed from, and Luther had gleaned enough about the employer-valet relationship to know it was not his place to initiate conversation with her.

"She's hard to know," Nora said to him one day when they went to Haymarket Square to purchase the weekly groceries. "I've been in that house five years, I have, and I'm not sure I could tell you much more about her than I could the night I arrived."

"Long as she ain't finding fault with my work, she can stay silent as a stone."

Nora placed a dozen potatoes in the sack she carried to market. "Are you getting on well with everyone else?"

Luther nodded. "They seem a nice family."

She nodded, though Luther couldn't tell if it was a nod of agreement or if she'd just decided something about the apple she was considering. "Young Joe's certainly grown a fondness for you."

"Boy loves his baseball."

She smiled. " 'Love' may not be a strong enough word."

Once Joe had discovered Luther had played some baseball in his time, the after- school hours became games of catch and pitching and fielding instruction in the Coughlins' small backyard. Dusk coincided with the end of Luther's shift, so the final three hours of his workday were spent mostly at play, a situation Captain Coughlin had immediately approved. "If it keeps the boy out of his mother's hair, I'd let you field a team should you ask, Mr. Laurence."

Joe wasn't a natural athlete, but he had heart and he listened well for a child his age. Luther showed him how to drop his knee when he fielded grounders and how to follow through on both his throws and the swings of his bat. He taught him to spread and then plant his feet beneath a pop-up and to never catch it below his head. He tried to teach him how to pitch, but the boy didn't have the arm for it, nor the patience. He just wanted to hit and hit big. So Luther found one more thing to blame Babe Ruth for--turning the game into a smash-ball affair, a circus spectacle, making every white kid in Boston think it was about ooohs and aaahs and the cheap soaring of an ill-timed dinger.

Except for the morning hour with Mrs. Coughlin and the late- day hours with Joe, Luther spent most of his workday with Nora O'Shea.

"And how do you like it so far?"

"Doesn't seem much for me to do."

"Would you like some of my work, then?"

"Truth? Yeah. I drive her to and from church. I bring her breakfast. I wax the car. I shine the captain's and Mr. Connor's shoes and brush their suits. Sometimes I polish the captain's medals for dress occasions. Sundays, I serve the captain and his friends drinks in the study. Rest of the time, I dust what don't need to be dusted, tidy what's already tidy, and sweep a bunch of clean floors. Cut some wood, shovel some coal, stoke a small furnace. I mean, what's that all take? Two hours? Rest of the day I spend trying to look busy till either you or Mr. Joe get home. I don't even know why they hired me."

She put a hand lightly on his arm. "All the best families have one." "A colored?"

Nora nodded, her eyes bright. "In this part of the neighborhood. If the Coughlins didn't hire you, they'd have to explain why."

"Why what? Why they haven't updated to electric?"

"Why they can't keep up appearances." They climbed East Broadway toward City Point. "The Irish up here remind me of the English back home, they do. Lace curtains on the windows and trousers tucked into their boots, sure, as if they know from work."

"Up here maybe," Luther said. "Rest of this neighborhood . . ." "What?"

He shrugged.

"No, what?" She tugged his arm.

He looked down at her hand. "That thing you doing now? You don't ever do that in the rest of this neighborhood. Please."

"Ah."

"Like to get us both killed. Ain't any lace curtains part of that, I'll tell you what."

Every night he wrote to Lila, and every few days the letters came back unopened.

It was near to breaking him--her silence, being in a strange city, his self as unsettled and nameless as it had ever been--when Yvette brought the mail to the table one morning and placed two more returned letters softly by his elbow.

"Your wife?" She took a seat.

Luther nodded.

"You must have done something fierce to her."

He said, "I did, ma'am. I did."

"Wasn't another woman, was it?"

"No."

"Then I forgive you." She patted his hand, and Luther felt the warmth of it find his blood.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't worry. She still cares for you."

He shook his head, the loss of her draining him to his root. "She doesn't, ma'am."

Yvette shook her head slowly at him, a smile spread thin across her lips. "Men are fine for many things, Luther, but none of you know the first thing about a woman's heart."

"That's just it," Luther said, "she don't want me to know her heart anymore."

"Doesn't."

"Huh?"

"She doesn't want you to know her heart."

"Right." Luther wanted a cloak to hide in, duck in. Cover me, cover me.

"I beg to differ with you, son." Mrs. Giddreaux held up one of his letters so he could see the back of the envelope. "What's that along the sides of the flap?"

Luther looked; he couldn't see anything.

Mrs. Giddreaux traced her finger down the flap. "See that cloud there along the edges? The way the paper is softer underneath it?" Luther noticed it now. "Yes."

"That's from steam, son. Steam."

Luther reached for the envelope and stared at it.

"She's opening your letters, Luther, and then sending them back like she hasn't. I don't know if I'd call that love," she squeezed his arm, "but I wouldn't call it indifference." chapter fifteen Autumn yielded to winter in a series of wet gales that carved their way across the eastern seaboard, and Danny's list of names grew larger. What the list told him, or anyone for that matter, about the likelihood of a May Day uprising was a mystery. Mostly he just had the names of ass-fucked workingmen looking to unionize and deluded romantics who actually thought the world welcomed change.

Danny began to suspect, though, that between the Roxbury Letts and the BSC, he'd become addicted to the strangest of things--meetings. The Letts and their talk and their drinking led to nothing he could see but more talk and more drinking. And yet, on the nights there were no meetings, no saloon afterward, he felt at loose ends. He'd sit in the dark of his cover apartment, drinking and rubbing the button between his thumb and index finger with such agitation, it seemed a miracle in retrospect that it never cracked. So he'd find himself at another meeting of the Boston Social Club at Fay Hall in Roxbury. And another after that.

It wasn't much different from a meeting of the Letts. Rhetoric, rage, helplessness. Danny couldn't help marvel at the irony--these men who'd served as strikebreakers finding themselves backed into the same corners as the men they'd manhandled or beaten outside factories and mills.

Into another bar one night, and more talk about workers' rights, but this time with the BSC--brother policemen, patrolmen, foot stampers and beat walkers and nightstick maestros filled with the stunted rage of the perpetually pushed-aside. Still no negotiations, still no decent talk of decent hours and a decent wage, still no raise. And word was that across the border in Montreal, just 350 miles north, the city had broken off negotiations with police and firemen and a strike was unavoidable.

And why not? the men in the bar said. Fucking starving, they said. Ass-fucked and broke- down and handcuffed to a job that gives us no way to feed our families and no way to see them properly either.

"My youngest," Francie Deegan said, "my youngest, boys, is wearing clothes he got from his brothers and I'm shocked to discover the older ones ain't wearing 'em still because I'm working so much I think they're in second grade, but they're in fifth. I think they're at my hip, but they're at me fuckin' nipple, boys."

And when he sat back down amid the hear-hears, Sean Gale piped up with:

"Fucking dockworkers, boys, are making three times as much as us coppers who bust them on drunk-and-disorderlies on Friday nights. So somebody better start thinking of how to pay us what's right."

More shouts of "Hear! Hear!" Someone nudged someone and that someone nudged someone else and they all looked over to see Boston police commissioner Stephen O'Meara standing at the bar, waiting for his pint. Once the pint had been drawn and the quiet had fallen over the bar, the great man waited for the tender to shave off the foam with a straight razor. He paid for the pint and waited for his change, his back to the room. The bartender rang up the sale and handed the coins back to Stephen O'Meara. O'Meara left one of those coins on the bar, pocketed the rest, and turned to the room.

Deegan and Gale lowered their heads, awaiting execution.

O'Meara made his way carefully through the men, holding his pint aloft to keep it from spilling, and took a seat by the hearth between Marty Leary and Denny Toole. He looked at the assembled men with a soft sweep of his kind eyes before he sipped at his beer, and the foam crept into his mustache like a silkworm.

"Cold out there." He took another sip of his beer and the logs crackled behind him. "A fi ne fire in here, though." He nodded just once but seemed to encompass each of them with the gesture. "I've no answer for you, men. You aren't getting right-paid and that's a fact."

No one dared speak. The men, who just moments before had been the loudest, the most profane, the angriest and most publicly injured, averted their eyes.

O'Meara gave them all a grim smile and even nudged Denny Toole's knee with his own. "It's a fine spot, isn't it?" His eyes swept them again, searching for something or someone. "Young Coughlin, is that you under that beard?"

Danny found those kind eyes meeting his and his chest tightened. "Yes, sir."

"I'll take it you're working undercover."

"Yes, sir."

"As a bear?"

The room broke out in laughter.

"Not quite, sir. Close."

O'Meara's gaze softened and was so stripped of pride Danny felt as if they were the only two men in the room. "I've known your father a long time, son. How's your mother?"

"She's fine, sir." Danny could feel the eyes of the other men now.

"As gracious a woman as any who ever lived. Tell her I said hello, would you?"

"I will, sir."

"If I may inquire--what is your position on this economic stalemate?"

The men turned in his direction while O'Meara took another sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving Danny's.

"I understand," Danny began, and then his throat went dry. He wished the room would go dark, pitch- black, so that he could stop feeling their eyes. Christ.

He took a sip from his own pint and tried again. "I understand, sir, that cost of living is affecting the city and funds are tight. I do." O'Meara nodded.

"And I understand, sir, that we are not private citizens but public servants, sworn to do our duty. And that there is no higher calling than that of the public servant."

"None," O'Meara agreed.

Danny nodded.

O'Meara watched him. The men watched him.

"But . . ." Danny kept his voice level. "There was a promise made, sir. A promise that our wages would freeze for the duration of the war, but that we would be rewarded for our patience with a two-hundred-ayear increase as soon as the war ended." Danny dared look around the room now, at all the eyes fixed upon him. He hoped they couldn't see the tremors that rippled down the backs of his legs.

"I sympathize," O'Meara said. "I do, Officer Coughlin. But that cost- of-living increase is a very real thing. And the city is strapped. It's not simple. I wish it were."

Danny nodded and went to sit back down and then found he couldn't. His legs wouldn't let him. He looked back at O'Meara and could feel the decency that lived in the man like a vital organ. He caught Mark Denton's eye, and Denton nodded.

"Sir," Danny said, "we have no doubt that you sympathize. None whatsoever. And we know the city is strapped. Yes. Yes." Danny took a breath. "But a promise, sir, is a promise. Maybe that's what all this is about in the end. And you said it wasn't simple, but it is, sir. I would respectfully submit that it is. Not easy. Quite hard. But simple. A lot of fine, brave men can't make ends meet. And a promise is a promise."

No one spoke. No one moved. It was as if a grenade had been lobbed into the center of the room and had failed to go off.

O'Meara stood. The men hastily cleared a path as he crossed in front of the hearth until he'd reached Danny. He held out his hand. Danny had to place his beer on the mantel above the hearth and then he placed his own shaky hand in the older man's grip.

The old man held it fast, not moving his arm up or down. "A promise is a promise," O'Meara said.

"Yes, sir," Danny managed.

O'Meara nodded and let go of his hand and turned to the room. Danny felt the moment freeze in time, as if woven by gods into the mural of history--Danny Coughlin and the Great Man standing side by side with the fire crackling behind them.

O'Meara raised his pint. "You are the pride of this great city, men. And I am proud to call myself one of you. And a promise is a promise."

Danny felt the fire at his back. Felt O'Meara's hand against his spine.

"Do you trust me?" O'Meara shouted. "Do I have your faith?" A chorus rose up: "Yes, sir!"

"I will not let you down. I will not."

Danny saw it rise in their faces: love. Simply that.

"A little more patience, men, that's all I ask. I know that's a tall order, sure. I do. But will you indulge an old man just a little longer?" "Yes, sir!"

O'Meara took a great breath through his nose and raised his glass higher. "To the men of the Boston Police Department--you have no peers in this nation."

O'Meara drained his pint in one long swallow. The men erupted and followed suit. Marty Leary called for another round, and Danny noticed that they had somehow become children again, boys, unconditional in their brotherhood.

O'Meara leaned in. "You're not your father, son."

Danny stared back at him, unsure.

"Your heart is purer than his."

Danny couldn't speak.

O'Meara squeezed his arm just above the elbow. "Don't sell that, son. You can't ever buy it back in the same condition."

"Yes, sir."

O'Meara held him with his gaze for one more long moment and then Mark Denton handed them each a pint and O'Meara's hand dropped from Danny's arm.

After he'd finished his second pint, O'Meara bade the men good- bye and Danny and Mark Denton walked him out into a thick rain that fell from the black sky.

His driver, Sergeant Reid Harper, exited the car and covered his boss with an umbrella. He acknowledged Danny and Denton with a nod as he opened the rear door for O'Meara. The commissioner rested an arm on the door and turned to them.

"I'll speak to Mayor Peters first thing in the morning. I'll convey to him my sense of urgency and arrange a meeting at City Hall for negotiations with the Boston Social Club. Do either of you have any objections to representing the men at that meeting?"

Danny looked over at Denton, wondering if O'Meara could hear the thumps of their hearts.

"No, sir."

"No, sir."

"Well, then." O'Meara held out his hand. "Allow me to thank you both. Sincerely."

They each shook the hand.

"You're the future of the Boston policemen's union, gentlemen." He gave them a gentle smile. "I hope you're up to the task. Now get out of the rain."

He climbed in the car. "To home, Reid, else the missus will think I've turned tomcat."

Reid Harper pulled away from the curb as O'Meara gave them a small wave through the window.

The rain soaked their hair and fell down the backs of their necks. "Jesus Christ," Mark Denton said. "Jesus Christ, Coughlin."

"I know."

"You know? Do you understand what you just did in there? You saved us."

"I didn't--"

Denton wrapped him in a bear hug and lifted him off the sidewalk. "You fucking saved us!"

He spun Danny over the sidewalk and hooted at the street and Danny struggled to break free but he was laughing now, too, the both of them laughing like lunatics on the street as the rain fell into Danny's eyes, and he wondered if he'd ever, in his life, felt this good.

He met Eddie McKenna one night in Governor's Square, at the bar of the Hotel Buckminster. "What have you got?"

"I'm getting closer to Bishop. But he's cagey."

McKenna spread his arms in the booth. "They suspect you of being a plant, you think?"

"Like I said before, it's definitely crossed their minds."

"Any ideas?"

Danny nodded. "One. It's risky."

"How risky?"

He produced a moleskin notebook, identical to the one he'd seen Fraina use. He'd been to four stationers before he'd found it. He handed it to McKenna.

"I've been working on that for two weeks."

McKenna leafed through it, his eyebrows going up a few times.

"I stained a few pages with coffee, even put a cigarette hole in one."

McKenna whistled softly. "I noticed."

"It's the political musings of Daniel Sante. What do you think?" McKenna thumbed through it. "You covered Montreal and the Spartacists. Nice. Oooh--Seattle and Ole Hanson. Good, good. You got Archangel in here?"

"Of course."

"The Versailles Conference?"

"You mean as a world-domination conspiracy?" Danny rolled his eyes. "You think I'd miss that one?"

"Careful," Eddie said without looking up. "Cocky gets undercover men hurt."

"I've gotten nowhere in weeks, Eddie. How could I possibly be cocky? I got the notebook and Bishop said he'll show it to Fraina, no promises. That's it."

Eddie handed it back. "That's good stuff. You'd almost think you believed it."

Danny let the comment pass and put the notebook back in his coat pocket.

Eddie flicked open his watch. "Stay away from union meetings for a while."

"I can't."

Eddie closed his watch and returned it to his vest. "Oh, that's right. You are the BSC these days."

"Bullshit."

"After the meeting you had with O'Meara the other night, that is the rumor, trust me." He smiled softly. "Almost thirty years on this force and I'll bet our dear commissioner doesn't even know my name."

Danny said, "Right place at the right time, I guess."

"Wrong place." He frowned. "You better watch yourself, boy. Because others have started watching you. Take some advice from Uncle Eddie--step back. There are storms imminent everywhere. Everywhere. On the streets, in the factory yards, and now in our own department. Power? That's ephemeral, Dan. More so now than ever before. You keep your head down."

"It's already up."

Eddie slapped the table.

Danny leaned back. He'd never seen Eddie McKenna lose his slippery calm.

"If you get your face in the paper meeting with the commissioner? The mayor? Have you thought of what that means to my investigation? I can't use you if Daniel Sante, apprentice-Bolshevik, becomes Aiden Coughlin, face of the BSC. I need Fraina's mailing list."

Danny stared across at this man he'd known his whole life. Seeing a new side to him, a side he'd suspected was there all along but had never actually witnessed.

"Why the mailing lists, Eddie? I thought we were looking for evidence of May Day uprising plans."

"We're looking for both," Eddie said. "But if they're as tight-lipped as you say, Dan, and if your detecting capabilities are a little less substantial than I'd hoped, then you just get me that mailing list before your face is all over the front page. Could you do that for your uncle, pal?" He stepped out of the booth and shrugged into his coat, tossed some coins on the table. "That should do it."

"We just got here," Danny said.

Eddie worked his face back into the mask it had always been around Danny--impish and benign. "City never sleeps, boy. I've got business in Brighton."

"Brighton?"

Eddie nodded. "Stockyards. Hate that place."

Danny followed Eddie toward the door. "Bracing cows now, Eddie?"

"Better." Eddie pushed open the door into the cold. "Coloreds. Crazy dinges are meeting right now, after hours, to discuss their rights. You believe that? Where does it end? Next thing, the chinks'll be holding our laundry hostage."

Eddie's driver pulled to the curb in his black Hudson. Eddie said, "Give you a lift?"

"I'll walk."

"Walk off that booze. Good idea," he said. "Know anyone by the name of Finn by the bye?" Eddie's face was blithe, open.

Danny kept his the same way. "In Brighton?"

Eddie frowned. "I said I was going to Brighton on a coon hunt. 'Finn' sound like a colored name to you?"

"Sounds Irish."

" 'Tis indeed. Know any?"

"Nope. Why?"

"Just wondering," Eddie said. "You're sure?"

"Just what I said, Eddie." Danny turned up his collar against the wind. "Nope."

Eddie nodded and reached for the car door.

"What he do?" Danny said.

"Huh?"

"This Finn you're looking for," Danny said. "What'd he do?" Eddie stared into his face for a long time. "Good night, Dan." " 'Night, Eddie."

Eddie's car drove up Beacon Street and Danny thought of going back in and calling Nora from the phone booth in the hotel lobby. Let her know that McKenna could be sniffing around her life. But then he pictured her with Connor--holding his hand, kissing him, maybe sitting on his lap when no one else was in the house to see--and he decided there were a lot of Finns in the world. And half of them were either in Ireland or Boston. McKenna could have been talking about any one of them. Any at all. chapter sixteen The first thing Luther had to do at the building on Shawmut Avenue was make it weather-tight. That meant starting with the roof. A slate beauty, she was, fallen on ill fortune and neglect. He worked his way across her spine one fine cold morning when the air smelled of mill smoke and the sky was clean and blade-blue. He collected shards of slate the firemen's axes had sent to the gutters and added them to those he'd retrieved from the floor below. He ripped sodden or scorched wood from their lathes and hammered fresh planks of oak in their places and covered it all with the slate he'd salvaged. When he ran out of that he used the slate Mrs. Giddreaux had somehow managed to procure from a company in Cleveland. He started on a Saturday at first light and finished up late of that Sunday afternoon. Sitting on the ridgeline of the roof, slick with sweat in the cold, he wiped his brow and gazed up at the clean sky. He turned his head and looked at the city spread out around him. He smelled the coming dusk in the air, though his eyes could see no evidence of it yet. As smells went, though, few were fi ner.

Luther's weekday schedule was such that by the time the Coughlins sat for dinner, Luther, who'd set the table and helped Nora prepare the food, had already left. But on Sundays, dinners were all-day affairs, ones that occasionally reminded Luther of the ones at Aunt Marta and Uncle James's on Standpipe Hill. Something about recent church attendance and Sunday finery brought out an inclination for pronouncements, he noticed, in white folk as well as black.

Serving drinks in the captain's study, he sometimes got the feeling they were pronouncing for him. He'd catch sidelong glances from one of the captain's associates as he pontificated about eugenics or proven intellectual disparities in the races or some similar bullshit only the truly indolent had time to discuss.

The one who spoke the least but had the most fire in his eyes was the one Avery Wallace had warned him about, the captain's right-hand man, Lieutenant Eddie McKenna. A fat man, given to breathing heavily through nostrils clogged with hair, he had a smile as bright as the full moon on a river, and one of those loud, jolly natures Luther believed could never be trusted. Men like that always hid the part of themselves that wasn't smiling and hid it so deep it got all the hungrier, like a bear just come out of hibernation, lumbering out of that cave with a scent in its nose so focused it couldn't ever be reasoned with.

Of all the men who joined the captain in the study on those Sundays--and the roster changed from week to week--it was McKenna who paid Luther the most attention. At first glance, it seemed welcome enough. He always thanked Luther when Luther brought him either a drink or a refill, whereas most of the men simply acted as if his servitude was their due and rarely acknowledged him at all. Upon entering the study, McKenna usually asked after Luther's health, his week, how he was adapting to the cold weather. "You ever need an extra coat, son, you let us know. We usually have a few spares down at the station house. Can't promise they'll smell too fine, though." He clapped Luther on the back.

He seemed to assume Luther was from the South and Luther saw no reason to dissuade him from the impression until it came up one late afternoon at Sunday dinner.

"Kentucky?" McKenna said.

At first Luther didn't realize he was being addressed. He stood by the sideboard, filling a small bowl with sugar cubes.

"Louisville, I'm guessing. Am I right?" McKenna gazed openly at him as he placed a slice of pork in his mouth.

"Where I hail from, sir?"

McKenna's eyes glimmered. "That's the question, son."

The captain took a sip of wine. "The lieutenant prides himself on his grasp of accents, he does."

Danny said, "Can't lose his own, though, uh?"

Connor and Joe laughed. McKenna wagged his fork at Danny. "A wiseacre since diapers, this one." He turned his head. "So which is it, Luther?"

Before Luther could answer, Captain Coughlin raised a hand to him. "Make him guess, Mr. Laurence."

"I did guess, Tom."

"You guessed wrong."

"Ah." Eddie McKenna dabbed his lips with his napkin. "So, not Louisville?"

Luther shook his head. "No, sir."

"Lexington?"

Luther shook his head again, felt the whole family looking at him.

McKenna leaned back, one hand caressing his belly. "Well, let's see. You don't have a deep enough drawl for Mis'sipi, tha's fo' sho'. And Gawgia is right out. Too deep for Virginia, though, and too fast, I think, for Alabama."

"I'm guessing Bermuda," Danny said.

Luther caught his eye and smiled. Of all the Coughlins, he had the least experience with Danny, but Avery had been right--you felt no lying in the man.

"Cuba," Luther said to Danny.

"Too far south," Danny said.

They both chuckled.

The gamesmanship left McKenna's eyes. His flesh pinkened. "Ah, a bit a sport the lads are having now." He smiled at Ellen Coughlin down the other end of the table. "A bit of sport," he repeated and cut into his roast pork.

"So what's the guess, Eddie?" Captain Coughlin speared a potato slice.

Eddie McKenna looked up. "I'll have to give Mr. Laurence a bit more thought before I hazard any more idle conjecture on that point."

Luther turned back to the coffee tray, but not before he caught another look from Danny. Not an entirely pleasant look, one bearing a hint of pity.

Luther shrugged into his topcoat as he came out onto the stoop and saw Danny leaning against the hood of a nut-brown Oakland 49.

Danny raised a bottle of something in Luther's direction, and when Luther reached the street he saw that it was whiskey, the good stuff, prewar.

"A drink, Mr. Laurence?"

Luther took the bottle from Danny and raised it to his lips. He paused, looking at him, making sure sharing a bottle with a colored was what the man wanted. Danny gave him a quizzical arch of his eyebrow, and Luther tilted the bottle to his lips and drank.

When Luther handed it back, the big cop didn't wipe the bottle with his sleeve, just tilted it to his own lips and took himself a healthy snort. "Good stuff, uh?"

Luther remembered how Avery Wallace had said this Coughlin was a strange who did his own thinking. He nodded.

"Nice night."

"Yeah." Crisp but windless, the air a bit chalky with the dust of dead leaves.

"Another?" Danny handed the bottle back.

Luther took a drink, eyeing the big white man and his open, handsome face. A lady-killer, Luther bet, but not the kind to make it his life's work. Something going on behind those eyes that told Luther this man heard music others didn't, took direction from who knew where. "You like working here?"

Luther nodded. "I do. You've a nice family, suh."

Danny rolled his eyes and took another swig. "Think you could drop the 'suh' shit with me, Mr. Laurence? Think that's possible?" Luther took a step back. "What do you want me to call you then?" "Out here? Danny'll do. In there?" He gestured with his chin at the house. "I guess Mr. Coughlin."

"What's your complaint against 'suh'? "

Danny shrugged. "It sounds like bullshit."

"Fair enough. You call me Luther, then."

Danny nodded. "Drink to it."

Luther chuckled as he lifted the bottle. "Avery warned me you were different."

"Avery came back from the grave to tell you I was different?" Luther shook his head. "He wrote a note to his 'replacement.' " "Ah." Danny took the bottle back. "Whatta you think about my Uncle Eddie?"

"Seems nice enough."

"No, he doesn't." Danny's voice was soft.

Luther leaned against the car beside Danny. "No, he doesn't." "You feel him circling you in there?"

"I felt it."

"You got a nice clean past, Luther?"

"Clean as most, I guess."

"That ain't too clean."

Luther smiled. "Fair point."

Danny handed the bottle over again. "My Uncle Eddie? He reads people better than any man alive. Stares right through their heads and sees whatever it is they don't want the world to find out. They got a suspect in one of the station houses nobody can break? They call in my uncle. He gets a confession every time. Uses whatever it takes to get one, too."

Luther rolled the bottle between his palms. "Why you telling me this?"

"He smells something he doesn't like about you--I can see it in his eyes--and we took that joke in there too far for his comfort. He started thinking we were laughing at him and that's not good."

"I appreciate the liquor." Luther stepped away from the car. "Never shared a bottle with a white man before." He shrugged. "But I best be getting home."

"I'm not working you."

"You ain't, uh?" Luther looked at him. "How do I know that?"

Danny held out his hands. "Only two types of men in this world worth talking about--a man who is as he appears and the other kind. Which do you think I am?"

Luther felt the whiskey swimming beneath his flesh. "You about the strangest kind I've come across in this city."

Danny took a drink, looked up at the stars. "Eddie might circle you for a year, even two. He'll take all the time in the world, believe me. But when he fi nally does come for you? He'll have left you no way out." He met Luther's eyes. "I've made my peace with whatever Eddie and my father do to achieve their ends with plug-uglies and grifters and gunsels, but I don't like it when they go after civilians. You understand?"

Luther placed his hands in his pockets as the crisp air grew darker, colder. "So you're saying you can call off this dog?"

Danny shrugged. "Maybe. Won't know until the time comes." Luther nodded. "And what's your end?"

Danny smiled. "My end?"

Luther found himself smiling in return, feeling both of them circling now, but having fun with it. "Ain't nothing free in this world but bad luck."

"Nora," Danny said.

Luther stepped back to the car and took the bottle from Danny. "What about her?"

"I'd like to know how things progress with her and my brother." Luther drank, eyeing Danny, then let loose a laugh.

"What?"

"Man's in love with his brother's girl and he says 'what' to me." Luther laughed some more.

Danny joined him. "Let's say Nora and I have a history."

"That ain't news," Luther said. "I only been in the same room with you both this one time but my blind, dead uncle could have seen it." "That obvious, uh?"

"To most. Can't figure out why Mr. Connor can't see it. He can't see a lot when it comes to her."

"No, he can't."

"Why don't you just ask the woman for her hand? She'll jump at it." "No, she won't. Believe me."

"She will. That rope? Shit. That's love."

Danny shook his head. "You ever known a woman acted logically when it came to love?"

"No."

"Well, then." Danny looked up at the house. "I don't know the first thing about them. Can't tell you what they're thinking from minute to minute."

Luther smiled and shook his head. "I 'spect you get along just fine all the same."

Danny held up the bottle. "We got about two fingers left. Last swig?"

"Don't mind if I do." Luther took a snort and handed the bottle back, watched Danny drain it. "I'll keep my eyes and ears open. How's that?"

"Fair. Eddie makes a run at you, you keep me informed." Luther held out his hand. "Deal."

Danny shook his hand. "Glad we could get to know each other, Luther."

"The same, Danny."

Back at the building on Shawmut Avenue, Luther checked and rechecked for leaks, but nothing came down through the ceilings, and he found no moisture in the walls. He ripped all the plaster out, first thing, and saw that plenty of the wood behind it could be salvaged, some with little more than hope and tenderness, but hope and tenderness would have to do. Same with the flooring and the staircase. Normally a place that had been this fucked-up by neglect and then fire and water damage, the first thing you'd do would be to gut it to its skin. But given their limited finances and beg-borrow-steal approach, the only solution in this case was to salvage what could be salvaged, right down to the nails themselves. He and Clayton Tomes, the Wagenfelds' houseman, worked similar hours in their South Boston households and even had the same day off. After one dinner with Yvette Giddreaux, Clayton had been enlisted into the project before he knew what hit him, and that weekend, Luther finally had some help. They spent the day carrying the salvageable wood and metal and brass fi xtures up to the third floor so they could get to work on installing the plumbing and electrical next week.

It was hard work. Dusty and sweaty and chalky. The pull of pry bars and the tear of wood and the wrench of the hammer's claw. Kind of work made your shoulders tighten hard against your neck, the cartilage under your kneecaps feel like rock salt, dug hot stones into the small of your back and bit the edges of your spine. Kind of work made a man sit down in the middle of a dusty floor and lower his head to his knees and whisper, "Whew," and keep his head down and his eyes closed a bit longer.

After weeks in the Coughlin house doing almost nothing, though, Luther wouldn't have traded it for anything. This was work of the hand and of the mind and of muscle. Work that left some hint of itself and yourself behind after you were gone.

Craftsmanship, his Uncle Cornelius had once told him, was just a fancy word for what happened when labor met love.

"Shit." Clayton, lying on his back in the entrance hallway, stared up at the ceiling two stories above. "You realize that if she's committed to indoor plumbing--"

"She is."

"--then the waste pipe, Luther--the waste pipe alone--that going to have to climb up from the basement to a roof vent? That's four stories, boy."

"Five-inch pipe, too." Luther chuckled. "Cast iron."

"And we got to run more pipes off that pipe on every floor? Two maybe off the bathrooms?" Clayton's eyes widened to saucers. "Luther, this shit's crazy."

"Yeah."

"Then why you smiling?"

"Why you?" Luther said.

What about Danny?" Luther asked Nora as they walked through Haymarket. "What about him?"

"He doesn't seem to fit that family somehow."

"I'm not sure Aiden fits anything."

"How come sometimes you-all call him Danny and other times Aiden?"

She shrugged. "It just happened. You don't call him Mister Danny, I've noticed."

"So?"

"You call Connor 'Mister.' You even do it with Joe."

"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 fi gured 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 fi guring 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 fi lled 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 get 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 fi ngers 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 30 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 e 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.