"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.