Dennis Lehane - The Given Day

“This city will riot,” Claude said. “Just like Montreal. And you know what happens when people are forced to see the mob that lives within them? They don’t like it. They want someone to pay. At the polls, Tom. Always at the polls.”

Thomas sighed and puffed his cigar. Out in the sea, a small yacht floated into his field of vision. He could make out three figures on the deck as thick dark clouds began to mass just to their south and march toward the sun.

Patrick Donnegan said, “Your boys strike? Big Business wins. They’ll use that strike as a cudgel to fuck organized labor, Irishmen, Democrats, fuck anyone who ever thought of a decent day’s pay for a decent day’s work in this country. You let them turn this into what they’ll turn it into? You’ll set the working class back thirty years.”

Thomas gave that a smile. “It’s not all on me, boys. Maybe if O’Meara, God rest him, was still with us, I’d have more say in the outcome, but with Curtis? That toad’ll blow this city down to its foundations to stick it to the wards and the men who run them.”

“Your son,” Claude said.

Thomas turned, the cigar between his teeth pointing at Claude’s nose. “What?”

“Your son is in league with the BSC. Quite an orator, we hear, like his father.”

Thomas removed his cigar. “We stay away from family, Claude. That’s a rule.”

“Maybe in fairer days,” Claude said. “But your son is in this, Tommy. Deep. And the way I hear it, he’s growing in popularity by the day and his rhetoric grows exponentially more inflammatory. If you could talk to him, maybe …” Claude shrugged.

“We don’t have that kind of relationship anymore. There’s been a rift.”

Claude took that information in, his small eyes tilting up in his head for a moment as he sucked softly on his lower lip. “You’ll have to repair it then. Someone has to talk these boys out of doing anything stupid. I’ll work on the mayor and his hoodlums. Patrick will work on the public sentiment. I’ll even see what I can do about a favorable article or two in the press. But, Thomas, you’ve got to work on your son.”

Thomas looked over at Patrick. Patrick nodded.

“We don’t want to take the gloves off, sure now, do we, Thomas?”

Thomas declined to respond to that. He placed his cigar back in his mouth, and the three of them leaned on the rail again and looked out at the ocean.

Patrick Donnegan looked out at the yacht as the clouds reached it and covered it in shadow. “I’ve been thinking about one of those for myself. Smaller, of course.”

Claude laughed.

“What?”

“You’re building a house on the water. What would you want with a boat?”

“So I could look back in at my house,” Patrick said.

Thomas grinned in spite of his dark mood and Claude chuckled.

“He’s addicted to the trough, I’m afraid.”

Patrick shrugged. “I’m fond of the trough, boys, I admit it. Believe in the trough, I do. But it’s a small trough. It’s a big-house trough. Them? They want troughs the size of countries. They don’t know where to stop.”

On the yacht, the three figures suddenly moved with quick jerky motions as the cloud above them opened.

Claude clapped his hands together and then rubbed them off each other. “Well, we don’t want to be caught out,” he said. “There’s rain coming, gentlemen.”

“God’s truth,” Patrick said as they walked off the pier. “You can smell it, sure.”

By the time he got home it was pouring, a fine black unleashing of the heavens. A man who’d never been fond of a strong sun, he found himself invigorated, even though the drops were as warm as sweat and only added to the thickness of the humidity. The last few blocks, he slowed his pace to a fairgrounds stroll and tilted his face up into it. When he reached the house, he went in through the back, taking the path along the side so he could check on his flowers, and they seemed as pleased as he to finally have some water. The back door opened onto the kitchen and he gave Ellen a start as he came through it looking like something that had escaped the ark.

“Mercy, Thomas!”

“Mercy indeed, my love.” He smiled at her, trying to remember the last time he’d done so. She returned the smile, and he tried to remember the last time he’d seen that as well.

“You’re soaked to the bone.”

“I needed it.”

“Here, sit. Let me get you a towel.”

“I’m fine, love.”

She came back from the linen closet with a towel. “I’ve news of Joe,” she said, her eyes bright and wet.

“For the love of Pete,” he said, “out with it, Ellen.”

She draped the towel over his head and rubbed vigorously. She spoke as if she were discussing a lost cat. “He’s turned up at Aiden’s.”

Before Joe ran away, she’d been locked in her room, incapacitated by Danny’s nuptials. Once Joe had gone on the run, she’d emerged and launched into a cleaning frenzy, telling Thomas she was back to her old self, she was, and would he please be so kind as to find their son? When she wasn’t cleaning, she was pacing. Or knitting. And all the while, she asked him, over and over, what he was doing about Joe. She’d say it the way a worried mother would, yes, but the way a worried mother would to a boarder. He’d lost all connection with her over the years, made his peace with a warmth that lived occasionally in her voice but rarely in her eyes, because the eyes alit on nothing, seemed instead to always be tilted slightly up, as if she were conversing with her own mind and nothing else. He didn’t know this woman. He was reasonably sure he loved her, because of time, because of attrition, but time had also robbed them of each other, fostered within a relationship based on itself and nothing more, no different from that of a saloon keeper and his most frequent patron. You loved out of habit and lack of brighter options.

He had the blood on his hands where their marriage was concerned, however. He was reasonably certain of that. She’d been a girl when they wed, and he’d treated her as a girl only to wake one morning, who knew how many years ago, wishing for a woman to take her place. But it was far too late for that now. Far too late. So he loved her in memory. He loved her with a version of himself he’d long outgrown because she hadn’t. And she loved him, he supposed (if in fact she did, he didn’t know anymore) because he indulged her illusions.

I’m so tired, he thought as she removed the towel from his head, but what he said was, “He’s at Aiden’s?”

“He is. Aiden telephoned.”

“When?”

“Not long ago.” She kissed his forehead, another rarity that defied recent recollection. “He’s safe, Thomas.” She rose from her haunches. “Tea?”

“Is Aiden bringing him by, Ellen? Our son?”

“He said Joe wished to spend the night and Aiden had a meeting to go to.”

“A meeting.”

She opened the cabinet for teacups. “He said he’d bring him ’round in the morning.”

Thomas went to the phone in the entrance hall and dialed Marty Kenneally’s house on West Fourth. He placed the valise under the phone table. Marty answered on the third ring, shouting into the phone as he always did.

“Hello? Hello? Hello?”

“Marty, it’s Captain Coughlin.”

“Is that you, sir?” Marty shouted even though, to the best of Thomas’s knowledge, no one else ever called him.

“It’s me, Marty. I need you to bring the car around.”

“She’ll be slipping in this rain, sir.”

“I didn’t ask you if she’d be slipping, Marty, now did I? Bring her ’round in ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Marty shouted and Thomas hung up.

When he came back into the kitchen, the kettle was nearing the boil. He stripped off his shirt and used the towel on his arms and torso. He noticed how white the hairs had gotten on his chest, and that gave him a quick, mournful vision of his own headstone, but he vanquished the sentiment by noting the flatness of his belly and the hard cords in his biceps. With the possible exception of his eldest son, he couldn’t picture a man he’d fear to go against in a fistfight, even today, in his golden years.