Dennis Lehane - The Given Day

Crowley nodded. “As I understand it, yes, sir.”

“I’ll need their names.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get those immediately.”

“And the men who distributed the sign-up sheets in each of the precincts.”

“Sir?”

Curtis raised his eyebrows, always an effective tool when he’d been Mayor Curtis in the long-ago. “The men, as I understand it, were given sign-up sheets last week to see how many would be interested in accepting an AFL charter. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want the names of the men who brought those sign-up sheets into the station houses.”

“That may take a little longer, sir.”

“Then it takes longer. Dismissed.”

Crowley snap-turned on his heel and headed for the door.

“Superintendent Crowley.”

“Yes, sir.” Crowley turned back to him.

“You have no sympathies in this area, I trust.”

Crowley’s eyes fixed on a spot a few feet above Edwin Upton Curtis’s head. “None, sir.”

“Look me in the eyes if you please, sir.”

Crowley met his eyes.

“How many abstentions?”

“Sir?”

“In last night’s vote, man.”

“I believe none, sir.”

Curtis nodded. “How many ‘nay’ votes?”

“I believe none, sir.”

Edwin Upton Curtis felt a constricting in his chest, the old angina perhaps, and a great sadness filled him. It never had to come to this. Never. He’d been a friend to these men. He’d offered them a fair raise. He’d appointed committees to study their grievances. But they wanted more. They always wanted more. Children at a birthday party, unimpressed with their gifts.

None. Not a single nay vote.

Spare the rod, spoil the child.

Bolsheviks.

“That’ll be all, Superintendent.”

Nora rolled off Danny in a heap, let loose a loud groan, and pressed her forehead into the pillow, as if she were trying to burrow through it.

Danny ran his palm down her back. “Good, uh?”

She growled a laugh into the pillow and then turned her chin to face him. “Can I say fuck in your presence?”

“I think you just did.”

“You’re not offended?”

“Offended? Let me smoke a cigarette and I’m ready to go again. Look at you. God.”

“What?”

“You’re just …” He ran his hand from her heel, up the back of her calf, over her ass and across her back again. “Fucking gorgeous.”

“Now you said fuck .”

“I always say fuck .” He kissed her shoulder, then the back of her ear. “Why did you want to say fuck, by the way? Or, in your case, fook .”

She sank her teeth into his neck. “I wanted to say I’ve never fucked a vice president before.”

“You’ve limited yourself to treasurers?”

She slapped his chest. “Aren’t you proud of yourself, boy?”

He sat up and took his pack of Murads from the nightstand and lit one. “Honestly?”

“Of course.”

“I’m … honored,” he said. “When they called my name out on the ballot — I mean, honey, I had no idea it was going to be there.”

“Yeah?” She ran her tongue across his abdomen. She took the cigarette from his hand and took a puff before handing it back to him.

“No idea,” he said. “Until Denton tipped me just before the first ballot. But, shit, I won an office I didn’t even know I was running for. It was crazy.”

She slid back on top of him and he loved the weight of her there. “So you’re honored but not proud?”

“I’m scared,” he said.

She laughed and took his cigarette again. “Aiden, Aiden,” she whispered, “you’re not afraid of anything.”

“Sure, I am. I’m afraid all the time. Afraid of you.”

She placed the cigarette back in his mouth. “Afraid of me now, are you?”

“Terrified.” He ran a hand along the side of her face and through her hair. “Scared I’ll let you down.”

She kissed his hand. “You’ll never let me down.”

“That’s what the men think, too.”

“So what is it you’re afraid of again?”

“That you’re all wrong.”

On August 11, with warm rain sluicing against the window in his office, Commissioner Edwin Upton Curtis composed an amendment to the rules and regulations of the Boston Police Department. That amendment to Rule 35, Section 19, read in part:

No member of the force shall belong to any organization, club or body composed of present and past members of the force which is affiliated with or part of any organization, club or body outside of the department.

Commissioner Curtis, upon finishing what would become commonly known as Rule 35, turned to Herbert Parker and showed him the draft.

Parker read it and wished that it could be harsher. But these were upside-down days in the country. Even unions, those Bolsheviki sworn enemies of free trade, had to be coddled. For a time. For a time.

“Sign it, Edwin.”

Curtis had been hoping for a bit more effusive reaction, but he signed it anyway and then sighed at the condensation on his windows.

“I hate rain.”

“Summer rain’s the worst, Edwin, yes.”

An hour later, Curtis released the newly signed amendment to the press.

Thomas and the seventeen other captains met in the anteroom outside Superintendent Crowley’s office in Pemberton Square. They stood in a loose circle and brushed the beads of water off their coats and hats. They coughed and complained about their drivers and the traffic and the miserable weather.

Thomas found himself standing beside Don Eastman, who ran Division 3 on Beacon Hill. Eastman concentrated on straightening his damp shirt cuffs and spoke in a low voice. “I hear they’ll be running an ad in the papers.”

“Don’t believe every rumor you hear.”

“For replacements, Thomas. A standing militia of armed volunteers.”

“As I said, rumors.”

“Rumors or no, Thomas, if the men strike, we’ll see fecal gravity at work like never before. Ain’t a man in this room who won’t be covered in shit.”

“If he ain’t been run out of town on rails,” Bernard King, the captain of Division 14, said, stubbing out his cigarette on the marble floor.

“Everyone keep calm,” Thomas said quietly.

The door to Crowley’s office opened and the big man himself walked out and gave only a desultory wave to let them know they should follow him down the hall.

They did so, some men still sniffling from the rain, and Crowley turned into a conference room at the end of the hall and the phalanx of captains followed suit and took seats at the long table in the center. There were no coffee urns or pots of tea on the sideboards, no slices of cake or trays of sweets, none of the amenities they’d become accustomed to as their due at meetings such as these. In fact, there were no waiters or junior staff of any kind in the room. Just Superintendent Michael Crowley and his eighteen captains. Not even a secretary to record the minutes.

Crowley stood with the great window behind him, steamed over from the rain and humidity. The shapes of tall buildings rose indistinct and tremulous behind him, as if they might vanish. Crowley had cut short his annual vacation to Hyannis, and his face was ruddy with the sun, which made his teeth seem all the whiter when he spoke.

“Rule Thirty-five, which was just added to the department code, outlaws affiliation with any national union. That means that all fourteen hundred men who joined the AF of L could be terminated.” He pinched the skin between his eyes and the bridge of his nose and held up a hand to staunch their questions. “Three years ago, we switched from nightsticks to the pocket billies. Most of those nightsticks, however, are still in the possession of the officers for dress occasions. All precinct captains will confiscate those nightsticks starting today. We expect all of them in our possession by week’s end.”