Dennis Lehane - The Given Day

Denton opened up his attaché case and pulled out the pages he’d been working on for weeks. “Sir, if I could turn your attention to the raise we were promised in—”

“We?” Curtis said.

“Yes, the Boston Police Department, sir.”

“You dare claim to represent these fine men?” Curtis scowled. “I’ve spoken to many a man since taking office, and I can tell you that they do not elect to call you ‘Leader,’ Patrolman Denton. They are tired of you putting words in their mouths and painting them as malcontents. Why, I spoke to a flatfoot at the Twelfth just yesterday and you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Commissioner Curtis, we police at the One-Two are proud to serve our city in a time of need, sir. You tell the folks out there in the neighborhoods that we won’t go Bolsheviki. We’re police officers.’”

Mark removed his own pen and notebook. “If I could have his name, sir, I’d be happy to speak with him regarding any grievances he may have with me.”

Curtis waved it away. “I have talked to several dozen men, Patrolman Denton, from all over the city. Several dozen. And none of them, I promise you, is Bolsheviki.”

“Nor am I, sir.”

“Patrolman Coughlin.” Curtis turned over another sheet of paper. “You were on special duty of late, as I understand it. Investigating terrorist cells in the city?”

Danny nodded.

“And how did that progress?”

“Fine, sir.”

“Fine?” Curtis tugged at the flesh over his wing collar. “I’ve read Lieutenant McKenna’s duty reports. They’re padded with ambiguous projections with no basis in any reality. That led me to study the files of his previous Special Squads and once again I’m at a loss to discern any return on the public’s trust. Now this, Officer Coughlin, is exactly the kind of busywork that I find detracts from a police officer’s sworn duties. Could you describe for me specifically what kind of progress you feel you made with these — what are their names? — Lettish Workers before your cover was blown?”

“Lettish Workingman’s Society, sir,” Danny said. “And the progress is a bit difficult to ascertain. I was undercover, attempting to get closer to Louis Fraina, the leader of the group, a known subversive, and the editor of Revolutionary Age .”

“To what end?”

“We have reason to believe they’re planning an attack in this city.”

“When?”

“May Day seems a likely target date, but there have been whispers that—”

“Whispers,” Curtis said. “I question whether we have a terrorist problem at all.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I—”

Curtis nodded half a dozen times. “Yes, you shot one. I am quite aware of it, as I’m sure your great-great-grandchildren will be. But he was one man. The only one, in my opinion, operating in this city. Are you trying to scare businesses away from this city? Do you think if it becomes common knowledge that we’re engaged in some far-flung operation designated to expose dozens of terrorist sects within our city limits that any reasonable-minded company would set up shop here. Why, they’ll run to New York, men! To Philadelphia! Providence!”

“Lieutenant McKenna and several members of the Justice Department,” Danny said, “believe that May Day is a target date for national revolt.”

Curtis’s gaze remained on his desktop and in the silence that followed Danny wondered if he’d heard anything he’d said.

“You had a pair of anarchists making bombs right under your nose. Yes?”

Mark looked over at him. Danny nodded.

“And so you took this assignment to atone and managed to kill one of them.”

Danny said, “Something like that, sir.”

“Do you have a blood thirst for subversives, Officer?”

Danny said, “I don’t like the violent ones, sir, but I wouldn’t call it a blood thirst.”

Curtis nodded. “And what of subversives right now within our own department, men who are spreading discontent among the ranks, men who would Russianize this honorable protectorate of the public interest? Men who gather and talk of striking, of putting their petty interests before the common good?”

Mark stood. “Let’s go, Dan.”

Curtis narrowed his eyes and they were dark marbles of wasted promise. “If you do not sit, I will suspend you — right here and right now — and you can fight your battle for reinstatement through a judge.”

Mark sat. “You are making a grave mistake, sir. When the press hear about—”

“They stayed home today,” Curtis said.

“What?”

“Once they were informed late last night that Mayor Peters would not be in attendance and that the main order of business would have very little to do with this ‘union’ you call a social club, they decided to spend time with their families. Do you know any well enough to possess their home telephone numbers, Patrolman Denton?”

Danny felt numb and sickly warm as Curtis turned his attention back to him.

“Patrolman Coughlin, I feel you are wasted in street patrol. I would like you to join Detective Sergeant Steven Harris in Internal Affairs.”

Danny felt the numbness leave him. He shook his head. “No, sir.”

“You’re refusing a request from your commissioner? You, who slept with a bomb thrower? A bomb thrower who, as far as we know, is still lurking in our streets?”

“I am, sir, but respectfully.”

“There is no respect in the denial of a superior’s request.”

“I’m sorry you see it that way, sir.”

Curtis leaned back in his chair. “So you’re a friend of the workingman, of the Bolsheviki, of the subversive who masquerades as the ‘common man.’”

“I believe the Boston Social Club represents the men of the BPD, sir.”

“I do not,” Curtis said. He drummed his hand on the desktop.

“That’s clear, sir.” This time Danny stood up.

Curtis allowed himself a pinched smile as Mark stood as well. Danny and Mark donned their topcoats and Curtis leaned back in his chair.

“The days of this department being run, sub rosa, by men like Edward McKenna and your father are over. The days the department capitulates to the demands of Bolsheviki are long gone as well. Patrolman Denton, stand at attention if you please, sir.”

Mark turned his shoulders and placed his hands behind his back.

“You are reassigned to Precinct Fifteen in Charlestown. You are to report there immediately. That means this afternoon, Patrolman, and begin your duties on the split shift from noon to midnight.”

Mark knew exactly what that meant: There’d be no way to hold meetings at Fay Hall if he was locked down in Charlestown from twelve to twelve.

“Officer Coughlin, at attention. You are reassigned as well.”

“To, sir?”

“A special detail. You’re familiar with those as a matter of record.”

“Yes, sir.”

The commissioner leaned back in his chair and ran his hand over his belly. “You’re on strike detail until further notice. Anytime the workingman walks out on the good men who deem to pay him, you will be there to ensure that no violence takes place. You’ll be loaned out on an as-needed basis to police departments across the state. Until further notice, Officer Coughlin, you’re a strike breaker.”

Curtis placed his elbows on the desk and peered at Danny, waiting for a reaction.

“As you say, sir,” Danny said.

“Welcome to the new Boston Police Department,” Curtis said. “You’re dismissed, gentlemen.”

Walking out of the office, Danny was in such a state of shock that he assumed nothing else could add to it, but then he saw the men waiting their turn in the anteroom:

Trescott, recording secretary for the BSC.