Thomas, a year’s work ruined, an autumn’s profit vanished, watched his son march off to finish the destruction, and the laugh that quaked up through the center of him surprised no one so much as him. He laughed so loud squirrels took flight from the low branches of the nearest tree. He laughed so hard he could feel the porch shake.
He smiled now to remember it.
He’d told his son recently that life was luck. But life, he’d come to realize as he aged, was also memory. The recollection of moments often proved richer than the moments themselves.
Out of habit, he reached for his watch before he recalled that it was no longer in his pocket. He’d miss it, even if the truth of the watch was a bit more complicated than the legend that had arisen around it. It was a gift from Barrett W. Stanford Sr., that was true. And Thomas had, without question, risked his life to save Barrett W. Stanford II, the manager of First Boston in Codman Square. Also true was that Thomas had, in the performance of his duties, discharged his service revolver a single time into the brain of one Maurice Dobson, twenty-six, ending his life immediately.
But in the instant before he pulled that trigger, Thomas had seen something no one else had: the true nature of Maurice Dobson’s intent. He would tell the hostage, Barrett W. Stanford II, about it first, and then relate the same tale to Eddie McKenna, then to his watch commander, and then to the members of the BPD Shooting Board. With their permission, he told the same story to the members of the press and also to Barrett W. Stanford Sr., who was so overcome with gratitude that he gave Thomas a watch that had been presented to him in Zurich by Joseph Emile Philippe himself. Thomas attempted three times to refuse such an extravagant gift, but Barrett W. Stanford Sr. wouldn’t hear of it.
So he carried the watch, not with the pride that so many presumed, but with a gravely intimate respect. In the legend, Maurice Dobson’s intent was to kill Barrett W. Stanford II. And who could argue with that interpretation, given that he’d placed a pistol to Barrett’s throat?
But the intent Thomas had read in Maurice Dobson’s eyes in that final instant—and it was that quick: an instant—was surrender. Thomas had stood four feet away, service revolver drawn and steady in his hand, finger on the trigger, so ready to pull it—and you had to be, or else why draw the gun in the first place?—that when he saw an acceptance of his fate pass through Maurice Dobson’s pebble-gray eyes, an acceptance that he was going to jail, that this was over now, Thomas felt unfairly denied. Denied of what, he couldn’t rightly say at first. But as soon as he pulled the trigger, he knew.
The bullet entered the left eye of the unfortunate Maurice Dobson, the late Maurice Dobson before he even reached the floor, and the heat of it singed a stripe into the skin just below Barrett W. Stanford II’s temple. When the finality of the bullet’s purpose conjoined with finality of its usage, Thomas understood what had been denied him and why he’d taken such permanent steps to rectify that denial.
When two men pointed theirs guns at each other, a contract was established under the eyes of God, the only acceptable fulfillment of which was that one of you send the other home to him.
Or so it had felt at the time.
Over the years, even in the deepest of his cups, even with Eddie McKenna, who knew most of his secrets, Thomas had never told another soul what kind of intent he’d actually seen in Maurice Dobson’s eyes. And while he felt no pride in his actions that day and so took none in his possession of the pocket watch, he never left his house without it, because it bore witness to the profound responsibility that defined his profession—we don’t enforce the laws of men; we enforce the will of nature. God was not some white-robed cloud king prone to sentimental meddling in human affairs. He was the iron that formed its core, and the fire in the belly of the blast furnaces that ran for a hundred years. God was the law of iron and the law of fire. God was nature and nature was God. There could not be one without the other.
And you, Joseph, my youngest, my wayward romantic, my prickly heart—it’s now you who has to remind men of those laws. The worst men. Or die from weakness, from moral frailty, from lack of will.
I’ll pray for you, because prayer is all that remains when power dies. And I have no power anymore. I can’t reach behind those granite walls. I can’t slow or stop time. Hell, at the moment, I can’t even tell it.
He looked out at his garden, so close to harvest. He prayed for Joe. He prayed for a tide of his ancestors, most unknown to him, and yet he could see them so clearly, a diaspora of stooped souls stained by drink and famine and the dark impulse. He wished for their eternal rest to be peaceful, and he wished for a grandson.
Joe found Hippo Fasini on the yard and told him his father had undergone a change of heart.
“That’ll happen,” Hippo said.
“He also gave me an address.”
“Yeah?” The fat man leaned back on his heels and looked out at nothing. “Whose?”
“Albert White’s.”
“Albert White lives in Ashmont Hill.”
“I hear he doesn’t visit much lately.”
“So give me the address.”
“Fuck you.”
Hippo Fasini looked at the ground, all three chins dropping into his prison stripes. “Excuse me?”
“Tell Maso I’ll bring it to the wall with me tonight.”
“You ain’t in a bargaining position, kid.”
Joe looked at him until Hippo met his eyes. He said, “Sure I am,” and walked off across the yard.
An hour before his meeting with Pescatore, he threw up twice into the oak bucket. His arms shook. Occasionally so did his chin and his lips. His blood became a steady pounding of fists against his ears. He’d tied the shank to his wrist with a leather bootlace Emil Lawson had provided. Just before he left his cell, he was to move it from there to between his ass cheeks. Lawson had strongly suggested he shove it all the way up his ass, but he envisioned one of Maso’s goons forcing him to sit for whatever reason and decided it was the cheeks or nothing at all. He figured he’d make the transfer with about ten minutes to go, get used to moving with it, but a guard came by his cell forty minutes early to tell him he had a visitor.
It was dusk. Visiting hours were long over.
“Who?” he asked as he followed the guard down the tier, only then realizing the shank remained tied to his wrist.
“Someone who knows how to grease the right palms.”
“Yeah”—Joe tried to keep up with the guard, a brisk walker—“but who?”
The guard unlocked the ward gate and ushered Joe through. “Said he was your brother.”
He entered the room removing his hat. Coming through the doorway, he had to duck, a man who stood a full head taller than most. His dark hair had receded some and was lightly salted over the ears. Joe did the math and realized he’d be (thirty-five) now. Still fiercely handsome, though his face was more weathered than Joe remembered.
He wore a dark, slightly battered three-piece suit with cloverleaf lapels. It was the suit of a manager in a grain warehouse or a man who spent a lot of time on the road—a salesman or union organizer. Danny wore a white shirt under it, no tie.
He placed his hat on the counter and looked through the mesh between them.
“Shit,” Danny said, “you’re not thirteen anymore, are you?”
Joe noticed how red his brother’s eyes were. “And you’re not twenty-five.”
Danny lit a cigarette and the match quivered between his fingers. A large scar, puckered in the center, covered the back of his hand. “Still whoop your ass.”
Joe shrugged. “Maybe not. I’m learning to fight dirty.”