Captain Coughlin waved an unlit cigar at the question. “Whichever makes you comfortable, Mr. Laurence.”
“Yes, sir.”
Another smile, this one not so much warm as self-satisfied. “Columbus, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what did you do there?”
“I worked for the Anderson Armaments Corporation, sir.”
“And before that?”
“I did carpentry, sir, some masonry work, piping, you name it.”
Captain Coughlin leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. He lit his cigar and stared through the flame and the smoke at Luther until the tip was fat with red. “You’ve never worked in a household, however.”
“No, sir, I have not.”
Captain Coughlin leaned his head back and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.
Luther said, “But I’m a fast learner, sir. And there’s nothing I can’t fix. And I look right smart, too, in tails and white gloves.”
Captain Coughlin chuckled. “A sense of wit. Bully for you, son. Indeed.” He ran a hand over the back of his head. “It’s not a full-time position that’s being offered. Nor do I offer any lodging.”
“I understand, sir.”
“You would work roughly forty hours a week, and most of it would be driving Mrs. Coughlin to mass, cleaning, maintenance, and the serving of meals. Do you cook?”
“I can, sir.”
“Not a bother. Nora will do most of that.” Captain Coughlin gave another wave of his cigar. “She’s the lass you just met. She lives with us. She does chores as well, but she’s gone most of the day, working at a factory. You’ll meet Mrs. Coughlin soon,” he said, and his eyes glittered again. “I may be the head of the household, but God was remiss in telling her. You follow my meaning? Anything she asks, you hop to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay on the east side of the neighborhood.”
“Sir?”
Captain Coughlin brought his feet off the desk. “The east side, Mr. Laurence. The west side is fairly infamous for its intolerance of coloreds.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Word will get out, of course, that you work for me and that’s fair warning, sure, to most ruffians, even west-siders, but you can never be too careful.”
“Thank you for the advice, sir.”
The captain’s eyes fell on him through the smoke again. This time they were part of the smoke, swirling in it, swimming around Luther, looking into his eyes, his heart, his soul. Luther had seen hints of this ability in cops before — they didn’t call them copper’s eyes for nothing — but Captain Coughlin’s gaze achieved a level of invasion Luther had never come across in a man before. Hoped to never come across twice.
“Who taught you to read, Luther?” The captain’s voice was soft.
“A Mrs. Murtrey, sir. Hamilton School, just outside of Columbus.”
“What else she teach you?”
“Sir?”
“What else, Luther?” Captain Coughlin took another slow drag from his cigar.
“I don’t understand the question, sir.”
“What else?” the captain said for a third time.
“Sir, I’m not following you.”
“Grew up poor, I imagine?” The captain leaned forward ever so slightly, and Luther resisted the urge to push his chair back.
Luther nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Sharecropping?”
“Not me so much, sir. My mother and father, though, yeah.”
Captain Coughlin nodded, his lips pursed and pained. “Was born into nothing myself. A two-room thatched hut we shared with flies and field rats, it was. No place to be a child. Certainly no place to be an intelligent child. You know what an intelligent child learns in those circumstances, Mr. Laurence?”
“No, sir.”
“Yes, you do, son.” Captain Coughlin smiled a third time since Luther had met him, and this smile snaked into the air like the captain’s gaze and circled. “Don’t muck about with me, son.”
“I’m just not sure what kind of ground I’m standing on, sir.”
Captain Coughlin gave that a cock of his head and then a nod. “An intelligent child born to less than advantageous surroundings, Luther, learns to charm.” He reached across the desk; his fingers twirled through the smoke. “He learns to hide behind that charm so that no one ever sees what he’s really thinking. Or feeling.”
He went to a decanter behind his desk and poured two helpings of amber liquid into crystal scotch glasses. He brought the drinks around the desk and handed one to Luther, the first time Luther’d ever been handed a glass by a white man.
“I’m going to hire you, Luther, because you intrigue me.” The captain sat on the edge of the desk and clinked his glass off Luther’s. He reached behind him and came back with an envelope. He handed it to Luther. “Avery Wallace left that for whoever replaced him. You’ll note its seal has not been tampered with.”
Luther saw a maroon wax seal on the back of the envelope. He turned it back over, saw that it was addressed to: MY REPLACEMENT. FROM AVERY WALLACE.
Luther took a drink of scotch. As good as any he’d ever tasted. “Thank you, sir.”
Captain Coughlin nodded. “I respected Avery’s privacy. I’ll respect yours. But don’t ever think I don’t know you, son. I know you like I know the mirror.”
“Yes, sir.”
“‘Yes, sir,’ what?”
“Yes, sir, you know me.”
“And what do I know?”
“That I’m smarter than I let on.”
The captain said, “And what else?”
Luther met his eyes. “I’m not as smart as you.”
A fourth smile. Cocked up the right side and certain. Another clink of the glasses.
“Welcome to my home, Luther Laurence.”
Luther read the note from Avery Wallace on the streetcar back to the Giddreauxs.
To my replacement,
If you are reading this, I am dead. If you are reading this, you are also Negro, as was I, because the white folk on K, L, and M Streets only hire Negro house men. The Coughlin family is not so bad for white folk. The Captain is never to be trifled with but he will treat you fair if you don’t cross him. His sons are mostly good. Mister Connor will snap at you every now and again. Joe is just a boy and will talk your ear off if you let him. Danny is a strange. He definitely does his own thinking. He is like the Captain, though, he will treat you fair and like a man. Nora is a funny thinker herself but there is not any wool over her eyes. You can trust her. Be careful with Mrs. Coughlin. Do what she asks and never question her. Stay well clear of the Captain’s friend, Lieutenant McKenna. He is something the Lord should have dropped. Good luck.
Sincerely,
Luther looked up from the letter as the streetcar crossed the Broadway Bridge while the Fort Point Channel ran silver and sluggish below.
So this was his new life. So this was his new city.
Every morning, at six-fifty sharp, Mrs. Ellen Coughlin left the residence at 221 K Street and ventured down the stairs, where Luther waited by the family car, a six-cylinder Auburn. Mrs. Coughlin would acknowledge him with a nod as she accepted his hand and climbed into the passenger seat. Once she was settled, Luther would close the door as softly as Captain Coughlin had instructed and drive Mrs. Coughlin a few short blocks to the seven o’clock mass at Gate of Heaven Church. He would remain outside the car for the duration of the mass and often chat with another houseman, Clayton Tomes, who worked for Mrs. Amy Wagenfeld, a widow who lived on M Street, South Boston’s most prestigious address, in a town house overlooking Independence Square Park.
Mrs. Ellen Coughlin and Mrs. Amy Wagenfeld were not friends — as far as Luther and Clayton could tell, old white women didn’t have friends — but their valets eventually formed a bond. Both were from the Midwest — Clayton grew up in Indiana not far from French Lick — and both were valets for employers who would have had little use for them had they placed just one foot in the twentieth century. Luther’s first job after returning Mrs. Coughlin to her household every morning was to cut wood for the stove, while Clayton’s was to haul coal to the basement.