“But it’s me,” Steve said, then held up a hand. “Just kidding, just kidding. I understand.” He gave Danny a smile that was huge and weak at the same time. “I do.”
So they talked about old cases, old days, old times. Danny had one drink for every three Steve had. Steve lived in the West End these days in a windowless room of a rooming-house basement that had been partitioned into six sections, all of which smelled thickly of coal.
“No indoor plumbing still,” Steve said. “Believe that? Out to the shed in the backyard like it was 1910. Like we’re in western Mass., or jigaboos.” He shook his head. “And if you’re not in the house by eleven? The old geezer locks you out for the night. Some way to live.” He gave Danny his big weak smile again and drank some more. “Soon as I get my cart, though? Things’ll change, I’ll tell you that.”
Steve’s latest employment plan involved setting up a fruit cart outside Faneuil Hall Marketplace. The fact that there were already a dozen such carts owned by some very violent, if not outright vicious, men didn’t seem to dissuade him. The fact that the fruit wholesalers were so leery toward new operators they charged “inaugural” rates for the first six months, which made it impossible to break even, was something Steve dismissed as “hearsay.” The fact that City Hall had stopped giving out merchant medallions for that area two years ago didn’t trouble him either. “All the people I know at the Hall?” he’d said to Danny. “Hell, they’ll pay me to set up shop.”
Danny didn’t point out that two weeks earlier Steve had told Danny he was the only person from the old days who answered his calls. He just nodded and smiled his encouragement. What else could you do?
“Another?” Steve said.
Danny looked at his watch. He was meeting Nathan Bishop for dinner at seven. He shook his head. “Can’t do it.”
Steve, who’d already signaled the bartender, covered the dejection that flashed across his eyes with his too-big smile and a laugh-bark. “All set, Kevin.”
The bartender scowled and removed his hand from the tap. “You owe me a dollar twenty, Coyle. And you best have it this time, rummy.”
Steve patted his pockets but Danny said, “I got it.”
“You sure?”
“Sure.” Danny slid out of the booth and approached the bar. “Hey, Kevin. Got a sec’?”
The bartender came over like he was doing a favor. “What?”
Danny placed the dollar and four nickels on the bar. “For you.”
“Must be my birthday.”
When he reached for the money, Danny caught his wrist and pulled it toward him.
“Smile or I break it.”
“What?”
“Smile like we’re chatting about the Sox or I’ll break your fucking wrist.”
Kevin smiled, his jaw clenched, eyes starting to bulge.
“I ever hear you call my friend ‘rummy’ again, you fucking bartender, I’ll knock out all your teeth and feed them back to you through your ass.”
“I—”
Danny twisted the flesh in his hand. “Don’t you do a fucking thing but nod.”
Kevin bit his lower lip and nodded four times.
“And his next round’s on the house,” Danny said and let go of his wrist.
They walked up Hanover in the fading of the day’s light. Danny planned to slip into his rooming house and grab a few pieces of warmer clothing to bring back to his cover apartment. Steve said he just wanted to wander through his old neighborhood. They’d reached Prince Street when crowds ran past them toward Salem Street. When they reached the corner where Danny’s building stood, they saw a sea of people surrounding a black Hudson Super Six, a few men and several boys jumping on and off the running boards and the hood.
“What the hell?” Steve said.
“Officer Danny! Officer Danny!” Mrs. DiMassi waved frantically at him from the stoop. Danny lowered his head for a moment — weeks of undercover work possibly blown because an old woman recognized him, beard and all, from twenty yards away. Through the throng, Danny saw that the driver of the car had a straw hat, as did the passenger.
“They try and take my niece,” Mrs. DiMassi said when he and Steve reached her. “They try and take Arabella.”
Danny, with a fresh angle on the car, could see Rayme Finch behind the wheel, tooting the horn as he tried to move the car forward.
The crowd wasn’t having it. They weren’t throwing anything yet, but they were yelling and clenching their fists and shouting curses in Italian. Danny saw two members of the Black Hand moving along the edges of the mob.
“She’s in the car?” Danny said.
“In back,” Mrs. DiMassi cried. “They take her.”
Danny gave her hand a tug of encouragement and began pushing his way through the crowd. Finch’s eyes met his and narrowed. After about ten seconds, recognition found Finch’s face. It was quickly replaced, though. Not with fear of the crowd, just stubborn determination as he kept the car in gear and tried to inch forward.
Someone pushed Danny, and he almost lost his balance but was buffeted by a pair of middle-aged women with beefy arms. A kid climbed a streetlamp pole with an orange in his hand. If the kid had a decent throwing arm this would get scary fast.
Danny reached the car, and Finch cracked the window. Arabella was curled up on the backseat, her eyes wide, her fingers grasping her crucifix, her lips moving in prayer.
“Get her out,” Danny said.
“Move the crowd.”
“You want a riot?” Danny said.
“You want some dead Italians in the street?” Finch banged on the horn with his fist. “Get them the fuck out of the way, Coughlin.”
“This girl knows nothing about anarchists,” Danny said.
“She was seen with Federico Ficara.”
Danny looked in at Arabella. She looked back at him with eyes that comprehended nothing except the growing fury of the mob. An elbow pushed off Danny’s lower back and he was pressed hard against the car.
“Steve!” he called. “You back there?”
“About ten feet.”
“Can you get me some room?”
“Have to use my cane.”
“Fine with me.” Danny turned back, pressed his face into the crack of window Rayme Finch had afforded him, and said, “You saw her with Federico?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About half an hour ago. Down by the bread factory.”
“You personally?”
“No. Another agent. Federico ducked him, but we got a positive ID on this girl.”
The top of someone’s head drove itself into Danny’s back. He swatted at it, tagged a chin.
He pressed his lips to the window crack. “If you leave with her, and then return her to the neighborhood, Finch? She will be assassinated. You hear me? You’re killing her. Let her out. Let me handle it.” Another body jostled his back and a man climbed up on the hood. “I can barely breathe out here.”
Finch said, “We can’t back down now.”
A second guy climbed on the hood and the car began to rock.
“Finch! You’ve already fucked her by putting her in the car. Some people are going to think she is an informant, no matter what. But we can save this situation if you let her out now. Otherwise …” Another body slammed into Danny’s. “Jesus, Finch! Unlock the fucking door.”
“You and me are going to have a talk.”
“Fine. We’ll talk. Open the door.”
Finch gave him one last long look to let him know this wasn’t over, not by a damn sight, and then he reached back and unlocked the rear door and Danny got his hand on the handle and turned to the crowd. “There’s been a mistake. Ci è stato un errore. Back up. Sostegno! Sostegno! She’s coming out. Sta uscendo. Back up. Sostegno!”