The Given Day (36 page)

"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 fi ngers 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 30 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 e stato un errore. Back up. Sostegno! Sostegno! She's coming out. Sta uscendo. Back up. Sostegno!"

To his surprise, the crowd took a few steps back and Danny opened the door and pulled the shaking girl across the seat. Several people let out whoops and claps, and Danny hugged Arabella to his body and headed for the sidewalk. She clutched her hands to her chest and Danny could feel something hard and square under her arms. He looked in her eyes, but all he saw there was fear.

Danny held tight to Arabella and nodded his thanks to the people he passed. He gave Finch one last look and gestured up the street with his head. Another smattering of cheers broke out and the crowd began to thin around the car. Finch nudged the car forward a few feet and the mob backed up farther and the tires rolled. Then the first orange hit. The fruit was cold and sounded more like a rock. That was followed by an apple, then a potato, and then the car was pelted with fruit and vegetables. But it made steady progress up Salem Street. Some urchins ran alongside, shouting at it, but there were smiles on their faces and the jeers from the crowd had a festive air to them.

Danny reached the sidewalk and Mrs. DiMassi took her niece from him and led her toward the stairs. Danny watched the taillights of Finch's Hudson reach the corner. Steve Coyle stood beside him, wiping his head with a handkerchief and looking out at the street littered with half-frozen fruit.

"Calls for a drink, uh?" He handed Danny his flask.

Danny took a drink but said nothing. He looked at Arabella Mosca huddled in her aunt's arms. He wondered whose side he was on anymore.

"I'm going to need to talk to her, Mrs. DiMassi."

Mrs. DiMassi looked up into his face.

"Now," he said.

Arabella Mosca was a small woman with wide almond eyes and short blue-black hair. She didn't speak a word of English outside of hello, good-bye, and thank you. She sat on the couch in her aunt's sitting room, her hands still clenched within Mrs. DiMassi's, and she had yet to remove her coat.

Danny said to Mrs. DiMassi, "Could you ask her what she's hiding beneath her coat?"

Mrs. DiMassi glanced at her niece's coat and frowned. She pointed and asked her to open her coat.

Arabella tilted her chin down toward her chest and shook her head vehemently.

302DENNIS LEHANE

"Please," Danny said.

Mrs. DiMassi wasn't the type to say "please" to a younger relative. Instead, she slapped her. Arabella barely reacted. She lowered her head farther and shook it again. Mrs. DiMassi reared back on the couch and cocked her arm.

Danny stuck his upper body between them. "Arabella," he said in halting Italian, "they will deport your husband."

Her chin came off her chest.

He nodded. "The men in straw hats. They will."

A torrent of Italian flew from Arabella's mouth and Mrs. DiMassi held up a hand, Arabella talking so fast even she seemed to be having trouble following. She turned to Danny.

"She said they can't do this. He has job."

"He's an illegal," Danny said.

"Bah," she said. "Half this neighborhood illegal. They deport everyone?" Danny shook his head. "Just the ones who annoy them. Tell her." Mrs. DiMassi held her hand out below Arabella's chin. "Dammi quel che tieni sotto il cappotto, o tuo marito passera'il prossimo Natale a Palermo."

Arabella said, "No, no, no."

Mrs. DiMassi cocked her arm again and spoke as fast as Arabella. "Questi Americani ci trattano come cani. Non ti permettero'di umiliarmi dinanzi ad uno di loro. Apri il cappotto, o te lo strappo di dosso!"

Whatever she said--Danny caught "American dogs" and "don't disgrace me"--it worked. Arabella opened her coat and removed a white paper bag. She handed it to Mrs. DiMassi who handed it to Danny.

Danny looked inside and saw a stack of paper. He pulled out the top sheet:

While you rest and kneel, we worked. We executed. This is the beginning, not the end. Never the end. Your childish god and childish blood run to the sea. Your childish world is next.

THE GIVEN DAYDanny showed the note to Steve and said to Mrs. DiMassi, "When was she supposed to distribute these?"

Mrs. DiMassi spoke to her niece. Arabella started to shake her head, then stopped. She whispered a word to Mrs. DiMassi who turned back to Danny. "Sundown."

He turned back to Steve. "How many churches have a late mass?" "In the North End? Two, maybe three. Why?"

Danny pointed at the note. " 'While you rest and kneel.' Yeah?" Steve shook his head. "No."

"You rest on the Sabbath," Danny said. "You kneel in church. And at the end--your blood runs to the sea. Gotta be a church near the waterfront."

Steve went to Mrs. DiMassi's phone. "I'm calling it in. What's your guess?"

"There's only two churches that fit. Saint Teresa's and Saint Thomas' s."

"Saint Thomas doesn't have an evening mass."

Danny headed for the door. "You'll catch up?"

Steve smiled, phone to his ear. "Me and my cane, sure." He waved Danny off. "Go, go. And, Dan?"

Danny paused at the door. "Yeah?"

"Shoot first," he said. "And shoot often."

St. Teresa's stood at the corner of Fleet and Atlantic across from Lewis Wharf. One of the oldest churches in the North End, it was small and starting to crumble. Danny bent to catch his breath, his shirt drenched in sweat from his run. He pulled his watch from his pocket: fi ve- forty-eight. Mass would end soon. If, like Salutation, the bomb was in the basement, about the only thing to do would be to rush into the church and order everyone out. Steve had made the call, so the bomb squad couldn't be far off. But if the bomb was in the basement, why hadn't it detonated? Parishioners had been in there for over forty-fi ve minutes. Ample time to blow out the floor beneath them. . . .

304DENNIS LEHANE

Danny heard it then, off in the distance, the first siren, the first patrol car leaving the Oh-One, surely followed by others.

The intersection was quiet, empty--a few jalopies parked in front of the church, none of them more than a step removed from a horse- drawn cart, though a couple had been maintained with pride. He scanned the rooftops across the street, thinking: Why a church? Even for anarchists, it seemed political suicide, especially in the North End. Then he remembered that the only reason any churches in the neighborhood offered early-evening mass had been to cater to workers deemed so "essential" during the war they couldn't be afforded a day off on the Sabbath. "Essential" meant some connection, however broad, to the military--men and women who worked with arms, steel, rubber, or industrial alcohol. So this church wasn't just a church, it was a military target.

Inside the church, dozens of voices rose in hymn. He had no choice--get the people out. Why the bomb hadn't gone off yet, he couldn't say. Maybe he was a week early. Maybe the bomber was having trouble with the detonation--anarchists often did. There were dozens of plausible reasons for the lack of an explosion, but none of them would mean shit if he let the worshippers die. Get them to safety, then worry about questions or possible egg on his face. For now, just get them the fuck out.

He started across the street and noticed that one of the jalopies was double-parked.