“You, too, Miss O’Shea.”

She bowed and took her leave.

“Come in, come in.” Captain Coughlin swung the door wide, and Luther entered a study that smelled of good tobacco, a recent fire in the hearth, and the dying autumn. Captain Coughlin led him to a leather chair and went around the other side of a large mahogany desk and took his seat by the window.

“Isaiah Giddreaux said you’re from Ohio.”

“Yes, suh.”

“I heard you say ‘sir.’”

“Suh?”

“Just a moment ago. When we met.” His light blue eyes glittered. “You said ‘sir,’ not ‘suh.’ Which will it be, son?”

“Which do you prefer, Captain?”

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.