“Suh?”

McKenna peered at the doors of the homes as he rolled slowly up the street. “Did you leave family behind in Canton?”

“Columbus, suh.”

“Columbus, right.”

“No, suh. Just me.”

“What brought you all the way to Boston, then?”

“That’s the one.”

“Huh?”

“The Giddreauxs’ house, suh, you just passed it.”

McKenna applied the brakes. “Well, then,” he said. “Another time.”

“I look forward to it, suh.”

“Stay warm, Luther! Bundle up!”

“I will. Thank you, suh.” Luther climbed out of the car. He walked around behind it and reached the sidewalk, hearing McKenna’s window roll down as he did.

“You read about it,” McKenna said.

Luther turned. “Which, suh?”

“Boston!” McKenna’s eyebrows were raised happily.

“Not really, sir.”

McKenna nodded, as if it all made perfect sense to him. “Eight hundred miles.”

“Suh?”

“The distance,” McKenna said, “between Boston and Columbus.” He patted his car door. “Good night to you, Luther.”

“Good night, suh.”

Luther stood on the sidewalk and watched McKenna drive off. He raised his arms and got a look at his hands—shaking, but not too bad. Not too bad at all. Considering.

CHAPTER seventeen

Danny met Steve Coyle for a drink at the Warren Tavern in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, the day more winter than autumn. Steve made several jokes about Danny’s beard and asked him about his case, even though Danny had to repeat, with apologies, that he couldn’t discuss an open investigation with a civilian.

“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.”