“Yeah?” Luther chuckled. “Finally figured it out, uh?”

“We’ve been in love,” Nora said to Danny. “We finally faced it.”

“Well,” Luther said, “ain’t that a pip?”

Nora laughed and Danny’s smile broadened. They raised their glasses and drank.

“What you got under your arm there?” Danny said.

“Oh, oh, this, yeah.” Luther placed his drink down on the tiny table and opened the envelope. Just pulling out the cardboard, his hands trembled again. He held the cardboard in his hands and offered it to Nora. “I can’t explain why I came here. Why I wanted you to see it. I just…” He shrugged.

Nora reached out and squeezed his arm. “It’s all right.”

“It seemed important to show someone. To show you.”

Danny placed his drink down and came over beside Nora. She lifted off the top piece of cardboard, and their eyes widened. Nora slid her arm under Danny’s and placed her cheek to his arm.

“He’s beautiful,” Danny said softly.

Luther nodded. “That’s my son,” he said while his face filled with warm blood. “That’s my baby boy.”

CHAPTER twenty-nine

Steve Coyle was drunk but freshly bathed when, as a licensed justice of the peace, he officiated over the marriage of Danny Coughlin and Nora O’Shea on June 3, 1919.

The night before, a bomb had exploded outside the home of Attorney General Palmer in Washington, D.C. The detonation came as a surprise to the bomber, who’d still been several yards short of Palmer’s front door. Though his head was eventually recovered from a rooftop four blocks away, the man’s legs and arms were never found. Attempts to identify him using only his head met with failure. The explosion destroyed the facade of Palmer’s building and shattered the windows that faced the street. His living room, sitting room, foyer, and dining room were obliterated. Palmer had been in the kitchen at the back of the house, and he was discovered under the rubble, remarkably unscathed, by the assistant secretary of the navy, Franklin Roosevelt, who lived across the street. While the bomber’s charred head wasn’t sufficient to identify him, it was clear he’d been an anarchist by the pamphlets he’d been carrying, which floated over R Street in the moments after the attack and soon adhered themselves to the streets and buildings of a three-block area. Under the heading “Plain Words,” the message was nearly identical to those plastered to street poles in Boston seven weeks before:

You have left us no choice. There will have to be bloodshed. We will destroy and rid the world of your tyrannical institutions. Long live social revolution. Down with tyranny. The Anarchist Fighters

Attorney General Palmer, described in the Washington Post as “shaken but uncowed,” promised to redouble his efforts and entrench his resolve. He warned all Reds on U.S. soil to consider themselves on notice. “This will be a summer of discontent,” Palmer promised, “but not for this country. Only her enemies.”

Danny and Nora’s wedding reception was held on the rooftop of Danny’s rooming house. The cops who attended were of low rank. Most were acting members of the BSC. Some brought their wives, others their girlfriends. Danny introduced Luther to them as “the man who saved my life.” That seemed good enough for most of them, though Luther noted a few who seemed disinclined to leave their wallets or their women out of sight as long as Luther was in proximity to either.