“Who’s the mutts?”

Babe looked at Gandill. “You know who the mutts are. Sport Sullivan? Abe Fucking Attell? They’re mutts work for Rothstein and Rothstein’s the mutt of mutts. What the fuck you doing talking to a pair of mutts like that, Chick?”

“Gee, Mom, next time let me ask permission.”

“They’re dirty as the Muddy River, Gandil. You know it and anyone else with eyes knows it, too. You get seen with a pair of diamond dandies like that, who’s going to believe you ain’t taking?”

“Why do you think I met him here?” Chick said. “This ain’t Chicago. It’s nice and quiet. And no one’ll get wind, Babe, my boy, long as you keep your nigger lips shut.” Gandil smiled and drained his drink and dropped it to the bar. “Shoving off, my boy. Keep swinging for the fences. You’ve gotta hit one sometime this month, right?” He clapped Babe on the back and laughed and walked out of the bar.

Nigger lips. Shit.

Babe ordered another.

Police talking about a strike, ballplayers talking to known fixers, his home-run-record chase stalled at sixteen because of a chance sighting of a colored fella he’d met once in Ohio.

Was anything fucking sacred anymore?

The BOSTON POLICE STRIKE

CHAPTER thirty-three

Danny met with Ralph Raphelson at the headquarters of the Boston Central Labor Union on the first Thursday in August. Raphelson was so tall he was one of the rare men with a face Danny had to look up into as he shook his hand. Thin as a fingernail, with wispy blond hair racing to depart the steep slope of his skull, he motioned Danny to a chair and took his own behind his desk. Beyond the windows, a hot-soup rain fell from beige clouds and the streets smelled like stewed produce.

“Let’s start with the obvious,” Ralph Raphelson said. “If you have an itch to comment on or give me the rough work about my name, please scratch it now.”

Danny let Raphelson see him consider it before he said, “Nope. All set.”

“Much appreciated.” Raphelson opened his hands. “What can we do for the Boston Police Department this morning, Officer Coughlin?”

“I represent the Boston Social Club,” Danny said. “We’re the organized-labor arm of the—”

“I know who you are, Officer.” Raphelson gave his desk blotter a light pat. “And I’m well acquainted with the BSC. Let me put your mind at ease—we want to help.”

Danny nodded. “Mr. Raphelson—”

“Ralph.”

“Ralph, if you know who I am, then you know I’ve talked to several of your member groups.”

“Oh, I do, yes. I hear you’re quite convincing.”

Danny’s first thought: I am? He wiped some rain off his coat. “If our hand is forced and we have no choice but to walk off the job, would the Central Labor Union support us?”

“Verbally? Of course.”

“How about physically?”

“You’re talking about a sympathy strike.”

Danny met his eyes. “Yes, I am.”

Raphelson rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “You understand how many men the Boston Central Labor Union represents?”