“I’ve heard a shade under eighty thousand.”

“A shade over,” Raphelson said. “We just picked up a plumbers local from West Roxbury.”

“A shade over then.”

“You ever known eight men could agree on anything?”

“Rarely.”

“And we’ve got eighty thousand—firemen, plumbers, phone operators, machinists, teamsters, boilermakers, and transit men. And you want me to bring them into agreement to strike on behalf of men who’ve hit them with clubs when they struck?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

That brought a smile to Raphelson’s eyes if not his lips.

“Why not?” Danny repeated. “You know any of those men whose wages have kept up with the cost of living? Any who can keep their families fed and still find the time to read their kids a story at bedtime? They can’t, Ralph. They’re not treated like workers. They’re treated like field hands.”

Raphelson laced his hands behind his head and considered Danny. “You’re pretty swell at the emotional rhetoric, Coughlin. Pretty swell.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment. I have to deal in practicalities. Once all the essential-dignity-of-the-working-class sentiments are dispensed with, who’s to say my eighty thousand men have jobs to come back to? You seen the latest unemployment figures? Why shouldn’t those men take my men’s jobs? What if your strike drags on? Who’s to keep the families fed if the men finally have the time to read those bedtime stories? Their kids’ stomachs are rumbling, but glory hallelujah, they’ve got fairy tales. You say, ‘Why not?’ There are eighty thousand reasons and their families why not.”

It was cool and dark in the office, the blinds only half open to the dark day, the sole light coming from a small desk lamp by Raphelson’s elbow. Danny met Raphelson’s eyes and waited him out, sensing a caged anticipation in the man.

Raphelson sighed. “And yet, I’ll grant you, I’m interested.”

Danny leaned forward in his chair. “Then it’s my turn to ask why.”

Raphelson fiddled with his window blinds until the slats let in just a bit more of the damp day. “Organized labor is nearing a turning point. We’ve made our few strides over the past two decades mostly because we caught Big Money by surprise in some of the larger cities. But lately? Big Money’s gotten smart. They’re framing the debate by taking ownership of the language. You’re no longer a workingman fighting for his rights. You’re Bolsheviki. You’re a ‘subversive.’ Don’t like the eighty-hour week? You’re an anarchist. Only Commies expect disability pay.” He flicked a hand at the window. “It’s not just kids who like bedtime stories, Coughlin. We all do. We like them simple and comforting. And right now that’s what Big Money is doing to Labor—they’re telling a better bedtime story.” He turned his head from the window, gave Danny a smile. “Maybe we finally have an opportunity to rewrite it.”

“That’d be nice,” Danny said.

Raphelson stretched a long arm across the desk. “I’ll be in touch.”

Danny shook the hand. “Thank you.”