“Acceptable.” Hoover flicked the back of his hand at her and she gave him a look of hate and walked away.

Finch was pretty sure Hoover was a fag. Drank with one pinky extended, finicky and fussy in general, lived with his mother—all the signs. Of course with Hoover, you could never be sure. If Finch had discovered he fucked ponies in the mouth while painting himself in blackface and singing spirituals, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Nothing surprised Finch anymore. In his time with the Bureau, he’d learned one thing about men above all others: we were all sick. Sick in our heads. Sick in our hearts. Sick to our souls.

“Boston,” Hoover said and stirred his tea.

“What about it, John?”

“The police have learned nothing from Montreal, from Liverpool.”

“Apparently not. You really think they’ll strike?”

“They’re predominantly Hibernian,” Hoover said with a delicate shrug, “a race that never let prudence or reason cloud its judgment. Time and again, throughout history, the Irish have boasted their way into apocalypse. I find no cause to think they’ll do any different in Boston.”

Finch sipped his coffee. “Nice opportunity for Galleani to stir the pot, if they do.”

Hoover nodded. “Galleani and every other dime-store subversive in the area. Not to mention the garden variety criminal element will have a field day.”

“Should we involve ourselves?”

Hoover stared at him with those keen, depthless eyes. “To what end? This could be worse than Seattle. Worse than anything this country’s seen thus far. And if the public is forced to question whether this nation can police itself at local and state levels, who will they turn to?”

Finch allowed himself a smile. Say what you would about John, that sleek ugly mind of his was gorgeous. If he didn’t step on the wrong toes during his rise, there’d be no stopping him.

“The federal government,” Finch said.

Hoover nodded. “They’re tarring the road for us, Mr. Finch. All we have to do is wait for it to dry and then drive straight up it.”

CHAPTER thirty-four

Danny was on the phone in the squad room, talking to Dipsy Figgis of the One-Two about getting extra chairs for tonight’s meeting, when Kevin McRae wandered in, a piece of paper in his hand, a dazed look on his face, the kind a man got when he saw something he’d never expected, a long-dead relative, perhaps, or a kangaroo in his basement.

“Kev’?”

Kevin looked over at Danny as if he were trying to place him.

“What’s wrong?” Danny said.

McRae crossed to him, extending his hand, the paper between his fingers. “I’ve been suspended, Dan.” His eyes widened and he ran the piece of paper over his head, as if it were a towel. “Fucking suspended. You believe that? Curtis says we all have to attend a trial on charges of dereliction.”

“All?” Danny said. “How many men were suspended?”

“Nineteen, I heard. Nineteen.” He looked at Danny with the face of a child lost at Saturday market. “What the fuck am I going to do?” He waved the piece of paper at the squad room and his voice grew soft, almost a whisper. “This was my life.”