And the calls kept coming in:

The manager of Mully’s Diner beaten unconscious when a roomful of patrons decided not to pay their bills. The poor sod at Haymarket Relief now with a broken nose, a shattered eardrum, and half a dozen missing teeth.

At Broadway and E, some fun-loving fellas drove a stolen buggy over the sidewalk and into the front window of O’Donnell’s Bakery. That wasn’t enough revelry, however—they had to set it afire. In the process, they torched the bakery and burned seventeen years of Declan O’Donnell’s dreams to soot.

Budnick Creamery—destroyed. Connor & O’Keefe’s—ash. Up and down Broadway, haberdashers, tailors, pawnshops, produce stores, even a bicycle shop—all gone. Either burned to the ground or smashed beyond salvage.

Boys and girls, most younger than Joe, hurled eggs and rocks from the roof of Mohican Market, and the scant few officers Thomas could afford to send reported they were helpless to fire back at children. Responding firemen complained of the same thing.

And the latest report—a streetcar forced to stop at the corner of Broadway and Dorchester Street because of all the goods piled in the intersection. The mob added boxes, barrels, and mattresses to the pile and then someone brought some gasoline and a box of matches. The occupants of the streetcar were forced to flee the car along with the driver and most were beaten while the crowd rushed onto the car, tore the seats from their metal clamps, and tossed them through the windows.

What was this addiction to broken glass? That’s what Thomas wanted to know. How was one to stop this madness? He had a mere twenty-two policemen under his command, most sergeants and lieutenants, most well into their forties, plus a contingent of useless frightened volunteers.

“Captain Coughlin?”

He looked up at Mike Eigen, a recently promoted sergeant, standing in the doorway.

“Jesus, Sergeant, what now?”

“Someone sent a contingent of Metro Park Police in to patrol Southie.”

Thomas stood. “No one told me.”

“Not sure where the order came from, Cap’, but they’re pinned down.”

“What?”

Eigen nodded. “St. Augustine’s Church. Guy’s are dropping.”

“Bullets?”

Eigen shook his head. “Rocks, Cap’.”

A church. Brother officers being stoned. At a church. In his precinct.

Thomas Coughlin didn’t know he’d overturned his desk until he heard it crack against the floor. Sergeant Eigen took a step back.

“Enough,” Thomas said. “By God, enough.”

Thomas reached for the gun belt he hung on his coat tree every morning.

Sergeant Eigen watched him buckle the gun belt. “I’d say so, Cap’.”

Thomas reached for the bottom left drawer of his overturned desk. He lifted the drawer out and propped it on the two upper drawers. He removed a box of .32 shells and stuffed it in his pocket. Found a box of shotgun shells and placed them in the opposite pocket. He looked up at Sergeant Eigen. “Why are you still here?”

“Cap’?”

“Assemble every man still standing in this mausoleum. We’ve got a donnybrook to attend.” Thomas raised his eyebrows. “And we shan’t be fooling about in that regard, Sergeant.”