And James, who in addition to being a businessman and a mechanic, was, it turned out, an ordained minister and justice of the peace, held up his Bible and said, “I believe we have a solution to your dilemma.”

CHAPTER three

The day the Red Sox played their first World Series home game against the Cubs, First Precinct Duty Sergeant George Strivakis called Danny and Steve into his office and asked them if they had their sea legs.

“Sergeant?”

“Your sea legs. Can you join a couple of Harbor coppers and visit a ship for us?”

Danny and Steve looked at each other and shrugged.

“I’ll be honest,” Strivakis said, “some soldiers are sick out there. Captain Meadows is under orders from the deputy chief who’s under orders from O’Meara himself to deal with the situation as quietly as possible.”

“How sick?” Steve asked.

Strivakis shrugged.

Steve snorted. “How sick, Sarge?”

Another shrug, that shrug making Danny more nervous than anything else, old George Strivakis not wanting to commit to the slightest evidence of knowledge aforethought.

Danny said, “Why us?”

“Because ten men already turned it down. You’re eleven and twelve.”

“Oh,” Steve said.

Strivakis hunched forward. “What we would like is two bright officers to proudly represent the police department of the great city of Boston. You are to go out to this boat, assess the situation, and make a decision in the best interest of your fellow man. Should you successfully complete your mission, you will be rewarded with one half-day off and the everlasting thanks of your beloved department.”

“We’d like a little more than that,” Danny said. He looked over the desk at his duty sergeant. “With all due respect to our beloved department, of course.”

In the end, they struck a deal—paid sick days if they contracted whatever the soldiers had, the next two Saturdays off, and the department had to foot the next three cleaning bills for their uniforms.

Strivakis said, “Mercenaries, the both of you,” and then shook their hands to seal the contract.

The USS McKinley had just arrived from France. It carried soldiers returning from battle in places with names like Saint-Mihiel and Pont-à-Mousson and Verdun. Somewhere between Marseilles and Boston, several of the soldiers had grown ill. The conditions of three of them were now deemed so dire that ship doctors had contacted Camp Devens to tell the colonel in charge that unless these men were evacuated to a military hospital they would die before sundown. And so on a fine September afternoon, when they could have been working a soft detail at the World Series, Danny and Steve joined two officers of the Harbor Police on Commercial Wharf as gulls chased the fog out to sea and the dark waterfront brick steamed.

One of the Harbor cops, an Englishman named Ethan Gray, handed Danny and Steve their surgical masks and white cotton gloves.

“They say it helps.” He smiled into the sharp sun.

“Who’s they?” Danny pulled the surgical mask over his head and down his face until it hung around his neck.