The Given Day (Coughlin 1)

"Yes or no, Patrolman. Do you think the people of this city want excuses? I've talked to them, sir, and they do not. Did you, or did you not, fail to appear at roll call?"

He hunched his shoulder forward, the finger still pointed. Danny would have thought it comical if it had come from any other source, on any other day, in any other country. But Curtis had come to the table with something they'd never expected, something they would have thought outmoded and out-lived in the modern age: a kind of funda--

mental righteousness that only the fundamental possessed. Unfettered by doubt, it achieved the appearance of moral intelligence and a resolute conscience. The terrible thing was how small it made you feel, how weaponless. How could you fight righteous rage if the only arms you bore were logic and sanity?

Denton opened up his attache case and pulled out the pages he'd been working on for weeks. "Sir, if I could turn your attention to the raise we were promised in--"

"We?" Curtis said.

"Yes, the Boston Police Department, sir."

"You dare claim to represent these fine men?" Curtis scowled. "I've spoken to many a man since taking office, and I can tell you that they do not elect to call you 'Leader,' Patrolman Denton. They are tired of you putting words in their mouths and painting them as malcontents. Why, I spoke to a flatfoot at the Twelfth just yesterday and you know what he said to me? He said, 'Commissioner Curtis, we police at the One-Two are proud to serve our city in a time of need, sir. You tell the folks out there in the neighborhoods that we won't go Bolsheviki. We're police offi cers.' "

Mark removed his own pen and notebook. "If I could have his name, sir, I'd be happy to speak with him regarding any grievances he may have with me."

Curtis waved it away. "I have talked to several dozen men, Patrolman Denton, from all over the city. Several dozen. And none of them, I promise you, is Bolsheviki."

"Nor am I, sir."

"Patrolman Coughlin." Curtis turned over another sheet of paper. "You were on special duty of late, as I understand it. Investigating terrorist cells in the city?"

Danny nodded.

"And how did that progress?"

"Fine, sir."

"Fine?" Curtis tugged at the flesh over his wing collar. "I've read Lieutenant McKenna's duty reports. They're padded with ambiguous projections with no basis in any reality. That led me to study the files of his previous Special Squads and once again I'm at a loss to discern any return on the public's trust. Now this, Offi cer Coughlin, is exactly the kind of busywork that I find detracts from a police officer's sworn duties. Could you describe for me specifically what kind of progress you feel you made with these--what are their names?--Lettish Workers before your cover was blown?"

"Lettish Workingman's Society, sir," Danny said. "And the progress is a bit difficult to ascertain. I was undercover, attempting to get closer to Louis Fraina, the leader of the group, a known subversive, and the editor of Revolutionary Age."

"To what end?"

"We have reason to believe they're planning an attack in this city." "When?"

"May Day seems a likely target date, but there have been whispers that--"

"Whispers," Curtis said. "I question whether we have a terrorist problem at all."

"Sir, with all due respect, I--"

Curtis nodded half a dozen times. "Yes, you shot one. I am quite aware of it, as I'm sure your great-great-grandchildren will be. But he was one man. The only one, in my opinion, operating in this city. Are you trying to scare businesses away from this city? Do you think if it becomes common knowledge that we're engaged in some far-fl ung operation designated to expose dozens of terrorist sects within our city limits that any reasonable-minded company would set up shop here. Why, they'll run to New York, men! To Philadelphia! Providence!"

"Lieutenant McKenna and several members of the Justice Department," Danny said, "believe that May Day is a target date for national revolt."

Curtis's gaze remained on his desktop and in the silence that followed Danny wondered if he'd heard anything he'd said.

"You had a pair of anarchists making bombs right under your nose. Yes?"

Mark looked over at him. Danny nodded.

"And so you took this assignment to atone and managed to kill one of them."

Danny said, "Something like that, sir."

"Do you have a blood thirst for subversives, Offi cer?"

Danny said, "I don't like the violent ones, sir, but I wouldn't call it a blood thirst."

Curtis nodded. "And what of subversives right now within our own department, men who are spreading discontent among the ranks, men who would Rus sianize this honorable protectorate of the public interest? Men who gather and talk of striking, of putting their petty interests before the common good?"

Mark stood. "Let's go, Dan."

Curtis narrowed his eyes and they were dark marbles of wasted promise. "If you do not sit, I will suspend you--right here and right now--and you can fight your battle for reinstatement through a judge."

Mark sat. "You are making a grave mistake, sir. When the press hear about--"

"They stayed home today," Curtis said.

"What?"

"Once they were informed late last night that Mayor Peters would not be in attendance and that the main order of business would have very little to do with this 'union' you call a social club, they decided to spend time with their families. Do you know any well enough to possess their home telephone numbers, Patrolman Denton?"

Danny felt numb and sickly warm as Curtis turned his attention back to him.

"Patrolman Coughlin, I feel you are wasted in street patrol. I would like you to join Detective Sergeant Steven Harris in Internal Affairs."

Danny felt the numbness leave him. He shook his head. "No, sir."

"You're refusing a request from your commissioner? You, who slept with a bomb thrower? A bomb thrower who, as far as we know, is still lurking in our streets?"

"I am, sir, but respectfully."

"There is no respect in the denial of a superior's request." "I'm sorry you see it that way, sir."

Curtis leaned back in his chair. "So you're a friend of the workingman, of the Bolsheviki, of the subversive who masquerades as the 'common man.'"

"I believe the Boston Social Club represents the men of the BPD, sir."

"I do not," Curtis said. He drummed his hand on the desktop. "That's clear, sir." This time Danny stood up.