The Given Day (24 page)

"No?" Finch said. "Back in her room an hour ago, John found metal shavings in the floor cracks and burn marks that could have only come from acid. You want a look? They're making bombs, Offi cer Coughlin. No, correct that--they've made bombs. Probably used the manual Galleani wrote himself."

Danny went to the window and opened it. He sucked in the cold air and looked out at the harbor lights. Luigi Galleani was the father of anarchism in America, publicly devoted to the overthrow of the federal government. Name a major terrorist act in the last five years and he'd been fingered as the architect.

"As for your girlfriend," Finch said, "her real name is Tessa, but that's probably the only true thing you know about her." Finch came over to the window beside Danny and his father. He produced a folded handkerchief and opened it. "See this?"

Danny looked into the handkerchief and saw white powder.

"That's fulminate of mercury. Looks just like table salt, doesn't it? Put it on a rock and hit the rock with a hammer, though, and both the rock and the hammer will explode. Probably your arm, too. Your girlfriend was born Tessa Valparo in Naples. She grew up in a slum, lost her parents to cholera, and started working in a bordello at twelve. She killed a client when she was thirteen. With a razor and an impressive imagination. Fell in with Federico shortly after that and they came here."

"Where," Hoover said, "they quickly made the acquaintance of Luigi Galleani just north of here in Lynn. They helped him plan attacks in New York and Chicago and play sob sister to all those poor helpless workers from Cape Cod to Seattle. They worked on that disgraceful propaganda rag Cronaca Sovversiva as well. You're familiar with it?"

Danny said, "You can't work in the North End and not see it. People wrap their fish in it, for Christ's sake."

"And yet it's illegal," Hoover said.

"Well, it's illegal to distribute through the mail," Rayme Finch said. "I'm the reason it's so actually. I raided their offi ces. I've arrested Galleani twice. I guarantee you, I'll deport him before the year's out."

"Why haven't you deported him already?"

"The law thus far favors subversives," Hoover said. "Thus far." Danny chuckled. "Eugene Debs is in jail for giving a fucking speech."

"One that advocated violence," Hoover said, and his voice was loud and strained, "against this country."

Danny rolled his eyes at the chunky little peacock. "My point is, if you can jail a former presidential candidate for giving a speech, why can't you deport the most dangerous anarchist in the country?"

Finch sighed. "American kids and an American wife. That's what got him his sympathy votes last time. He's going, though. Trust me. He's fucking going next time."

"They're all going," Hoover said. "Every last unwashed one of them." Danny turned to his father. "Say something."

"Say what?" his father said mildly.

"Say what you're doing here."

"I told you," his father said, "these gentlemen informed me that my own son was shacking up with a subversive. A bomb maker, Aiden." "Danny."

His father pulled a pack of Black Jack from his pocket and offered it to the room. John Hoover took a piece, but Danny and Finch declined. His father and Hoover unwrapped their sticks of gum and popped them in their mouths.

His father sighed. "If it hit the papers, Danny, that my son was taking the favors, shall we say, of a violent radical while her husband built bombs right under his nose--what would that say about my beloved department?"

Danny turned to Finch. "So find 'em and deport 'em. That's your plan, right?"

"Bet your ass. But until I fi nd them and until they go," Finch said, "they're planning on making some noise. Now we know they've got some things planned for May. I understand your father already briefed you on that. We don't know where or who they're going to hit. We have some ideas, but still, radicals aren't predictable. They'll go after the usual list of judges and politicians, but it's the industrial targets we have trouble protecting. Which industry will they choose? Coal, iron, lead, sugar, steel, rubber, textiles? Will they hit a factory? Or a distillery? Or an oil derrick? We don't know. But what we do know is that they're going to hit something big right here in your town."

"When?"

"Could be tomorrow. Could be three months from now." Finch shrugged. "Or they might wait until May. Can't tell."

"But we assure you," Hoover said, "their insurrectionary act will be loud."

Finch reached into his jacket, unfolded a piece of paper, and handed it to Danny. "We found this in her closet. I think it's a first draft."

Danny unfolded the page. The note was composed of letters cut from the newspaper and glued to the page:

Go-Head!

Deport us! We will dynamite you.

Danny handed the note back.

"It's a press release," Finch said. "I'd bank on it. They just haven't sent it out yet. But when it does hit the streets, you can be sure a boom is going to follow."

Danny said, "And you're telling me all this, why?"

"To see if you have an interest in stopping them."

"My son is a proud man," Thomas Coughlin said. "He wouldn't stand for word to get out on something like this and sully his reputation."

Danny ignored him. "Anyone in their right mind would want to stop them."

"But you're not just anyone," Hoover said. "Galleani tried to blow you up once."

Danny said, "What?"

"Who do you think ordered the bombing of Salutation Street?" Finch said. "You think that was random? It was revenge for the arrest of three of theirs in an antiwar protest the month before. Who do you think was behind those ten cops got blown up in Chicago last year? Galleani, that's who. And his minions. They've tried to kill Rockefeller. They've tried to kill judges. They've blown up parades. Hell, they exploded a bomb in St. Patrick's Cathedral. Galleani and his Galleanists. At the turn of the century people of this exact same philosophy killed President McKinley, the president of France, the prime minister of Spain, the empress of Austria, and the king of Italy. All in a six-year span. They may blow themselves up occasionally, but they're not comical. They're murderers. And they were making bombs right here under your nose while you were fucking one of them. Oh, no, let me amend that--while she was fucking you. So how personal does it have to get, Officer Coughlin, before you wake up?"

Danny thought of Tessa in his bed, of the guttural sounds they'd made, of her eyes widening as he'd pushed into her, of her nails tearing his skin, her mouth spreading into a smile, and outside, the clank of the fire escape as people moved up and down it.

"You've seen them up close," Finch said. "If you saw them again, you'd have a second or two's advantage over anyone who was going off a faded photograph."

"I can't find them here," Danny said. "Not here. I'm an American." "This is America," Hoover said.

Danny pointed at the floorboards and shook his head. "This is Italy."

"But what if we can get you close?"

"How?"

Finch handed Danny a photograph. The quality was poor, as if it had been reproduced several times. The man in it looked to be about thirty with a thin, patrician nose and eyes narrowed to slits. He was clean-shaven. His hair was fair, and his skin appeared pale, though that was more of a guess on Danny's part.

"Doesn't look like a card-carrying Bolshie."

"And yet he is," Finch said.

Danny handed the photograph back. "Who is he?"

"Name's Nathan Bishop. He's a real beaut'. A British doctor and radical. These terrorists accidentally blow off a hand or slip away from a riot with wounds? They can't just stroll into an emergency room. They go to see our friend here. Nathan Bishop's the company quack for the Massachusetts radical movement. Radicals don't tend to fraternize outside their individual cells, but Nathan's the connective tissue. He knows all the players."

"And he drinks," Hoover said. "Quite copiously."

"So get one of your own men to cozy up to him."

Finch shook his head. "Won't work."

"Why?"

"Honestly? We don't have the budget." Finch looked embarrassed. "So we came to your father, and he told us you've already begun the prep work to go after a radical cell. We want you to circle the entire movement. Get us license plate numbers, membership counts. All the while, you keep your eyes peeled for Bishop. Your paths will cross sooner or later. You get close to him, you get close to the rest of these sons-a-bitches. You heard of the Roxbury Lettish Workingman's Society?"

Danny nodded. " 'Round here they're just called the Letts."

Finch cocked his head, as if this were news to him. "For whatever bullshit sentimental reason, they seem to be Bishop's favorite group. He's friends with the guy who runs it, a Hebe name of Louis Fraina with documented ties to Mother Rus sia. We're hearing rumors Fraina might be the lead plotter in all this."

"All what?" Danny said. "I was kept in the dark on a need-to-know basis."

Finch looked over at Thomas Coughlin. Danny's father raised his hands, palms up, and shrugged.

"They may be planning something big in the spring."

"What exactly?"

"A national May Day revolt."

Danny laughed. No one else did.

"You're serious."

His father nodded. "A bomb campaign followed by armed revolt, coordinated among all the radical cells in all the major cities across the country."

"To what end? It's not like they can storm Washington."

"That's what Nicholas said about St. Petersburg," Finch said.

Danny removed his greatcoat and the blue coat underneath, stood there in his T-shirt as he unbuckled his gun belt and hung it on the closet door. He poured himself a glass of rye and didn't offer anyone else the bottle. "So this Bishop fella, he's connected to the Letts?"

A nod from Finch. "Sometimes. The Letts have no ostensible connection to the Galleanists, but they're all radicals, so Bishop has connections to both of them."

"Bolsheviks on one hand," Danny said, "anarchists on the other." "And Nathan Bishop linking them together."

"So I infiltrate the Letts and see if they're making bombs for May Day or--what--if they're connected to Galleani in some way?"

"If not him, then his followers," Hoover said.

"And if they're not?" Danny said.

"Get their mailing list," Finch said.

Danny poured himself another drink. "What?"

"Their mailing list. It's the key to breaking any group of subversives. When I raided the offi ces of Cronaca last year? They'd just fi nished printing their latest issue. I got the names of every single person they were sending it to. Based on that list, the Justice Department managed to deport sixty of them."

"Uh-huh. I heard Justice once deported a guy for calling Wilson a cocksucker."

"We tried," Hoover said. "Unfortunately the judge decided jail was more fitting."

Even Danny's father was incredulous. "For calling a man a cock-sucker?"

"For calling the president of the United States a cocksucker," Finch said.

"And if I see Tessa or Federico?" Danny caught a whiff of her scent suddenly.

"Shoot 'em in the face," Finch said. "Then say, 'Halt.'"

"I'm missing a link here," Danny said.

His father said, "No, you're fi ne."

"The Bolsheviks are talkers. The Galleanists are terrorists. One doesn't necessarily equal the other."

"Nor do they necessarily cancel one another out," Hoover said. "Be that as it may, they--"

"Hey." Finch's tone was sharp, his eyes too clear. "You say 'Bolsheviks' or 'Communists' like there are nuances here the rest of us are too thick to grasp. They're not different--they're fucking terrorists. Every last one. This country's heading for one hell of a showdown, Officer. We think that showdown will happen on May Day. That you won't be able to swing a cat without hitting some revolutionary with a bomb or a rifle. And if that occurs, this country will tear itself apart. Picture it--the bodies of innocent Americans strewn all over our streets. Thousands of kids, mothers, workingmen. And for what? Because these cocksuckers hate the life we have. Because it's better than theirs. Because we're better than them. We're richer, we're freer, we've got a lot of the best real estate in a world that's mostly desert or undrinkable ocean. But we don't hoard that, we share. Do they thank us for sharing? For welcoming them to our shores? No. They try to kill us. They try to tear down our government like we're the fucking Romanovs. Well, we're not the fucking Romanovs. We're the only successful democracy in the world. And we're done apologizing for it."

Danny waited a moment and then clapped.

Hoover looked ready to bite him again, but Finch took a bow.

Danny saw Salutation Street again, the wall transformed into a white drizzle, the floor vanishing underfoot. He'd never talked about it to anyone, not even Nora. How did you put words to helplessness? You didn't. You couldn't. Falling from the fi rst floor straight through to the basement, he'd felt seized with the utter certainty that he'd never eat again, walk a street again, feel a pillow against his cheek.

You own me, he'd thought. To God. To chance. To his own helplessness.

"I'll do it," Danny said.

"Patriotism or pride?" Finch arched one eyebrow.

"One of the two," Danny said.

After Finch and Hoover left, Danny and his father sat at the small table and took turns with the bottle of rye. "Since when did you let federal cops shoehorn in on BPD business?"

"Since the war changed this country." His father gave him a distant smile and took a sip from the bottle. "If we'd come out on the losing side, maybe we'd still be the same, but we didn't. Volstead"--he held up the bottle and sighed--"will change it further. Shrink it, I think. The future is federal, not local."

"Your future?"

"Mine?" His father chuckled. "I'm an old man from an even older time. No, not my future."

"Con's?"

His father nodded. "And yours. If you can keep your penis at home where it belongs." He corked the bottle and slid it across to Danny. "How long will it take you to grow a beard fit for a Red?"