Chapter 8 - The Council on State Street
The private dining room at Locke-Ober on State Street smelled of old port, roasted duck, and eighty years of municipal corruption.
The mahogany table was polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the light of three heavy brass chandeliers that hummed softly in the high ceiling. Around the table sat four men who controlled the city’s docks, the city council’s zoning committee, and the transit union’s pension fund.
At the head of the table sat Frank Doyle, his napkin neatly folded across his knees, his river-water eyes fixed on the empty chair at the other end.
The heavy oak door swung open.
Michael Cain walked in. He wasn't wearing his overcoat. He wore a dark, three-piece wool suit that fit his broad shoulders like armor, his white shirt starched to a razor edge. He didn't look like a man who spent his mornings listening to a girl sing old folk songs in an empty parlor; he looked like a sovereign inspecting a province that was about to be re-mapped.
He pulled out the chair at the head of the table, sat down, and placed both hands flat on the polished mahogany.
"You're late, Michael," said Arthur Sterling, an elderly city councilman whose family had owned half the warehouses in South Boston since the Depression. "We have the dock expansion permits on the desk. The Italian syndicate is offering a fifty-percent cut on the container fees if we rezone Pier 44 by Friday."
Michael didn't look at the papers. He didn't look at Arthur Sterling at all. He looked at Frank Doyle.
"Frank," Michael said, his voice dropping into that low, flat register that always preceded a storm. "Tell the councilmen about the zoning changes on Pier 44."
Frank’s face tightened. He didn't move his hands from the table. "The zoning stays where it is, Arthur. We’re not selling the berths to the Italians. We’re not selling anything."
Sterling slammed his wine glass down onto the mahogany, red port splashing across the white linen. "Have you lost your mind, Michael? The Italians have the police commissioner in their pocket! Without the East Boston crew, we’re exposed on the north flank! What kind of leverage do they have over you? Some union thug? Some dock foreman?"
"No," Michael said, picking up a silver butter knife and turning it slowly between his thumb and forefinger. "Just a girl with a dust cloth."
The four men around the table went dead silent. The only sound was the hum of the brass chandelier overhead.
"A girl?" Sterling sneered, his face turning the color of a bruised plum. "You're risking a thirty-million-dollar distribution network for a maid?"
Michael looked up. His grey eyes weren't cold anymore; they were burning with a quiet, terrifying intensity that made even Frank Doyle lean back an inch in his chair.
"She’s not a maid, Arthur," Michael said softly. "She’s the only reason this house isn't a tomb anymore. And anyone—anyone—who tries to touch her or her family doesn't get a warning from Frank. They get me."
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He stood up, the heavy oak chair scraping against the floorboards with a sound like a ship's anchor dropping into deep water. He buttoned his jacket, picked up his leather gloves from the side table, and looked down at his oldest friend.
"Meeting's over, Frank," Michael said. "Come home. We have silver to polish."
