by Rory Flynn
It’s officially Lower South End Day, by proclamation of acting mayor Sam Reed, who’s sitting on the dais next to Commissioner Lattimore. Harkness scans the other dignitaries, sees plenty of faces he recognizes—Boston’s cast of celebrities and politicians is small, even smaller without the sports heroes. Noticeably absent is the tidy-bearded Robert Fayerwether, quietly removed from the Urban Redevelopment Council and public life.
The crowd applauds as Reed strides to the podium.
“Last fall, Police Commissioner Lattimore stood amid the destruction and desolation and made a promise that this neighborhood would be restored and reborn,” he says. “And it has been. Not as luxury condos. But as a much-beloved home to hundreds of families and hard-working citizens.”
As the crowd applauds, the commissioner rises from his chair and gives a small wave. Nestled in Harkness’s lap, May slaps her hands together and laughs.
Reed continues. “The streets are safe and the scourge of deadly drugs is gone.”
Harkness glances over at Patrick and Esther and gives them a knowing look. Streets are never completely safe. Drugs never go away.
“Some good has come from this storm and its political aftermath,” he says, deftly referencing O’Mara without saying his name. “The Lower South End is now getting the attention and repairs it needs, and its residents are starting to return in force.”
With O’Mara gone, all plans for redeveloping the Lower South End evaporated. As the winter loosened its grip and the snow melted, Reed focused the city’s resources on getting the neighborhood up and running again—all while taking full credit for its rehabilitation, of course. The wanderers returned, stores reopened, and the lights started going back on in the dark neighborhood.
Harkness has made his peace with the fact that Reed used him to get into the mayor’s office. The first job of any politician is to get elected. The next is to stay elected. That they’ll use any tactic to achieve that end shouldn’t be any more surprising than that addicts will do anything to stay high.
After all, power, not religion, was the first opiate of the masses.
Over several thankfully uneventful lunches at the Fill-A-Buster, Reed has offered Harkness his sincere thanks. More important, he’s kept Lattimore in power and ensured the survival of Narco-Intel.
And he paid Nicco Malnati for his expensive vote.
Reed points to Deaf Kid, squirming in the front row in a black suit, white shirt, and striped tie. “As proof of the remarkable progress made over the past six months, consider Edward Ashmont.”
Deaf Kid peers into the crowd, smiles when he finds Harkness.
“During the hurricane, Edward was found chained to a radiator, his uncle lying dead next to him, a drug dealer who fell prey to Dark Horse, an insidious and deadly brand of heroin. He was rescued by a patrol from Narco-Intel, led by Detective Supervisor Edward Harkness, almost drowned by the flood in this very square.” Reed points Harkness out. “Detective Harkness is an inspiration to us all and we’re lucky to have him here with us today.”
Candace gives Harkness her you-are-a-fucking-rock-star look. Harkness can’t begin to count the errors in Reed’s brief story.
He rises from his white folding chair, smiles, gives a crisp salute, and sits back down, knowing that he’s just another dog in this civic dog-and-pony show.
Reed waves Deaf Kid to the podium. “Edward Ashmont graduates this spring from the world-renowned Hamilton School for the Deaf in Waltham, thanks to the generosity of the Boston Police Department.”
Applause for the school. And more political capital for Lattimore.
“Since the hurricane, he’s had reconstructive surgery and the best speech therapy available,” Reed says. “Now I’d like to invite this brave young man to say a few words—the first he’s ever spoken in public.”
Reed lowers the microphone and points it down toward Deaf Kid, who approaches the podium as if he’s walking on a rope ladder across a surging river.
“Hey?” he says into the microphone, then recoils.
Reed gives him an encouraging nod.
“Thank you for saving . . . for saving my neighborhood.” His voice is halting but clear. “I am very glad to be here because, because this is my home. This is where I grew up. When I’m done with school, I’ll be back. Because the food at the Hamilton School sucks. And I hate it there. Thank you.”
Wild applause and a standing ovation reward this moment of unscripted honesty in the midst of a photo op. Harkness lets out a whistle that makes May clamp her hands over her ears. He leans over to kiss Candace as the applause and shouting grows louder.
They pick up May and stand, holding her above the crowd gathered this shimmering spring afternoon—State Street bankers in suits and old men in T-shirts watching from upper-floor windows, wanderers who are done wandering, JJ and his drinking buddies from McCloskey’s, an unimpressed Jack of the Jackals, and even Frankie Getler, who looks out over Albrecht Square with his one good eye, adding up the thousands of hours of electrical work necessary to bring it up to code.
No matter how plush and gilded the city becomes or how clean Dirty Old Boston gets, Harkness knows there will always be plenty to complain about—and lots of people eager to do the complaining.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to:
Dr. Robert Allison, chairman of the History Department, Suffolk University; Peter Drummey, Massachusetts Historical Society; Amy Ryan, former president of the Boston Public Library; the St. Botolph Club; Brian Swett, chief of Environment, Energy, and Open Space, City of Boston; Joyce Linehan, head of policy, Boston Mayor’s Office; Nick Mitropoulos, who introduced me to Boston politics; and the many anonymous (but much-appreciated) police officers in Boston, New York City, and Concord, Massachusetts, who contributed their insights.
At Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, thanks to Nicole Angeloro, an angel of an editor, Beth Burleigh Fuller, Katrina Kruse, Michelle Triant, Brian Moore, and Tracy Roe. At Writers House, thanks to Dan Conaway, who took a big chance on me, as well as the great Maja Nikolic and Taylor Templeton. In New York City, thanks to Andrea Schulz, who brought Eddy Harkness to life. And closer to home, a city-size thanks to my brilliant wife, Ann—writer, reader, adviser, and partner forever.
Visit www.hmhco.com or your favorite retailer to order the book.
About the Author
RORY FLYNN is the author of the Eddy Harkness series, which debuted with Third Rail. His “high-octane prose” (Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine) and “sawdust-dry humor” (Boston Globe) make him a “suspense writer to watch” (Jess Walter). Flynn lives in West Concord, Massachusetts, with his family.
Learn more at www.mrroryflynn.com
Find Rory Flynn on Twitter @MrRoryFlynn