Live by Night by Dennis Lehane Page A

when Joe had the fever back in 1911, who’d read each of the city’s eight newspapers to him, cover to cover, who told him he loved him, who told him if God wanted his son, He’d have to go through him, Thomas Xavier Coughlin, and God would know, sure, what a rough proposition that could turn out to be.
    â€œDad, listen to me. She’s—”
    His father spit in his face.
    â€œHe’s all yours,” he said to his men and walked away.
    â€œFind the car!” Joe screamed. “Find Donnie! She’s in a car with Donnie!”
    The first blow—a fist—connected with Joe’s jaw. The second, a shot from a billy club, he was pretty sure, hit his temple. After that, all light disappeared from the night.

Chapter Six
    All the Sinners Saints
    T he ambulance driver gave Thomas his first hint of the publicity nightmare about to descend on the BPD.
    As they strapped Joe to a wooden gurney and lifted him into the back of the ambulance, the driver said, “You throw this kid off the roof?”
    The rain came down in a clatter so loud they all had to shout.
    Thomas’s aide and driver, Sergeant Michael Pooley, said, “His injuries were sustained before we arrived.”
    â€œYeah?” The ambulance driver looked from one to the other, water pouring from the black brim of his white cap. “Horseshit.”
    Thomas could feel the temperature rising in the alley, even in the rain, so he pointed at his son on the gurney. “This man was involved in the murders of those three police officers in New Hampshire.”
    Sergeant Pooley said, “Feel better now, asshole?”
    The ambulance driver was checking Joe’s pulse, eyes on his wristwatch. “I read the papers. All I do most days—sit up in my cab and read the fucking papers. And this kid was the driver. And while they were chasing him, they shot another police car all to hell.” He placed Joe’s wrist on his chest. “ He didn’t do it, though.”
    Thomas looked at Joe’s face—torn black lips, flattened nose, eyes swelled shut, a collapsed cheekbone, black blood crusted in his eyes and ears and nose and the corners of his mouth. Blood of Thomas’s blood. His creation.
    â€œBut if he hadn’t robbed the bank,” Thomas said, “they wouldn’t be dead.”
    â€œIf the other cops hadn’t used a fucking machine gun, they wouldn’t be dead.” The driver closed the doors, looked at Pooley and Thomas, and Thomas was surprised by the revulsion in his eyes. “Your guys probably just beat this kid to death. But he’s the criminal?”
    Two guard units pulled in behind the ambulance, and all three vehicles drove off into the night. Thomas had to keep reminding himself to think of the beaten man in the ambulance as “Joe.” Thinking of him as “son” was too overwhelming. His flesh and blood, and a lot of that blood and some of that flesh lay in this alley.
    He said to Pooley, “You put that APB out on Albert White?”
    Pooley nodded. “And Loomis and Bones and Donnie No Last Name, but we assume it’s Donnie Gishler, one of White’s guys.”
    â€œMake Gishler a priority. Get it out to all units that he might have a woman in the car. Where’s Forman?”
    Pooley chin-gestured. “Up the alley.”
    Thomas started walking and Pooley fell in line. When they reached the crowd of policemen by the service door, Thomas avoided looking at the puddle of Joe’s blood near his right foot, a puddle rich enough to receive the rain and still remain a bright red. Instead, he focused on his chief of detectives, Steve Forman.
    â€œYou got anything on the cars?”
    Forman flipped open his steno notebook. “Dishwasher said there was a Cole Roadster parked in the alley between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty. After that, dishwasher said it was gone, said this Dodge replaced it.”
    The Dodge was what