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the marine, was there in full dress uniform, his hair barbered close and his shoulders squared. The other boy, the Holy Cross student, sat less rigidly, with his head bowed. His grief was deep. Rita O’Dea sat next to him and pressed his hand. The church filled and overfilled. Out of respect for Anthony Gardella, Carlo Maestrotauro from Worcester was there, as was Francesco Scibelli from Springfield, both aging but still active, still in control. Raymond Patriarca, ailing, had sent a representative from Providence, and Joe Bonomo had dispatched a lieutenant from the Coast. Local respect was embodied in the presence of Gennaro Angello and Antonio Zanigari. In the back of the church, the last to enter, was Special Agent Blue.
    Outside, Russell Thurston and Agent Blodgett loitered near the Caffè Pompei, which had a closed sign on the door, though some people had gathered inside. Through the window Thurston spied the high-level police officer who had directed traffic. The officer had made himself at home. He had his cap off and was drinking coffee at a small table, one foot up on a chair. “What’s his name?” Thurston asked.
    “Scatamacchia. They call him Scat.”
    “We got a file on him?”
    “A little one.”
    “Let’s make it bigger,” Thurston said and didn’t take his eyes off the man. Scatamacchia had a virile head of steel-gray hair and a nose like the curved powerful bill of a parrot. The eyes were slits and the mouth compressed. When he finally came out of the Caffè Pompei with his cap planted hard on his head, Thurston said in a voice that carried, “While he’s at it, he ought to run in the church and kiss Gardella’s ass.”
    Scatamacchia stopped dead. At that moment, had they been alone together on a dark street he might have killed him. Instead he merely shrugged, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew Blodgett by sight and guessed at once who Thurston was. Thurston he knew by reputation, that of a zealot, unyielding and overbearing, with never a good word for the Boston Police Department.
    Blodgett said, “Hello, Scat. Met my boss?”
    He tugged at his cap, the visor filigreed in gold, and said in a savage undertone, “Keep him to yourself.”
    “What’s that, Scat? I didn’t hear you.”
    “I’ll let this pass, but I won’t forget it.”
    Thurston said, “That’s what we’re counting on.”
    With satisfaction they watched him stalk off. Thurston’s eyes flashed with excitement, as if he could see into the future, nothing but successes in it, big achievements, private rewards. Then slowly he scowled. Though the service was not yet half over, Agent Blue had left the church and was joining them. Thurston said, “I told you to stay to the end.”
    “Don’t use me to bait them,” Blue said after seconds of silence. “I don’t like it.”
    “You don’t have a say in the matter,” Thurston said carelessly, a small smile forming. “If you’ve got a problem, take it up with the Civil Rights Commission. Otherwise get back in that church.”
    “Is that an order?”
    “Blodgett, tell him.”
    “It’s an order.”
    Inside the church the monsignor swung a censer over one casket and then over the other, and a sharp fragrance wafted into the front pews. For a wild moment Rita O’Dea looked as though she might sob. Instead she silently mouthed prayers, including a special one that may have been to the devil.
    Deputy Superintendent Scatamacchia entered the church on surprisingly gentle feet and, slipping into a back pew, sat next to a large, baggy-faced man named Ralph Roselli. After a few moments Scatamacchia leaned against him and whispered, “Too bad you guys don’t whack feds.”
    • • •
    The day after Santo and Rosalie Gardella were laid to rest in Boston, Lieutenant Christopher Wade, always an early riser, drove to a coffee shop in downtown Lee. He was the morning’s first customer, a regular, a place already set for him. His order seldom varied: dropped eggs on