The Strangler by William Landay Read Free Book Online Page A

community must come to the realization that it is their small individual bet that finances the illegal gambling empire and complete enforcement is not possible without the active assistance of all good citizens.’ Those were the words of Boston Police Commissioner Leo Sullivan.”
    “What a fuckin’ rat,” Joe said.
    The camera moved in on Cronkite. “At this point you may be inclined to say, ‘Well, those people in Boston certainly have their problems.’ Don’t deceive yourself. The chances are very great you have the same problem in your community. This is Walter Cronkite. Goodnight.”
    The Daleys were silent.
    The TV prattled awhile—“A word about the next
CBS Reports
in a moment…”—until Amy shut it off.
    “Fuckin’ Walter Cronkite,” Joe muttered.
    “Stop that.”
    “Fuck Walter Cronkite.”
    “Stop it. It’s not Walter Cronkite’s fault.”
    “Well, it’s not true.” Joe seemed to believe in the transformative power of his own confidence. A thing was not true because Joe Daley said it was not true. “They’re not gonna get away with this.”
    Amy said, “If you know any good lawyers, Joe…”
    “Why do I need a lawyer? I didn’t do anything. I just got done telling you.”
    “Joe,” Michael advised softly, “call Brendan.”

7
    The hearing looked like a trial but it wasn’t. It was a bag job. The “judge” was a deputy appointed by the Commissioner, serving at the pleasure of the Commissioner, there to do the Commissioner’s bidding. The prosecutor was an I.A. lieutenant whose evidence consisted of a transcript of the CBS documentary and not much else. Joe had been forced to hire a lawyer, a shifty shyster he knew from the BMC, who made a few desultory objections. But everyone knew the verdict. Walter Cronkite had announced it on TV: Joe Daley was a bag man for the crooked cops in Station Sixteen. The inconvenient fact that the charge was true did not make the whole thing any easier for Joe to take.
    After he testified, Joe paced the hallway on the sixth floor of BPD headquarters, where the hearing took place. There were no reporters, no crowds. It was a family matter, for now.
    Brendan Conroy was still inside, shilling for Joe. His muffled voice carried through the door: Joe was a good kid, a good soldier. Third-generation Boston police. Son of a fallen cop. No one was defending what the kid did, of course. Of course. But then, there was honor in the way Joe’d come in there and kept his mouth shut and refused to roll over on anyone. Now, there was a time when cops were brothers, let’s remember. Did they mean to throw out the baby with the bath water? Did they really want to lose a kid like Joe Daley? Let’s not be more Catholic than the Pope here, fellas—if they were going to start canning every cop who ever took a few bucks, or who ate dinner at the kitchen door of a restaurant, well, let’s face it, before long there wouldn’t be a police department left. Anyway, the last Brendan Conroy had heard, Walter Cronkite had not been appointed commissioner of the Boston police.
    Joe tried not to listen. He trusted that Conroy would pull it off. Conroy knew which strings to pull. He’d take care of the whole thing. No big deal. In time everyone would come to realize that this whole bookie thing was no big deal.
    So why did Joe feel so aggrieved? It could have been worse, after all. The Monkey’s was not the only place Joe had ever picked up an envelope or put down a few bucks on a puppy or on his badge number. For Christ’s sake, if they had followed Joe around with a camera, Walter Cronkite would have shat in his CBS trousers. As it was, no one was going to throw Joe under the train for stopping by The Monkey’s once or twice. So it wasn’t the accusation that was so troubling to Joe. It was the sense of unseen forces, the infuriating awareness that he would never quite understand what had gone on here. He wasn’t fucking smart enough to figure it all out, to see the