World Gone By: A Novel by Dennis Lehane Read Free Book Online

since he was six. He was, for the most part, a quiet boy, but that quiet masked a passion and flair for the dramatic that Joe attributed to his mother. It also hid a sly sense of humor and appreciation for the absurd that had defined Joe when he was that age.
    Joe turned onto Twiggs, the spire of Sacred Heart coming into view as the traffic slowed to a bumper-to-bumper crawl, the church three blocks away, its parking lots filling and the lines backing out onto the streets. You couldn’t get near the lots on a Sunday unless you arrived half an hour before mass began. And even then you were cutting it close. Joe looked at his watch—forty-five minutes early.
    In the spring of ’43, everyone prayed. The church could hold eight hundred, and every pew would be packed tighter than a roll of nickels. Some mothers prayed for sons overseas. Others for the souls of those recently returned in coffins. Wives and girlfriends did the same. Undrafted men prayed for a second shot with the draft board or, secretly, that their number would never be called. Fathers prayed for their sons to come home or, barring that, that the lad comport himself well on the field of battle; whatever becomes of him, Lord, please don’t let him show cowardice. People of all stripes knelt and prayed that the war stayed There and never reached Here again. Some, sensing End Days,asked God to take note of them, to see them for what they were—members of His team, pious and supplicant.
    Joe craned his head to see how many cars idled between him and the nearest parking lot entrance. The lot just past Morgan Street was still a good twenty cars away. Brake lights flared ahead of him and he came to another lurching stop. The chief of police and his wife passed on the sidewalk chatting with Rance Tuckston, the president of First National Bank. Just behind them was Hayley Gramercy, the owner of the All American food store chain, and his wife, Trudy.
    “Hey,” Tomas said, “there’s Uncle D,” and waved his hand.
    “He can’t see us,” Joe said.
    Dion Bartolo, head of the crime family that bore his name, exited a lot ahead on the right that had a FULL sign propped by the entrance. He was flanked by two of his bodyguards, Mike Aubrey and Geoff the Finn. Dion was a big man and usually a fat one, but his clothes had begun to hang on him lately, and his cheeks had grown long. There were rumors floating through their circles of associates and partners that he was sick. Joe, who knew him better than anyone, knew that wasn’t the case. Not that anybody else needed to know the truth.
    Dion buttoned his suit jacket and indicated his men should do the same, the three of them the picture of brute power as they strode toward the church. Joe had known that kind of power; he’d had bodyguards with him day and night. And he didn’t miss it. Not for an instant. What they didn’t tell you about absolute power was that it was never absolute; the instant you had it, someone had already lined up to try to take it away. Princes could sleep soundly, but never kings. The ear was always tuned for the creak on the floorboard, the whine of a hinge.
    Joe checked the cars ahead of him—ten, maybe nine.
    All the front-pew celebrities were on the streets or milling in front of the church now. The handsome young mayor, Jonathan Belgrave, and his pretty, even younger wife, Vanessa, exchanged pleasantries with Allison Picott and Deborah Minshew, both young wives who had husbands serving overseas. If Allison’s and Deborah’s husbands didn’t make it back, the society scuttlebutt went, they’d survive the blows better than most; both were daughters of two of Tampa’s original families, those with streets and hospital wings named after them. Both husbands, on the other hand, had married up.
    Tomas turned a page of his history book—he was always reading, this kid—and said, “I told you we’d be late.”
    “We’re not late,” Joe said. “We’re still early. Other people are