Boston, Massachusetts
June 1945
The cop banged on the door of John Reardon’s Beacon Hill townhouse. A moment later, the wide blue eyes of a ten-year-old boy peeked through the crack from inside.
“Hey there Eoghan. Is your dah home?”
The little boy nodded at the policeman and disappeared into the house. A minute later, John Reardon appeared at the door looking every bit the distinguished businessman he was, but for the young boy wrapped around his leg. John rubbed his son’s head, then withdrew a gold pocket watch from his vest, flipped open the cover, and checked the time. Replacing it, he greeted the patrolman, making no effort to mask his irritation.
“What did he do this time, Matty?”
“Caught ‘im snatching the Radio Flyer from the front of Sullivan’s Toy Store.”
“I was taking it for a test drive,” fourteen-year-old Patrick Reardon smirked from behind the policeman.
Before the patrolman could hush him, Patrick’s Uncle John gave the boy a quelling look, and Patrick closed his mouth and stared at the ground. The policeman cleared his throat. “I know that your business, eh hem, has changed, and you don’t, eh hem, do business with your brother’s group no more…” The cop trailed off, wishing he had never said anything. He cleared his throat again, attacking the imaginary frog that had lodged there. “Anyway, I didn’t want to bother Dorcas with this, with Seamus going away and all…”
John’s brother, Seamus, had been sentenced to five years for lying to a federal grand jury. John, with a great deal of effort, had left the Irish mob three years ago, no doubt sparing himself the same fate. Rumor was he had gutted three separate hitmen sent to dispatch him, each time depositing the body on the front lawn of his former employer.
After the third time and some extremely secretive and persuasive negotiations, John was permitted to move on. His new business venture, Reardon Import and Export was not only much more lucrative but had the glossy sheen of legitimacy that provided him with respectability and social status. He nodded to the constable.
“Leave him with me, Matty. I’ll have a word with my nephew.”
Matty turned to the boy with a satisfied smile.
“Ya hear that? Mr. Reardon’s gonna have a word with ya.”
Patrick Reardon grinned. “Guess you can shove off then, cop.”
John Reardon grabbed Patrick by the nape. “Too bad he was too young to go off to war. That would have made a man out of him.”
Matty agreed with a nod. “I wanted to thank you, sir. My brother Howard was in Rhineland with the 8th Infantry. The supplies you shipped over saved a lot of lives.”
John extended his hand. “I’m too old to enlist, so I did what I could.” And made millions in the process. Matty took his offered hand enthusiastically. “Your shipments did more than one man on the ground ever could.”
“Thank you for saying so.”
The policeman nodded and retreated to the sidewalk to resume his patrol.
“Now, you get in my office.” John leveled the whip crack command, and Patrick scurried down the hall to the brightly lit office. The walls were butter yellow, the chair rail and baseboards a cheery maple. The bookshelves held model airplanes, photographs, and awards for community service. The surly teen was swallowed by a sage green wingback chair, his feet barely touching the ground. John unbuttoned his suit jacket and took a seat behind his desk. “Now. I have one question for you.” He paused until Patrick met his gaze. “Do you want to be a thief or do you want to be an inmate?”
That got the boy’s attention.
“Because if you want to spend your life on a chain gang and sharing a bunk with a guy who will stab you in your sleep, keep doing exactly what you’re doing. The cops know your name. The local merchants watch you like hawks. Why don’t you just wear a fecking sign that says ‘arrest me!’
“Now what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.” John looked left and right as if to ensure they were alone. “You heard about that Mick from Dorchester that washed up in Back Bay?”
The boy leaned forward in his chair and nodded mutely.
“I don’t care if you are my nephew, Patrick. You tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, you’ll be the next one to wash up in the Back Bay.”
John Reardon spun in his chair and stared up at the painting that hung above the desk. He spoke over his shoulder to his nephew. “What do you think of this painting?”
“It looks like a couple of ditch diggers,” Patrick grumbled. “It’s a couple of chumps.”
“It’s called ‘The Stone Breakers.’ Maybe they are a couple of chumps. But what would you say if I told you that this painting is worth more than one hundred thousand dollars? What’s more, not only does nobody know that I stole it, nobody even knows it was stolen.”
“But that’s impossible,” Patrick rasped.