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rest?”
    â€œThat’s different,” I said. “The bosses at the top were the real crooks. Some were career criminals, others were rich bastards who didn’t think the rules applied to them. Rich men who didn’t think they were rich enough. They made the real money, while everyone else ran big risks for small rewards.”
    â€œJoseph Kennedy the elder being one of those?” Kaz raised his eyebrow as he asked the question, a smile playing on his lips. I had to remind myself that Kaz himself was rich and might have heard people disparage his own family’s wealth, jealous of their comforts and prestige, back when it was possible for any Pole to be comfortable.
    â€œDad said the Canadian evidence was interesting, but not enough to build a case on,” I said. “So they went to work on picking up the rest of the Gustin Gang. They were in hiding after the Mafia hit on Frank and Dodo. Frank’s brother, Stephen Wallace, was running the gang, such as it was. They were back to rum-running, bringing in bootleg booze from offshore.”
    â€œBut they had learned their lesson about stealing liquor from other gangs,” Kaz said.
    â€œYeah, and there were rumors the hit had been ordered from high up,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper.
    â€œHigher than the Mafia?” Kaz asked.
    I nodded.
    â€œKennedy?”
    I shrugged. “It was a theory,” I said. “The Gustins had upset the natural order of things, drawing too much attention to what was going on. Nobody in that business likes attention.”
    â€œDid your father ever find evidence?” Kaz said.
    â€œHe got close,” I said. “They picked up Wallace and brought him in. The prohis threatened to let him go very publicly and leak word that he’d cooperated with them. An old trick.”
    â€œBut a smart one,” Kaz said. “It must have frightened Mr. Wallace, following the Mafia hit on his brother.”
    â€œYes, but too smart, as it turned out. Wallace talked, and claimed he could implicate Joe Kennedy. Dad wasn’t too sure; he thought Wallace might have been trying to impress the Feds, and if Kennedy were actually involved, he wouldn’t be in contact with lowlifes like the Wallace brothers.”
    â€œWhat happened then?”
    â€œGovernor Allen sent one of his men to intervene. It seems Dad and his pals were getting too close, either to Kennedy or someone else with political connections. Wallace was sprung and the whole thing was forgotten. By most people, that is.”
    â€œYour father had threatened a powerful man,” Kaz said.
    â€œYep. And he paid the price. He got sent back down to the uniform division. A signal to the rest of the department: it doesn’t pay to cooperate with federal agents, not when they have their sights set on Joe Kennedy and his like.”
    â€œBut you don’t know if it was Kennedy,” Kaz said, his tea gone cold.
    â€œNo,” I said, shaking my head. “Funny thing is, that guy from the governor’s office—Joseph Timilty—got himself appointed police commissioner back in 1936. He’s known to be in the back pocket of Joe Kennedy, and he’s as corrupt as they come. A few months ago he was indicted on charges of corruption. He didn’t even lose his job. The indictment was quashed by a friendly judge, and Timilty is still running the Boston police.”
    â€œBy friendly you mean a friend of Ambassador Kennedy’s,” Kaz said.
    I nodded. He caught on fast.
    â€œYour father became a detective, though.”
    â€œHe did. Not long after we got a new governor and one of his pet projects was a police academy. Dad helped him with that, and pretty soon he was back in plainclothes, working homicide.”
    â€œDid Commissioner Timilty make things difficult for him later?”
    â€œNo need,” I said. “The point had been made. Everyone knew the story. Remember, these people