***WARNING*** This chapter contains racial slurs and language some may deem to be offensive. April has been a busy month. Trying to post before the clock strikes 12. Forgive any errors you might find.

Chapter 5. Secrets

Cyrus Beene is fed up. He's beginning to regret accepting the mayor's personal request to oversee the three candidates who are in line to become the next police commissioner. Mayor Keegan asked Cyrus to be his eyes and ears. Let him know if either of the superintendents was getting involved in anything that could embarrass him and possibly derail his chances of being re-elected.

Truth be told, Cyrus Beene never does anything unless it personally benefits him. He accepted the babysitting assignment because Mayor Keegan promised him a cabinet-level position in his next administration. But babysitting is a full-time job, and he needs to stay on top of the three highly decorated superintendents because they can be feckless and whiny brats who need a swift kick in the pants. He can do all three of their jobs and serve as police commissioner without batting an eye. But he is not a civil servant, and he didn't rise up through the ranks of the precious police department. So, he quietly supports Fitzgerald Grant as the next police commissioner.

Apoplectic with anger, Cyrus marches into the office, plops down in one of the chairs situated in front of the desk, and glares at the superintendent. Fitz continues to stare at the computer screen.

"You're scheduling meetings with that Pope woman?" Cyrus growls, examining Fitz' face closely.

"Is that a problem?" Fitz replies, still looking at the screen.

"You told me to limit your interactions with that woman, now you're scheduling meetings with her?"

Fitz lets out a heavy sigh, reaches for the tin of Altoids, then leans back in his chair. "What can I do for you this morning, Cyrus?" he says, flicking open the tin with his thumb.

"You need to keep the main thing the main thing, not waste time with that writer."

"There's more to do around this building than worry about who will be the next police commissioner, Cy. Have you read the latest crime reports? Gun violence has ticked up by two points since last month."

"Let your captains worry about the numbers. That's what they get paid for. You're gonna need some really big ideas if you want this appointment. Davis has plans he wants to share with the mayor. About what, I don't know. He won't tell me. I can't stall him much longer."

Fitz glances down at his watch. "I have a meeting in ten minutes. Is there anything else?"

"You need to get ahead of Davis. Tell the mayor what's going on in that big brain of yours or prepare to be superintendent for life."

Cyrus marches from the office the same way he entered.

XXX

Officer Brendan McDevitt's stomach is a ball of knots. He's been on edge since last week when his sergeant told him that Superintendent Grant wanted to meet with him. He's been racking his brain trying to remember what he did wrong, why he has been summoned to the superintendent's office. His father would kill him if he screwed up after only being on the job for two months.

Brendan sucks in a deep breath, wipes his sweaty palms on the sides of his uniform pants, then lightly knocks on the office door.

"Officer McDevitt, thank you for coming," Fitz says, shaking Brendan's clammy hand.

"Of course, sir. Anytime, sir," Brendan stammers, quickly snatching his cap from his head.

"Have a seat officer," Fitz says, thinking the visibly nervous young man is just a few years older than Jerry. Brendan sits ramrod straight in the chair.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I wanted to meet with you," Fitz says, staring Brendan in his anxious blue eyes.

"Have I done something wrong, sir?" Brendan asks, nervously twisting and turning the cap in his hands.

"At ease, officer. You're not in any trouble," Fitz says, smiling internally at the young man's bright red, panic-stricken face. "How did you end up at my birthday party, Officer McDevitt?"

Brendan shifts nervously in his seat. "Mr. Brady, the president of the policeman's union, told me I should go."

"Did Brady say why he wanted you to be there?"

"He knows your brother. He said it would be a good opportunity to meet you — since you're going to be the next police commissioner. He said I could get to know some of the veteran officers who worked with my father and uncles."

"Who's your father?"

"Inspector John McDevitt, sir. He works out of the A7 district."

Fitz nods his head. "And your uncles?"

"My Uncle Kevin is a detective in the C6 district. My Uncle Tim is captain in the B3.Hesays you and he were at the academy together. My grandpa was a cop, too. He's retired now." Brendan shares his family's legacy in one breath.

Fitz nods his head again. He didn't realize that the officer he selected to speak with from the academy's recently graduated class was related to the McDevitt's from his old neighborhood. He knows the family well. Timothy McDevitt was a bully in high school and a jerk at the academy. He's carried that same bad behavior to the streets of Boston as a police officer. He's been reprimanded more than once for using strong-arm tactics when arresting suspects.

"You graduated from the academy two months ago. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir," Brendan says, his cap moving up and down on his bouncing knee.

"Why did you want to become a police officer, Brendan?"

"Family tradition, sir."

"Same here," Fitz says, half under his breath.

"Everybody knows about the Grants. Tough," Brendan says, his eyes glowing with admiration. The corner of Fitz' mouth twitches.

"I also wanted to serve the community," Brendan adds quickly. "My mother liked that, although she's really nervous about me patrolling the streets. My grandpa says the pay is good. He said I could retire while I was still young — get a good pension for life. He said I could start a whole new career afterward — if I wanted to."

"Your grandfather is right," Fitz says.

"But honestly, I just want people to feel safe. Boston could be a really good city. We just gotta cut down on the crime."

"Do you think you can help make Boston a better place to live?" Fitz asks.

"I do. It'll take a while. But I think we'll get there."

"Officer McDevitt, do you think the academy adequately prepared you for the job?"

"Yes, sir," Brendan says with a tone of exuberance. "They did a terrific job letting us know what to expect once we were on the streets. But like Captain Hughes said, they can't prepare us for everything. We'll have to learn the ropes through experience."

"That's true," Fitz says. "You must rely on your brothers in blue while out there. They'll have your back." Brendan shifts in his chair. "Is there something wrong, officer?" Fitz says.

"May I speak freely, sir?"

"Of course."

"The older guys — the officers who have been doing this job for a while — they have a different way of policing than how we were taught in the academy."

"What do you mean?" Fitz asks, already knowing the answer to his question.

"They have their own rules and ways of doing things. I'm not sure if they always do things the right way."

XXX

Mellie's gaze follows her husband's. Fitz is staring at his brother Matty who is sitting a few pews ahead of him with his family. The cancer or chemotherapy or maybe both is taking its toll on his brother. Matty's once thick, dark brown, wavy hair is falling out, leaving a patchwork of bald patches on his head. Fitz chokes back the tears remembering as a teenager how Matty joked in his Frieda voice from Charlie Brown that the girls liked to run their fingers through his "wavy hair".

My brother is dying.

"Fitz, did you hear what I said?" Mellie whispers in a tone of frustration. Fitz turns his head and looks blankly at his wife. He forgot that she was sitting next to him.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I said, maybe you should talk to your brother about his parties. Maybe it's time he discontinued them. He's getting weaker."

"Maybe you should mind your business," he says in a sharp, harsh tone. Mellie's eyes widen with shock. "If he wants to have a party every damn day of the week, that's his business. I will be there. You don't have to come."

XXX

An hour later Matty's party is in full swing. The women are in the kitchen replenishing food trays and enjoying their favorite beverage while the men are in the backyard drinking and talking trash. The quarterly party is a throwback to a time gone by. Big Jerry started the tradition. He called the get-togethers the Policeman's Ball, a snub at the official BPD celebration attended by the high-ranking policeman, a handful of patrolmen handpicked by the police commissioner and approved by the mayor's office, and a few politicians. Jerry Grant was never selected to attend the annual event. His reputation for using his badge and gun to abuse citizens kept him off the invite list.

Attendance at Big Jerry's Policeman's Ball was also invitation-only. The informal ball was for police officers who shared the same heritage and mindset. This band of angry, disenchanted lawmen strategized how they would control the streets of Boston, decide which citizens would be protected and served and which ones would be harshly policed. They decided which businesses would pay a tax for protection and which ones wouldn't. They decided which prostitutes they would harass and which ones would get a pass as long as they serviced the rogue cops on demand.

Matty took up the mantle when his father died, hosting the parties at his home. Two years after beingdismissed from the police department, he still hosts the Policeman's Ball. This generation of policemen attend for various reasons. Some want to reminisce about the good old days of their fathers and vent about how the department is changing, for the worst, of course. Others attend out of respect for their ailing brother in blue. Most attend because they believe that Fitz will be the next police commissioner. It's always good to have friends in high places.

"Liz, I must say, you make the best deviled eggs," Patti, Mike Shaughnessy's wife, says as she sits at the kitchenette table biting into the egg's mile-high filling.

"My mother taught me how to make them. She swore me to secrecy," Liz says, gesturing her fingers as if she isbuttoning her lips.

"I don't need to know the secret," Mellie says, cutting into an egg, "I just want you to keep making them."

"Mels," Liz says, splashing more gin into her highball glass and topping it off with tonic and a slice of lime. "How long have you been working down at that women's center?"

"Ten years. I started as a volunteer. Father Brennan wanted me to work full time in the beginning, but the children were too young back then. I'm a case manager now."

"What does that mean?" Liz says, stirring the drink with her manicured index finger.

"Well, all new residents are assigned a case manager within twenty-four hours of arriving at the center. Betsy, the other case manager, and I meet with the women when they arrive. We complete a full assessment of their strengths and challenges. Then, we help them to establish goals that focus on building a brighter future."

Liz rolls her eyes in boredom as Mellie continues to rattle off her job responsibilities.

"After that, we connect them with jobs, schools, and work and mental health programs."

"You're gonna stop working at that place when Fitzgerald becomes the police commissioner, right? Sorry, Patti, but we all know Mike doesn't have a shot at the job." Patty grimaces at Liz, then raises the bottle of beer to her lips. "As I was saying, when Fitz is commissioner, you're not going to work at that place, are you?"

"Why wouldn't I? Fitz' career has nothing to do with mine."

"Honey, that ain't no career. Do they even pay you?" Liz says. Mellie's face reddens with anger and embarrassment.

"You're doing noble work, Mellie. It doesn't matter how much you get paid. It certainly isn't anyone's business," Colleen, Matty's wife, says in a supportive tone.

"I get the whole Catholic charities thing," Liz says. "Believe it or not, I've done my share of volunteering. But my father definitely was not going to let me go away and volunteer at Camp Chamounix like you girls. He said that place was a training ground for lesbians."

"That's not true," Patti chimes in, waving a dismissive hand at Liz. "I volunteered at Camp Chamounix for two years. I always loved sports, so I enjoyed teaching the kids how to swim, play softball, and volleyball. I stopped volunteering when I turned sixteen and got a job paying money. I could go to the mall and buy whatever I wanted with my meager paycheck," Patti says, smiling reminiscently.

"Tell us Mels, is there any truth to the rumor that there's some hanky-panky going on down at that women's center with the priests and some of those women," Liz says.

"That's a lie!" Mellie shrieks, her voice uncharacteristically harsh and defensive.

"Say what you want, Mels, but word on the street is somebody's taking advantage of those poor women who come there for help," Liz continues. "Father Brennan or Father Donnelly or both are abusing those women the same way those priests defiled those defenseless boys and girls for decades. There's a special place in hell for men like that."

"I can assure you nothing like that is happening at the center," Mellie says, her chest heaving with anger. "Father Brennan is an old, kind, sweet man who has served our community for decades. Father Donnelly is young and energetic with a lot of progressive ideas. He will probably be Father Brennan's replacement."

"Nothing like that better not be happening. We've had enough of that crap. I'll go full Lorena Bobbitt on those Fathers. I'll go down to that center and chop off their itty-bitty penises," Liz says, waving the paring knife in the air that she's used all afternoon to slice limes for her gin and tonic.

"Liz, you couldn't cut hot butter with that dull knife," Patti chuckles.

"I'm going out back to see what the menfolk are up to," Liz says, grabbing her drink from the counter. "You ladies can talk about me while I'm gone," waving her hand in the air as she stumbles out of the kitchen.

When she hears the back door swing close, Patti looks at Colleen and Mellie, and says in a low voice.

"Her father didn't let her volunteer at Camp Chamounixin the summerbecause he was an unemployed drunk. Drank Jameson whiskey all day. Liz had to stay home and babysit her little brother and sister while her mother worked to support the family."

"Rumor has it that incest was involved. That her father took advantage of her while her mother was working," Mellie says with a devious look in her eyes. Colleen and Patti let out a collective gasp.

"Mellie!" Colleen snaps.

"What? We've all heard the rumors," Mellie says with faux innocence as she carries her plate over to the sink.

Rumors of Liz' abuse have floated around their neighborhood since they were teenagers. No one knew for sure if they were anything more than rumors. At these soirées there is a tacit agreement among the partygoers that certain topics are off limits. No matter how annoying Liz can be, the alleged abuse by her father was something they don't talk about. Mellie knows that, and for her to violate the agreement is cruel and unacceptable.

"I'm going to the bathroom ladies," Patti says. The third beer is catching up with/to her. She tosses a glance at Colleen, which says, speak to your sister-in-law.

"You don't have to do that, Mellie. I'll finish the dishes later," Colleen says.

"I don't mind," Mellie says, merrily washing the dishes.

Colleen watches the sly smile creep on Mellie's face, wondering why her sister-in-law became outraged when Liz mentioned the priests at the center might be taking advantage of those unfortunate women. Liz has certainly said worse. Mellie never got upset or slapped Liz' face when she openly coveted Fitz, saying how she would treat him in the bedroom if he ever gave her half a chance. Mellie simply shrugged off the comments with disinterest.

Colleen thinks back to the story Matty told her years ago. The night he swore her to secrecy. A year or so after Jerry was born, Matty took Fitz to a basketball game at the Garden. His little brother needed a break from having two screaming children under the age of four in the house. After the Celtics lost to the Toronto Raptors again, they went to Patty O'Brien's bar to drown their disappointment in a couple of whiskeys. Fitz got drunk, fast. He cried to his brother that his wife didn't like to have sex. Or, she didn't like having sex with him. He told Matty about the agreement that Mellie drafted, scheduling them to have sex on his birthday and once a quarter. He told his brother he no longer wanted to be in a marriage like that. With a comforting arm draped around his brother's quaking shoulders, Matty said most married people aren't happy. He counseled his distraught brother to get a mistress or let one of those streetwalkers down on Washington Street take care of him when he is feeling horny. He made it clear that because of their faith and the two young children, divorce was not an option.

Colleen sighs softly as she wipes the crumbs from the table with the yellow and white-striped kitchen towel. She's always empathized with Fitz. Like Mellie, Matty wasn't too interested in having sex with her. This was long before the cancer. Many nights she prayed that her husband would want to have sex with her the way he did with the whores he bragged to the men about. She wouldn't have minded doing the things he made those women do to him.

XXX

The sun beaming down on the backyard patio prompted the men to peel off their church clothes. Suit jackets hang on the backs of patio chairs. Neckties are stuffed into pants pockets, and dress shirt sleeves are rolled up to forearms and elbows revealing hairy, pale arms. They have all taken up a different position throughout the small backyard: standing, sitting and manspreading, or leaning against the chain-link fence. They suck on bottles of beer and sip glasses of whiskey — neat or on the rocks, waiting for the pointless battle of egos to begin. Sean McGuigan, a detective out of the C11 district and Matty's best friend, is already red-faced from drinking two Jameson's. Sean launches the opening salvo.

"Fitz, who's that Black chick you've been seen all over town with?" Sean calls out from his seat on the far side of the patio. Manspreading.

"What?" Fitz says, looking at Sean with bunched brows.

"I hear she's always carrying a fuckin' briefcase, or whatever you call it. Like she's fuckin' Perry Mason. Or should I say Johnnie Cochran?" Sean's comment triggers a few laughs. "I heard you had dinner with her at DiMaggio's. You certainly like the mongrels. Killing two birds with one stone. A Black and Italian."

Mike Shaughnessy wrenches his beefy neck around and stares over at Fitz with curiosity in his eyes. He wonders when Fitz and Olivia had dinner together. Sean continues.

"I hear she's from New York City. What the fuck is she doin' up here in Boston?"

"You hear a lot, don't you, Sean?" Fitz says, glaring at the man.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Sean says, returning the stare. "I know all kinds of shit. Secret shit. Ain't that right, Matty?" Matty shoots his former partner a look that says keep your mouth shut.

"I don't have to explain shit to you, Sean," Fitz says, walking over to the table that houses the liquor and beer. He splashes more of the scotch that Matty designated specifically for him into his glass.

"Dr. Pope is here doing research for a book she's writing," Mike interjects, wanting to squelch the brewing conflict before it has a chance to get out of hand. He hates conflict. "The mayor wants all the superintendents to meet with her."

"Dr. Pope?" Matty says in a mocking tone. "I tell you what, send Dr. Pope over here. I got something she can fix," grabbing his flaccid, non-functioning crotch.

"She's a PhD," Fitz replies tightly. He brings the glass of scotch to his lips.

"She can still fix my cock, if you know what I mean?" Matty says through the laughter. Fitz shakes his head.

"What are you fellas talking about?" Liz says, staggering onto the backyard patio carrying the gin and tonic in her hand.

"Careful, Liz. You look a little tipsy. You don't want to break a hip," Matty says with a chuckle.

"Take my seat, Liz," Fitz says, guiding the visibly inebriated woman over to his vacated chair.

"Always the gentleman. Mellie is a very, very lucky lady," Liz slurs as she looks up at Fitz.

"We're talking about Fitz parading Dr. Pope around town — having dinner with her at DiMaggio's," Sean says.

"Who the heck is Dr. Pope?" Liz asks, trying to catch up with the conversation.

"She's a PhD. from New York City. She's here doing research," Mike says.

"Fitz, you should've took her down to Sylvie's. She could eat all the ham hocks and collard greens she wants there," Sean says.

"Don't forget fried chicken and watermelon," Matty says, through the coughing and wheezing.

"She's Black?" Liz says, her gin-soaked brain finally catching up with the conversation. "Answer me this, fellas, why do they put all those beads and bangle things in their little girls' hair? I step on them all the time when I walk down Boylston Street."

"How the fuck should we know?" Matty says, grimacing like a maddened monkey in agony as he tries to twist open another bottle of beer."

"Let me open that for you," Fitz says, discretely taking the bottle from his brother's hand.

"What kind of research is she doing?" Liz asks.

"She's analyzing the role race plays, if any, in how BPD supports and have supported minority communities. She's written a few bestsellers on the subject," Fitz says.

"We knock 'em in their fuckin' heads. That's how we support 'em," Sean spews his policing tactics.

"Maybe you should go downtown to City Hall and tell the mayor that. I'm sure he values your opinion," Fitz says. Sean sneers at Fitz.

"You were always a smartass. You think you're better than us 'cause you got a law degree from Harvard. I know who the fuck you are," Sean says.

"Does she wear her hair like Medusa?" Liz says, steering the conversation back to what interests her the most. "They wear such strange hairstyles. Don't get me started on those fingernails. They always look like they're going to a party."

"They be clubbin'," Hank Donnelly, a sergeant from the A1 district, chimes in for the first time. He holds a fat, unlit cigar between his fingers that he never lights. He's trying to stop smoking. He also doesn't want to exacerbate Matty's condition.

"I hear she wears those designer-type clothes. Not too fancy — but fancy enough to let everyone know she's no ordinary —"

"Oh. She's one the uppity ones?" Liz slurs, cutting off Hank mid-sentence.

"What do you know about designer clothes?" Mike says, glaring at Hank. He's getting fed up with all the negative talk about Olivia.

"I patrolled the North End for years," Hank says. "I saw all those fancy clothes hanging on those stiffs in the store windows. Yuppies and uppity Blacks shop down there. They all work at the hospitals or one of those tech companies."

"Nobody says yuppies anymore, Hank," Liz says.

"Don't either of you tell her shit," Matty says, looking back and forth between Fitz and Mike. "We don't need some out-of-towner coming here stirring up trouble."

"I bet she's one of those fat, loud mouths with an attitude," Liz slurs again.

"She's nothing like that," Mike retorts. "She's smart. Reserved. And she's a fuckin' knock-out. A real looker."

Liz whips around in her chair and glares at Mike with an arched brow. "Well. Well. Well. Does Patti know you got a thing for Black women, Mikey?"

"I was just saying, Dr. Pope is nothing like what you're saying."

For the past half-hour Tommy Doc has been leaning against the chain-link fence at the far end of the patio sucking on a bottle of beer, watching the dick slinging contest, and listening to the racist rants. He shakes his head, thinking somewhere along their journey, these good Irish Catholics have forgotten their path to this country. Forgotten the potato famine in Ireland that pushed their peasant ancestors to America. Forgotten that when they arrived in this country they were equally despised and discriminated against as the Blacks. That help wanted signs in store windows and advertisements in newspapers read: NO BLACKS, NO IRISH, NO DOGS. But somehow along the way they became white, and with that, they embraced the hate for Blacks that is foundational to America.

Tommy Doc pushes off the fence and walks over to the center of the patio.

"You guys are all fuckin' idiots. This is a big world with lots of beautiful women in it. Personally, I don't give two fucks what color they are. I date everybody."

"You like those kinds of women because they'll do anything. Ain't that right, Matty?" Liz says with a chuckle.

"What the fuck does that mean, Liz? You think you're better than them because your skin happens to be white. Grow the fuck up."

"Looks like I touched a nerve," Liz says, taking a sip of the gin and tonic.

"You're no fuckin' lady, Liz. I talked to your last four husbands."

"That's enough, Tommy," Fitz says, placing a hand on his friend's back.

"People like her make me sick. She forgets where she came from."

"When are you gonna settle down Tommy?" Mike says, once again trying to shift the conversation to what he thinks is safe and calm territory.

"Settle down? You mean like get married?" Tommy says, staring at Mike in disbelief. "There are too many ladies out there who need my attention, brother," throwing his head back in laughter.

"You're just a hound dog," Matty snarls.

"I guess you would know — wouldn't you, Matty?" Tommy shoots back. The two men glare at each other. "The difference between me and you, Matty, is I respect the ladies. There are no tears and hurt when I leave."

"Sounds like somebody's running from something," Matty says with a snicker.

"What the fuck have you been running from? Huh?" Tommy Doc says, not breaking eye contact with the ailing host.

There was a time when a remark like that would've resulted in Matty's fist crashing against Tommy Doc's face. Cancer has made him a non-threat. Fitz steps between Tommy and Matty. He stares his friend in the eyes. He won't let his best friend humiliate his brother. He will do what Matty can no longer do for himself. Liz sees the rage building in Fitz' eyes. The expression on Tommy Doc's face is calm and understanding.

"Uh-oh. I'm going back inside with the womenfolk," Liz says, standing unsteadily to her feet. "Things are getting hot out here — even for me."

Fitz and Tommy Doc were inseparable as kids. Growing up, regardless of the season, they rode their bicycles up and down the hill near their houses. They rode around the corner where their parents warned them not to go, laughing the whole time. As teenagers, when Fitz' mother died, Tommy sat with his friend all night as Fitz bawled like a baby. They have always been there for each other. They never once came close to fighting, until today.

After a long while, Tommy claps Fitz good-naturedly on the shoulder then walks back over to the fence. He's not cowering. He recognizes the pain in his friend's eyes.

Still clutching the unlit cigar between his index and middle fingers, Hank leans forward in his chair, hairy arms resting on his knees. He peers over at the back door to make sure that Liz is in the house.

"Time is catching up with Liz," he says, "she used to be a real looker."

"I guess those four husbands finally caught up with her," Matty says with a chuckle.

"She looks all right in soft lights," Seans says, a sneaky grin creeping on his face.

"Whoa, you've been hitting that, brother?" Hank says with surprise in his voice.

"I don't kiss and tell," Sean says, leaning back in the chair and grinning.

"I wouldn't stick my cock in that fuckin' drunk if she were the last woman on earth," Tommy Doc snarls bitterly from the fence.

"So, Mike, you got a hard-on for this Dr. Pope woman?" Hank says.

"I hear she got those big ass lips — but not too big." Sean says.

"Mike, you should get her to wrap those liver lips around your cock. Jam it right down her fuckin' throat. That'll teach her about race relations in Boston," Matty says.

Mike is wound tight. He feels the blood rush to his face. "Cut it out, Matty. Dr. Pope is a good person. You're saying shit about her and you don't even fuckin' know her."

"Well. Well. Well. I guess Liz-the-Lush is right. Mikey's got the hots for Dr. Pope," Matty says in a strained sing-song voice.

"Fuck you, Matty," Mike growls.

"Fuck you, too, Mike," Matty counters through the wheezing.

"I need to get out of here. I'm going home," Mike says, the door slamming closed behind him as he enters the house.

Hank glances at his watch, tosses back the last of his Jameson's, and slams the glass down on the wooden patio table. "I guess that's my signal to go. Take care, fellas."

Hank needs to get home and shower and change his clothes. He has a date with the Hispanic court clerk he met while testifying at a trial a few months ago. Each time he has to appear in court, he makes sure to walk past her office. After several months of exchanging smiles and waves, he finally summoned the courage to ask her out on a date.

"Before you go, let me tell you about the time that Black mother did me in the backseat of my squad car. Best head ever," Matty says pathetically. The men groan. They've all heard the story at least a thousand times.

Hank waves a dismissive hand in the air, shaking his head as he walks into the house. He doesn't want to be late for his date. Fitz throws back the last of the scotch and walks inside the house, too. He doesn't want to hear the story again.

XXX

After relieving himself, Fitz walks over to the sink to wash his hands. He is mentally exhausted. The mayor has them working insane overtime and Cyrus is nagging him about doing something big to impress the mayor. He doesn't care about impressing the mayor. He groans silently when he sees Mike Shaughnessy's reflection in the mirror as he exits the stall.

"How's it going, Fitz?" Mike says, still zipping up his pants.

"Busy. I guess we're all busy these days," he says, pumping the soap dispenser.

"Yeh. Keegan is busting our butts. He wants the crime numbers down before the election. That kind of change doesn't happen over night," Mike says.

"Reports for the last six months indicate the crime numbers are ticking up," Fitz says.

"I know," Mike says, pumping soap into his hands. "I thought you were gonna slug Tommy at the party last week."

"Things can get heated with all the trash talk. I talked to Tommy later. We're good."

"I understand. You gotta keep that monster locked in its cage." Fitz stares at Mike for a long while, each man silently acknowledging their shared demon. "I guess I made a fool of myself at the party."

"What do you mean?" Fitz says.

"I know Matty is your brother — and he's sick and all — but sometimes he goes too far."

"The guys can be juvenile at times," Fitz says, letting the warm water rinse the soap from his hands.

"We were all raised around that kind of talk. Do you still believe the shit they say?"

"I never did," Fitz says, snatching a few recycled paper towels from the dispenser.

"Why don't you say anything when they start talking like that?"

"It wouldn't make a difference. They're too invested in their beliefs. That talk is their identity."

"We gotta stop excusing that shit, Fitz."

"They're still our family and friends. We love them in spite of the asinine things they say."

"They leave Sunday Mass then talk about people they don't even know. The shit they say …. I guess it got to me when they started saying those ugly things about Olivia. They talked about her like she was a whore in one of those massage parlors down on Washington Street. She's anything but that."

"I know," Fitz says, thinking Mike is really protective of Olivia.

"She's more educated than anyone at those parties, except maybe you. She speaks two frigging languages. She's traveled the world. The farthest those idiots have gone is to Nantasket Beach. I just hate that kind of talk."

Fitz stares at Mike thinking he knows an awful lot about Olivia. "You're a good man, Mike."

"Sean said you were seen having dinner with Olivia at DiMaggio's," Mike says, searching Fitz' eyes and waiting for a plausible explanation.

"Yeh. I was in the cruiser waiting for Ferguson when I saw her walking down Hanover. I thought I would get out — say hello," Fitz says trying to sound nonchalant.

"I see," Mike says, apparently satisfied with Fitz' answer. "I wonder what she was doing down in Little Italy."

"She said something about shopping and having dinner at DiMaggio's."

"I guess she liked the food when she and I ate there. The night we saw you and the family."

"I suppose. She didn't know she needed a reservation. I told her I knew the owner … could get a table. So, we had dinner together." For some reason Fitz feels like he's over-explaining his chance encounter with Olivia.

"She canceled our interview today. Said she wasn't feeling well," Mike says, shaking the water from his dripping hands before snatching a few paper towels from the dispenser.

Oh?" Fitz says. The bit of information about Olivia piques his curiosity.

Mike looks around the restroom, making sure that they are truly alone. He lowers his voice as if he's about to reveal a secret.

"Between you and me, I'm kind of bummed that she had to cancel. I look forward to our meetings. I wouldn't mind … you know?"

Fitz furrows his brow, pretending he doesn't know what Mike is alluding to. He balls the used paper towels tight in his hand.

"So, what do you think about her?" Mike asks.

"She's obviously smart. Thorough. She hit me with a few tough questions at our first interview," Fitz says, tossing the wad of towels into the trash can.

"Is that it? Are you blind? She's fuckin' gorgeous. Of course, she would never go for an ugly mug like me. Smart. Beautiful. Famous. She doesn't have to settle. It'll take a helluva man to win her hand."

Fitz turns to leave but Mike's words stop him as he reaches for the door handle. Mike looks around the restroom again.

"I've always had a thing for Black women. A lot of us do. We're just afraid to say it out loud. You know how it is."

"What do you mean?" Fitz says.

"This fuckin' town. All the race shit. I dated a Black woman once — shortly after graduating from the academy," Mike says, his voice now slightly above a whisper. "Every chance I got, I'd sneak across town to see her. Rose is her name. I called her my Sweet Rose. I loved everything about that woman. We laughed all the time. Talked about every damn thing until the sun came up. I was happiest when I was with her. I think I made her happy, too," Mike says wistfully.

Fitz sits on the edge of the sink that's next to Mike and folds his arms across his chest. "What happened?" he asks, staring at Mike's profile.

"I wasn't as brave as Tommy Doc. He doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks."

Fitz chuckles lightly thinking Tommy has always lived life on his own terms, since they were kids.

"My captain at the time, he's dead now, found out about us. He said if the brass got wind of me and Rose, my career would be dead in the water. He said BPD didn't tolerate that sort of thing — race-mixing that is.

"We both come from a long line of cops. I couldn't disappoint my family. I couldn't lose my shield. So, I broke it off with Rose. I'll never forget the look in her eyes as long as I live. I married Patti. Don't get me wrong — Patti's a good woman," he interjects quickly. "Steady. We just don't have what me and Rose had. Shit. We should be able to love whoever we want. Right?"

Mike looks into Fitz' eyes briefly for confirmation then angrily tosses the paper towels into the trash can.

"The crazy thing is, every now and then, when I'm sitting downstairs at night — when the family is upstairs sleeping — I think about Rose. I wonder what she's doing. I wonder what might've been for us."

"I have to go, Mike. Take care," Fitz says, patting the man on his thick shoulder.

"Let's get the families together soon," Mike says. Fitz nods his head, letting the door swing closed behind him.

For a long while Mike stares at his reflection in the mirror thinking, "Maybe I was just a coward."