Providence is the kind of city where all the men still wear hats. The soul of the city was stuck back in the good old Forties, when you kept a lid on things and rooted against the Japs, the Germans, and the Yankees, not necessarily in that order. A hat was a symbol of respectability, a nod to the order of things, to a city run by Irish politicians, Sicilian gangs, and French priests, all of whom came together for Knights of Columbus breakfasts and Providence College basketball games and otherwise stayed in their respective realms.

Union Station was a perfect representative of the city. Sad, drab, dirty, and hopeless, it was the right place to enter Providence. You didn’t get your hopes up.

Levine greeted them as they got off the train. “Laurel and Hardy,” he said. “Hello, Ed,” said Graham.

Levine ignored Neal. He said to Graham, “Anybody follow you?” Graham and Neal exchanged an amused glance. “I think we’re clean, Ed.” “You better be.”

“Well, there was that guy with dark glasses, a fake mustache, and a trench coat. You don’t suppose…” Ed didn’t laugh. “C’mon.”

He led them downstairs into the old terminal, where a few old winos held some ragged newspapers down on the old wooden benches. A couple of them were watching the dust filtered through the dirty, yellow windows.

As they walked past a stand of metal lockers, Ed grabbed Neal by the neck and pushed him none too gently against a locker. He lifted Neal until only his toes touched the floor. Graham started to move in but was stopped by a straight-arm and an ice-cold look.

Neal tried to slide out of the hold, but Ed’s big arms held him tight. He managed to get his own arms inside Ed’s and grab him by the collar. It was merely a symbolic hold.

“Now listen to me, you little bastard,” Ed whispered. “This job is important. Got it? Important. You’re going to do just what you’re told, just the way you’re told to do it. None of your smart mouth or your smart ideas.