I watched the shadows gather as the jet roared over Charlestown Navy Yard, the dark, orderly streets of Southie. Headlights glittered on the expressway, an endless stream of red taillights. The workday had ended, and all of Boston was sitting in traffic. Everyone was trying to get home. The terminal was crowded at that hour, business travelers boarding the shuttles to New York and Washington, tired men in unfresh white shirts. I followed the signs to baggage claim. In past years one brother or the other would have met me at the gate, but new regulations had put an end to such welcomes. Mike was waiting at the curb in a huge Cadillac Escalade, its chrome gleaming. He had always been meticulous about his cars. “Sorry I’m late. Wicked traffic.” His tie was loose, his chinos rumpled, as though he’d worked a long day. “You look good,” I told him. His blond hair was cut close, his face pink and unlined. He looked younger than he had in his twenties, when he’d worked the night shift and spent half his life in bars.
