“It was the district that had been the first home for successive waves of immigrants who’d come to work the mills—Irish to Greek to French Canadian and on, each group supplanting its predecessor as people got their feet under them and moved out to better districts. With the dying of the mills, the Acre had become a catch basin, hanging onto whomever and whatever washed there. Grady Stinson, for instance. A city police department could usually carry a few roughnecks on the rolls, the way a sports... team could, as long as they didn’t become too visible. When one did, he was like the football player who tries to rip the opposing player’s head off: He was a liability. Grady Stinson was that guy. He and I had overlapped several years on the job, had even been partnered together for a short time, to no great effect on the city’s crime rate. A year or so back, he had lost his badge on a repeat brutality rap, though to this day, as far as I knew, he had never seen it like that. In his view roughing the opponent was a part of the job.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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