The Penny Ferry

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That lady standing out there in New York Harbor has welcomed a lot of people to this country. Some, like my wife's father, made out very well here. A lot of his countrymen weren't as fortunate, and wound up working in the mills.

Two of them, a shoe trimmer who lived in Stoughton and a fish peddler from Plymouth, got an especially raw deal. But that was a long time ago, and nobody cared much anymore except the Italian community. Or so we thought…

Then a friend of ours came to grief up in the factory town of Lowell, and even his two attack dogs couldn't save him. Somebody still cared about those two guys. Cared enough to kill people. At first I just went along for the ride. But then I kept inching my way into the mess, bit by bit, until I was right smack in the middle of it.

Mary and I wound our way down the plush pile-carpeted stairs of Joe's Beacon Hill apartment building. The paint and carpeting of the dimly lighted stairwell smelled new. They were. Joe leaned over the banister and yelled down at us.

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