Strike

STRIKE
Joseph J Bakewell

At the start of 1912 Lawrence, Massachusetts was going to hell with itself, and Amos Flanagan felt himself being pulled in its wake. Almost every aspect of the city's life had deteriorated, and now, to top things off, the Italians were out on strike.
He left the police station and walked west. Hunching his shoulders against the gray mix of snow and mist, he barely noticed his surroundings. Shops prepared to close, removing sandwich-board signs from the sidewalk and merchandise from the windows. Horse-drawn wagons, hacks, and the occasional motor-car or truck contended with each other and the snow as they strived to complete their day's work. His face stung with the cold and, where it wasn't shielded by the brim of his black bowler, dripped with melting snow. As cold water began to leak in around the edges of his collar, he cursed, "Shit, and winter's just starting."
Turning left on Hampshire, he headed for Canal Street where the strikers were trying to shut down the Atlantic and Pacific mills. An argument raged in his head: strictly speaking, the strike wasn't his concern; he was a police inspector. Ah, but also a father; his nineteen year old son, Paddy, worked as a supervisor in the mill on Canal Street. And who knew where this thing was going? It had started with violence and could only get worse. If anything happened to Paddy, it would be on his head, he knew it. Molly would blame him; she never wanted Paddy working in the mills in the first place.
Oh, and the job—his job. On January 1st, the entire city government had been reorganized under a new mayor and aldermen. They were putting in their own people; "Who knows? Maybe I'll be back in uniform, bashing heads and either getting stabbed or shot by some crazy wop."
Approaching Canal Street, he was comforted by the sight of a familiar figure. Patrolman Michael Casey stood under an overhang next to a delivery platform on the corner. Amos would recognize that belly anywhere.