Free Live by Night by Dennis Lehane

credenza under the window, the Oriental rug, the thick, amber drapes, the Waterford decanters, the oak bookshelves and leather-bound books his father never bothered to read, the bronze curtain rods, the antique leather sofa and armchairs, the walnut humidor.
    Joe opened one of the cabinets beneath the bookshelves and crouched to confront the safe he found there. He dialed the combination—3-12-10, the months in which he and his two brothers had been born—and opened the safe. Some of his mother’s jewelry was in it, five hundred dollars in cash, the deed to the house, his parents’ birth certificates, a stack of papers Joe didn’t bother examining, and a little more than a thousand dollars in treasury bonds. Joe removed it all and placed it on the floor to the right of the cabinet door. At the back of the safe was a wall made of the same thick steel as the rest of it. Joe popped it off by pressing his thumbs hard against the upper corners and lay it on the floor of the first safe while he faced the dial of the second.
    The combination here had been much harder to figure out. He’d tried all the birthdays in the family and got nowhere. He tried the numbers of the stationhouses where his father had worked over the years. Same result. When he recalled that his father sometimes said good luck, bad luck, and death all came in threes, he tried every permutation of that number. No luck. He’d started the process when he was fourteen. One day when he was seventeen, he’d noticed some correspondence his father had left out on his desk—a letter to a friend who’d become fire chief in Lewiston, Maine. The letter was typed on his father’s Underwood and filled with lies that wrapped ’round and ’round the paper like ribbon—“Ellen and I are blessed, still as smitten as the day we met . . .” “Aiden recovered quite well from the dark events of 9/19 . . . ” “Connor has made remarkable strides with his infirmity . . . ” and “Looks like Joseph will enter Boston College in the fall. He speaks of working in the bond trade . . .” At the bottom of all this bullshit, he’d signed it Yours, TXC . It was the way he signed everything. Never wrote out his full name, as if to do so would somehow compromise him.
    TXC.
    Thomas Xavier Coughlin.
    TXC.
    20-24-3.
    Joe dialed the numbers now and the second safe opened with a sharp peep of the hinges.
    It was roughly two feet deep. A foot and a half of that was filled with money. Bricks of it, tightly bound in red rubber bands. Some of the bills had entered the safe before Joe was born and some had probably been placed there in the last week. A lifetime of payoffs and kickbacks and graft. His father—a pillar of the City on the Hill, the Athens of America, the Hub of the Universe—was more a criminal than Joe could ever aspire to be. Because Joe had never figured out how to show more than one face to the world, whereas his father had so many faces at his disposal the question was which of them was the original and which the imitations.
    Joe knew that if he cleaned out the safe tonight, he’d have enough to live on the run for ten years. Or, if he got to somewhere far enough that they stopped looking, he could buy his way into the refining of Cuban sugar and/or the distilling of molasses, turn himself into a pirate king within three years, never have to worry about shelter or a hot meal the rest of his days.
    But he didn’t want his father’s money. He’d stolen his clothes because the idea of leaving the city dressed as the old son of a bitch appealed to him, but he’d break his own hands before he’d spend his father’s cash with them.
    He placed his neatly folded clothes and muddy shoes on top of his father’s dirty money. He thought of leaving a note, but he couldn’t think of anything else he’d want to say, so he closed the door and