Night flowed softly through the tall window, painting the red chair black. After a while, when the words were blurring on the page, Tom got up, dumping Grant off his lap. He searched for a match and lit the oil lamp that hung from the ceiling. The room swam in yellows and reds. Tom sat thinking of potatoes and dirty, shoeless feet. Somehow, the image of Mike Bucklin, his beaming face smudged with dirt, stuck in his head ⦠that and Mrs. Bucklin's plea. She had asked nothing for herself or her dying husband. She had asked for hope for her grandson. Hope was a rare commodity in her life. She was drowning in a black-water sea of troubles, but she held up the boy with the last of her strength. Tom had made a promise to her, a promise he half hoped he wouldn't have to keep. But he had given his word, so he thought idly of potatoes and a little boy's mischievous smile.
Tom roused himself from his reverie after a few minutes. Usually he didn't like to eat before he exercised, but he had been hungry. The beer and sandwich sat heavy, and he felt slow and unmotivated, but it was his ritual and he tried to keep to it. For about five minutes he stretched, back, shoulders, legs, and arms, until he felt warm and loose. Then came another five of calisthenics with a couple of quirts. By the time he was done, he had worked up a little sweat. The cats watched with lazy eyes. He envied them their ability to lie around all day, then burst into action at a moment's notice. For the next half hour, he worked his entire body, doing two exercises for each muscle group. For a time, Tom had gone to the Neue Turnhalle, on Fourth Street, to work out with some of the German cops in the precinct. He had liked the weights and had learned all he could about the muscles of the body and how to train them. A strict old German drill instructor used to put him through workouts that left him quivering. But he enjoyed the work and the feel of his muscles as they swelled. He had grown strong. He'd always had natural strength and as a boy had been able to do a man's work. Lifting weights with the Germans had added a new dimension, though. Within nine months of his first workout, he found he was one of the strongest men in the gym, stronger even than some who had been at it for years. When he moved out of the precinct, he bought his own set of dumbbells, keeping up his fitness regimen as best he could on his own. Between the workouts and the occasional training with Master Kwan, he was in pretty good shape. Tom had managed to talk the old man into
letting him study with him many years before. He had gained much face in Chinatown for that. Most other cops would barely even speak to the Chinese; Tom was the only one to try to learn from them. It was a practical matter really. He was interested in anything that might give him an edge. He was a cop and being in good physical condition was part of the job. He enjoyed it, so he was in better shape than most.
Tom was slowly doing presses overhead, concentrating on the feel of the movement, when for some reason he started thinking about Mary. She had told him once how she liked to watch him work out. In fact, she liked it very much, and their exertions afterwards were memorable. Mary was an amazing woman, and he figured he liked her more than any he had known. It wasn't easy to know her mind sometimes. And there were puzzles to her that Tom had yet to figure, but when it came to feeling easy with a woman, Mary was it for him. Unlike many he had known, she didn't seem to have much in the way of inhibitions. If Mary liked you, you knew it. There weren't any ways Mary didn't like showing it either, at least not with him. He thought himself pretty lucky. Most of the men in the department agreed.
Tom pushed hard for one more repetition, feeling his deltoids and triceps burn. He put the weights down slowly. Mrs. Aurelio downstairs didn't like them banging on the ceiling. He looked at himself in the mirror. Not too good, he thought. Too many beers had put a handful of fat on his stomach. He could remember when he had ripples of muscle around his middle. At least his shoulders and arms were still taut, and he hadn't lost any strength. His chest was high and tight, with two sweeping slabs of pectorals that he flexed for the mirror.
“What do you say, Grant, old boy? Don't say it.” He gave the cat a warning look. “I've looked better, I know.” Grant lifted a sleepy eyelid in his direction. “You could disagree with me. It wouldn't kill you. Well, I guess Mary could do worse,” he said, patting his middle, thinking he should cut back on the beer. Grant closed his eyes, cradling his chin in his paws. “All right. Suppose I could lose a few pounds,” he told his mirror. “From now on, two's my limit. Hell of a sacrifice.” He got no encouragement from Grant.
He was going to have to see Coffin tomorrow. He was really regretting having gotten mixed up with the captain, but he had been able to help with promotions. For a fee, he'd see that you got to the top of the list. Trouble was that his services came with a price beyond just the cost of the promotion. Tom started another exercise, his biceps bulging, feeling as big as baseballs. Fact was that he was hooked and there wasn't any way out of it. The reps were getting harder now, as he neared the limits of his strength. Sweat ran down his forehead, into his eyes. Feeling shaky but pleased with himself, Torn put the
weights down and rested. The deal with Coffin was not perfect and had gotten more imperfect as time went on. Stops like the one he'd made earlier that day were far too common now. Even though he got a cut, there were some places they shouldn't offer protection toâsome things that were so dirty they shouldn't be touched. Trouble was that the good captain didn't care to make such distinctions. Anyone willing to pay enough for protection got it. Maybe when he was captain of his own precinct, he'd change the rules, but more and more he wanted out of this particular game. Honestly, Tom couldn't complain about the money. That's what he had wanted, after all, fast promotions, more money, fatter assignments, and he'd gotten them. The price was high, though, and maybe it was time to stop paying.
For night is turned into day and day into night in one of these bridge caissons, These submarine giants delve and dig and drill and ditch and blast. The work of the bridge-builder is like the onward flow of eternity; it does not cease for the sun at noonday or the silent stars at night.
â
THE HERALD
, MARCH 27, 1883
T
he area around Peck Slip and Water Street was almost deserted. The bustle of dock traffic, the noise and congestion of wagons, the shouting of stevedores, and the hawking of fish vendors was gone with the day. Few people walked the streets with late-night business. One man, tall and angular, with a loping stride, seemed to be in a hurry. His eyes moved constantly, scanning the street before and behind him. He hesitated for a moment at the front door to number 247 Water, looking back the way he had come, squinting through the shadows for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing put him on alert. He opened the door and slid through. He climbed to the second floor, where a pallid glow lit the glass door to the offices of Sangree & Co. He tapped lightly twice, then once hard and twice again soft. Footsteps approached, then the door opened cautiously.
“Sorry I'm late,” he said, not appearing to mean it, as he slipped through. A metallic
click
brought him up short. To his right, flattened against the wall, a small clerkish man held a pistol aimed at his head.
“Evening, Earl,” the man said in a voice like a knife on stone.
“Christ, Jacobs, put that thing away. Who the fuck you think it was gonna be?”
The pistol seemed to lower reluctantly, almost as if Jacobs wouldn't have minded an excuse to shoot him. Fact was, Bart Jacobs usually didn't need
much excuse. Captain Thaddeus Sangree said nothing, just motioned for Earl to join the rest. They walked back to the meeting room and closed the door.
Captain Sangree wasn't real happy; Earl knew he wouldn't be. He'd done what he'd had to, gotten the job accomplished in his own way, and that was all there was to it. He didn't much give a damn what the captain said about it. What was done was done. He kept his mouth shut anyway, knowing it was best while the captain blew off some steam.
“You're a soldier, by God, and I expect you to act like one,” the captain said after Earl had settled in, taking a chair beside the others already seated around the big table in the back room of Sangree & Co. He just started with no preamble. It was what they were all thinking anyway. Earl, though, wasn't quite sure if the captain was referring to his being late or his handling of the Bucklin matter.
“You may have jeopardized the mission. How can you be sure nobody saw you? You chased him through the streets, for Christ sake! After all these years, Earl ⦔ he said slowly, emphasizing each word. The captain didn't have to finish the sentence. In fact, it was probably best he didn't. He might have said too much. Earl was far too valuable.
Instead Thaddeus said simply, “Do you take my meaning?” What concerned him most was the apparent breach of good procedure and planning. This was their first full meeting since Bucklin's murder, their first opportunity to asses the situation and control what damage may have occurred. The fact that Earl hadn't bothered to report until the captain saw him on the street earlier that day hadn't helped.
“Bucklin should have just been made to disappear, like McDonald before him, not cornered in an alley within a block of my office!”
“'Suppose, Cap'n” was all Earl said, his head slumped a bit.
“Do you really?” the captain Sangree asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow. “I wonder, Earl. Pointing a finger at him, he said again for emphasis,”We've worked too long and hard to let any one of us ruin things, including me, I might add. Everything hinges on what we do over the next months. You do understand me, don't you, all of you?” he asked, scanning the eyes around the table. Nods and”yes, sirs” went around the room.”Good. I don't want to belabor the point, so let's move on. Earl, I want your full report on what happened with Bucklin. Everything, mind you, down to the last detail.”
Earl Lebeau was not a big talker, as he would readily admit. Like most things about him, his speech was stripped down for the long march. He hadn't had much in the way of schooling past the fourth grade, and he could read and write and cipher just enough to get by. He was no fool, though, and had a natural,
backwoods sort of cunning that had served him and “the cause” very well over the years. Thin as a pick handle and just as tough, his real skills ran in other directions.
“Well, sir, I've been keepin' an eye on Bucklin, jus' like you said. Followed him home 'out lettin' him see a bunch o' times. Looked for an opper ⦠ah, you know, a chance to git him alone, on the sneak. Figured I'd cut his throat if the chance come,” Earl said as if he was talking about planting vegetables. He went on to describe how he had followed Bucklin, hunted him actually. He'd tracked him home after each day's work, watched his tenement from a safe distance, even gone up to his door and lingered in the hallways in hopes of surprising Terrence in the one place he felt relatively safe. But Bucklin was either being very careful or he was very lucky. Earl wasn't a big believer in luck.
“Truth to tell, Cap'n, he was scared. Seemed he was bein' mighty careful.” A fact Earl Lebeau had a grudging admiration for. “I got to thinkin' he was usin' the boy for cover when he had to go out for food an' such. He was keepin' to the crowds when he was out the last week, with the boy, or without.” Lebeau had worked hard, even using disguises when he slipped into the tenement. “Camped in them shitty hallways, disguised like a beggar. Place is a rabbit hole. Folks in an' out o' there all hours, an' every kind o' goddamned foreigner ye can think of. Thought o' doin' him in the crapper once, but damned if even that didn't have a crowd.” Grim laughter followed that observation.
The captain shook his head slowly, the disdain and disgust for the capital city of Yankee greed visibly sickening him. “People live like animals in this godforsaken city. Half of these pigsties don't have toilets. Streets full of beggars and orphans. Horse shit and garbage ankle deep.” He shuddered visibly as he said this, disgusted by the filth of the center of the Yankee universe.
“God, how I miss the South. The smell of hay in the mornings, the red-buds, the cotton blowing like snow, a church choir on Sunday. That's the way God meant for man to live, not like this,” he said, waving a dismissive hand toward the window. “Wallowing in filth, grubbing for the almighty dollar.” The captain's eyes didn't see the little room anymore. They looked away to a land he remembered as in a dream. The years had colored the South of his dreams in increasingly rosy hues.
“The Almighty may not have seen fit to bless our armies with victory on the field of battle, but we have been called to do His bidding,” the captain said, his voice ringing off the walls. “Just as Booth was called to bring down the serpent Lincoln, we too have been called.” Like a good preacher, he swept the room with his eyes, driving them to his will and purpose. “We'll turn the dreams of that bastard Roebling to dust.” He held up an open hand and closed it slowly as if crushing stone in his bare hand. “We owe him a debt of pain, boys. We
were that close at Little Round Top.” The captain held his fingers up, less than an inch apart. “And he snatched it away. He dares to dream of bridges.” The captain sneered and shook his head as if this were the height of insult. “Oh, it's easy to dream and build when you've everything to build upon.” Thaddeus took a deep breath, a slow grim smile creasing his features and a light growing in his eyes. “We're going to show Colonel Roebling what it means to lose everything.” The men watched the captain's arms and hands as they seemed to show Roebling's downfall. “This bridge is his life. What else does he have left except a crippled body? Destroy the dream and we destroy the man.” A bony fist smacked into his palm with a sound like a minié ball striking bone. “He will know then what it is to lose everything.” He raised his hands up, his fingers spread wide, and said in a solemn tone, “So help me God!”
The captain's eyes were black holes, his mouth a thin line of barbed wire. Nobody spoke. When the captain was like this, it was best to keep still. They had all seen him this way before, and there wasn't one of them who'd ever gone against him at such a time. Others had in years past but it had proven to be a particularly risky undertaking.
Despite his zeal and lust for vengeance, there was still a man of the South inside, or at least the remains of one. “My one regret is that Mrs. Roebling will be hurt in this. She seems a decent woman.” He gazed out the window into the deepening night and with a small shake of the head whispered, “Sometimes the decent reap what the wicked have sown.” Like flipping a switch, he focused on Lebeau, his eyes bright in the dim light of the room.
“Uh ⦠yes sir, amen to that, Cap'n.” Earl went on to describe how he finally saw his chance, figuring to keep going before the captain went off on another one of his speeches. Earl tried to emphasize how careful Bucklin had been and how very few opportunities he'd had.
“He did seem to be a careful man, unlike our Private Watkins here.” Too many beers, not enough brains. You should be more careful. The captain's words dripped sarcasm. Simon Watkins's Adam's apple bobbed in his skinny neck as all eyes turned to him. It was a cool night, but he looked like it was hot in his corner of the room. He was lucky to be alive, he knew. His loose tongue in front of Bucklin had nearly wrecked everything. The captain had a way of dealing with men who failed him. He'd seen it doneâhad done it himself on the captain's orders. Back in '76 when Jack Cummins managed to put another of their missions in jeopardy, the captain had dealt with him viciously. When it was over, he and Earl had been ordered to dump the body in the Ohio. It had been cold. Watkins could still recall how Cummins crashed through the ice when they'd thrown him off the train trestle. He was cold inside but his forehead beaded with sweat. Watkins started to think that if he managed to
leave this room alive, maybe there was something he could do, maybe some way he could get out of the mess he was in. The possibilities swirled in his sweating head.
“Right,” Earl said, trying to keep the heat off his friend. “So when Bucklin went off to Brooklyn to visit the cemetery, I figured I had a chance. Caught him on the way home. Had a gun to his back. Figured to take âim up on the bridge where nobody could see, give 'im a little shove ⦠look like suicide. He was quick, though, I'll give âim that. Knocked my gun away. Threw a goddamn pipe at meânear took my head off. Then he took off runnin' like a scalded cat. Bastard could run too. Chased âim across an' down the stairs. Didn't catch up with âim till he tried to jump the gate of the alley. Missed his footin'. That's when I got âim. Nobody saw. Hell, it was maybe three in the mornin'. He fell over the gate after I swatted 'im, so I went over too to finish up. That's about it, I guess.”
“I would have liked the suicide. That was good thinking,” the captain said dryly. There were chuckles around the table, even from Watkins, who was wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Earl glanced around with a question on his face. “You wouldn' be makin' sport of me, Cap'n? Ah don' take to bein' made sport of.” There was the hint of trouble in Earl's tone. The others tensed.
“No, Earl, I wasn't making sport of you,” the captain said evenly, looking him in the eye. “Please continue.”
Earl seemed to take that at face value and went on. “Heard his head go pop, like I says. After, I threw a couple of crates over âim, checked over the gate to make sure nobody was on the street, then I jumped it and walked away. Simple as that. Nothin' more to tell.”
The captain probed for more details, digging for anything that might be of use or anyone who might possibly have seen or even suspected what Earl had done.
“Nothing else?” the captain asked one final time.
“No, sir.”
The captain nodded thoughtfully, pacing the room for a minute. He stopped suddenly and said, “Earl, I want you to do a little follow-up work on the Bucklins. We'll talk after the meeting. There's something I have in mind.” Earl nodded. “I suppose you did as well as could be hoped for under the circumstances,” Thaddeus conceded. “Still, I can't help but wish that you were able to get rid of him like you did with that fool McDonald. Now, that was a thing as neatly done as ever there was.”
Matt Emmons sat at the table with Earl, the captain, and the others, but he wasn't listening. The captain's mention of McDonald reminded him of the day
he first started work on the bridge. They had all had plenty of experience with bridges during the war. They'd blown dozens. They'd even blown three after the war. The train trestle at Ashtabula in '76 had been a simple job by comparison. They got eighty Yankees when the trestle buckled under a passenger train. They had watched as eleven cars tumbled into the icy river over seventy feet below. Matt could still hear the screams sometimes.
When they first came to New York, after reading in the Richmond papers that the bridge would be built, the captain argued that working on the thing was the only way to fully understand it. It was like nothing they'd ever attempted before, and it made sense to know it inside and out.