Tom went into the bathroom and poured some water into a basin to wash and shave. He stropped his razor and worked up a lather with his shaving brush on a cake of soap. Rubbing the brush around his face like he was waxing a floor, he had himself lathered in short order. He pulled at an ear to tighten the skin and drew the razor from ear to chin. Mary liked watching him shave. She would sometimes lean loosely against the doorframe to the bathroom and watch with a wistful smile on her face like the Mona Lisa. He had asked her about that once. At first she had gone quiet on him, shutting him out with a long silence. Tom was getting to know those silences. He bided his time. He let her have her thoughts to herself, knowing they'd flower better if left unwatered by him.
“About the only happy memory I have of my father,” she said at last, “was watching him shave when I was little.” She'd told him she thought it was icing, until she'd decided to taste it. She had grimaced like a little girl and stuck out her tongue.
“I cut myself with his razor,” she had told him. She had come close behind him and peered into the mirror around his shoulder, to show him the scar. “See this little scar on my chin?” She pointed to the left side of her chin. “I was maybe ten. I didn't think it could cut me so fast.” Mary had paused, her hand held up to her face. “I remember how red it was, the blood, I mean. Funny how things stick in your head; the red blood ⦠white shaving cream.” Tom
rinsed the soap off his own razor and splashed some water on his face. He rubbed himself hard and came up looking into the mirror, remembering.
“So that's how I got my little scar,” Mary had said in a small voice. She hadn't been smiling when she finished. Tom remembered the way she had held onto him from behind, her head on his shoulder. There was a well of sadness in Mary.
Tom wanted to heal her. That was part of it, part of Mary and him. She could be so smart and sexy, so loving. But the sadness crept through now and again to remind her of what had been. It was his sworn enemy and Tom battled it regularly, though it mocked him sometimes when all else seemed right. Tom lived for the day when he would see her sadness for the last time. For now he'd take it a day at a time and measure his victories in smiles.
Tom locked the front door as he went out. Even on Lafayette Place you couldn't be too careful. Of course, cops lock doors like accountants watch decimal points. It was just something they did. Tom walked north up Lafayette to the corner, then east by the little park in front of Cooper Union. Old Abe gave his “Right Makes Might” speech there back in '60. It was the start of him being taken seriously as presidential timber. They say he had gone to McSorley's afterward, but none could say for certain if he drank a pint of ale or not. How it was possible to go to McSorley's and not drink a pint or two, Tom had never been able to prove personally.
He climbed the steps to the Astor Place station on the Third Avenue El. He got on the El when it rumbled in, heading south with the rest of the morning crush. Riding the El could be a little nerve-wracking. The whole structure seemed too insubstantial to be supporting trains or the masses of passengers they carried. In fact, the whole thing shook rather alarmingly when a train went by. The little engines chugged and belched black soot back on the cars behind. On a fine spring day like this, with the windows open, the smoke and soot could make catching a breeze an iffy thing. Tom saw one woman dabbing and wiping at her dress in a foolish attempt at getting the black off. It was far better to fan it off, as everyone knew. The noise made conversation a shouting affair.
Tom figured he could usually tell which conductor was at the controls from how far the train leaned on the bend at Cooper Square. Today he thought it was the short fat one, with the smudged derby pushed back on his head. When he got off downtown he looked ahead at the engine, but it looked like he had missed his guess when a thin face with a mouthful of chaw popped out of the engineer's window and spat on the platform. He hoped it was not an omen.
In a few minutes Tom was walking up the steps to 300 Mulberry Street, Police Headquarters. The building was showing signs of overcrowding. It had been built in '63 and was showing its age. Tom took the stairs two at a time up to the second-floor headquarters of the Detective Bureau.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Tom said to the room full of milling sergeant detectives. They were an interesting bunch. The bureau was new just this year and had been filled with as diverse an assortment of policemen as the city had to offer. For the most part they were men who had shown a particular aptitude for solving cases. Persistence, and a strong sense of the street, especially for its informants, was a common attribute. More often than not they got their man simply because they would not give up. They were experienced men. They knew their way around the five points, or a barroom brawl, or a riot on the docks. And to a man, they were corrupt.
There wasn't a man in the room who hadn't bought his way onto the force. Interesting that in order to start a career in law enforcement, the first requirement was to break the law. The going bribe for a new recruit was about $300, give or take. Most had paid for promotions as well. The man who didn't pay for advancement simply wasn't advanced, promotion list be damned. Every one of them had paid at least $1,000 to get his sergeant's stripes, about a year's pay for most patrolmen. To reach captain, the tab was at least ten times that. The only way to get that kind of money was off the streets. Graft, protection money, “gifts,” tribute, tithes, extortion, payoffs, and a host of more unsavory practices were common. That was not to say that there weren't honest cops. It was just that an honest cop, however well intentioned at the start, had to live on between $800 to $1,200 a year and watch while those around him pocketed many times that, eventually buying a higher rank where the money flowed like melted butter. It was not an atmosphere for growing virtue. In fact, Tom thought of the department as a kind of hothouse, where the plants grew to extraordinary size, their roots deep in the loam of corruption. The smell in the hothouse sometimes sickened him, but he was rooted in it like all the rest.
They were not bad men. They were good men doing bad things. That's how they looked at it, and in fact that's mostly how it was. Of course, there were some bad men, some who had let the hothouse atmosphere seep into their bones. Those were the ones for whom the law ceased to exist, at least in the traditional sense. They didn't serve the law, they
were
the law. And when you are the law, it becomes very hard to serve anyone other than yourself. Tom figured Coffin for one of those. He certainly had enough of that sort around him, doing his dirty work.
It had been almost two years now since he made his deal with Captain August J. Coffin. It had looked good at the time. The captain was all compliments and support, telling Tom what a fine sergeant he'd make and how he'd be proud to help him achieve the rank he deserved. Coffin could break through the corrupted promotion process by lining the right pockets. He'd assured Tom at the time that this was really a simple matter. Tom wouldn't
have to put up a dime. All he'd need to do would be to pay Coffin back over the next couple of years, at a nominal rate of interest. He'd have his promotion and be guaranteed a slot at a lucrative precinct. If from time to time August needed a discreet favor, or a reliable man to handle a delicate situation, why, then he hoped he could rely on Tom. Tom remembered how good it sounded, and in fact it
had
been good in a lot of ways.
The trouble was that he was now deep in the netherworld between the law and the criminal, where morality had more to do with circumstances and situations than with the law.
Tom walked to his desk, exchanging “good mornings” with the men as he passed. Most sat at their desks, nursing coffee and looking like shit. It seemed to be part of the job to look like shit, at least judging by the group in this room. Tom was fairly sure he didn't look like shit this morning, but had to admit that the job would do it to you more often than not. He got a coffee off the little stove in the back, which had a habit of belching black smoke in the winter when it was fed too much coal. He had just turned, hot coffee in hand, when a loud call came from the other side of the room.
“Tom! Top o' the mornin', boy-o,” came the gruff hail.
“Morning, Chowder. What's the news?” Tom asked, knowing he was giving Chowder an opening for one of his patented homilies on the department, the city, or life in general. Chowder considered himself something of a philosopher, though admittedly of the rough-and-ready sort, and Tom almost always enjoyed his observations. He had a way with words, and, when he wished, his lilting brogue adorned them with a charm beyond their meaning.
“Och, same, Tom, same. The captains're wanderin' around unable to find their arses wi' both hands, while we, the very backbone of the force, protect our finer citizens from the criminal classes, for Delmonico's greater good,” Chowder intoned seriously.
“Another ordinary day at 300,” Tom said, grinning.
“Exactly, Tommy,” Chowder replied seriously. “Heard you've found yourself another case down on Peck Slip. Wouldn't be anyone I'd be happy to see dead, now?” An anticipatory light sparkled in his eye.
“Don't think so, Chowder. Looks like a worker off the bridge. Got himself into some scrape or other and found himself with one hell of a headache.”
“Bullet?”
“Blunt object. Pipe, or blackjack, maybe. Left the back of his head soft as an old melon.”
“That'd be a shame, now. Can't have our decent workin' folk fallin' to the forces of evil right before our noses, can we? Got a plan?”
“Going down to the bridge later, see what I can see. Gotta go over to the East Side for a bit first to check on acquaintances, that sort of thing. You know, dig around a bit, maybe see if I can scare something up.”
“Tom, I know you'll strike a blow for the side of righteousness. There's still a bit of the believer in you that the job hasn't scoured away, unlike the jaded old sod you see before you. Take my advice, Tommy, you hold onto that. Help you keep your sense o' direction,” Chowder said, all foolishness gone from his voice.
C
howder Kelly was indeed an “old sod.” He had joined the force in '58.
Even back then Chowder had to pay to get on the force. He claimed to have seen it all in his years as a copâeverything the city had to offer in the way of criminal activity. Nobody doubted Chowder Kelly. He had earned his name in '63 during the draft riots, by a heroic, single-handed defense of an oyster and chowder house on Pine Street. Chowder was in the habit of eating lunch there nearly every day, gratis, of course. He had developed an intimate relationship with the chowder, knowing its every nuance, spice, and texture. So when the rioting mobs threatened, he felt it his duty to defend the place. Chowder's financial interest in the less savory aspects of the chowder house's business may have influenced him. A small stable of four girls, catering to the dock trade, kept the rooms upstairs occupied steadily. Bedsprings creaked so often over the heads of the diners that nobody noticed.
On the first night, a mob took a notion to tear into the place. Chowder had been standing out frontâprobably all it took to set them off. A uniform could do that during the riots. The story went that he stood right by the front door as the mob came boiling down the street. They waved pick handles, cleavers, swords, knives, and clubs. A hundred red eyes in the torchlight marched down on him, shouting, confident, and defiant. He had held his ground, leaning against the door frame, looking like he was waiting for the Broadway stage. As the lead man in the crowd got within fifteen feet, Chowder brought up his twelve gauge and, without a word, blew the man's head off.
“You shoulda seen âem scatter, Tommy.” Chowder had laughed in his beer at the memory when he had told the story to Tom years before. “Nothin' like a shotgun fer crowd control. Splattered that poor bastard's head over half the crowd. Never bothered the place again after that. Went after easier pickings, I suppose. Anyway I just went inside and sat it out. Spent three days eatin' chowder till the troops arrived.”
“What'd you do with the body?” Tom had felt stupid for asking as soon as it came out.
“Left it there, of course. Sort of like advertising. Very effective. That advertising's a real lifesaver.”
“Sensible,” Tom had observed.
T
om chatted with Chowder for a few more minutes, sipping coffee and going over the day's news in the department: who was arrested the day before, what detective was drinking too much and nearly got caught by the chief, Thomas Byrnes ⦠that sort of thing. It sometimes amazed Tom that he could have those sorts of conversations nearly every morning. That's one of the things he liked about the job: It always changed, inside the department and especially on the street. This morning it was he who had the most news. Murders were always good for lively conversation. They were interrupted by chief of detectives Byrnes, as he marched out of his office and called the men to order with a big “harrumph.” They lined up, chins out, stomachs in, doing their best to appear disciplined.
After roll call, they went to what Byrnes called morning parade. Down by the holding cells, they'd trot out everyone who had been arrested the day before. The idea was that it would help the detectives remember the faces of thieves, pickpockets, rowdies, and the like. It was one of Byrnes's innovations. Most thought it pretty useful. Once morning parade was over, they were all treated to a briefing from the chief. Byrnes, his high starched collar taking flight on either side of his chin, gave a rousing call to action to the detectives in the room. His mustache bristled as he reminded the men of their mission in life. The Detective Bureau was new, and the city had made a big commitment to it. It was their duty to show results. Arrests and convictions were the order of the day. They were an elite unit and they had to live up to a higher standard. Reassignment was waiting for those who could not toe the line. This was the worst threat of all. It meant not only humiliation and a big setback to the career, but a vast decrease in income too. Anyone reassigned by Byrnes would end up sucking hind tit on that gravy train for years to come.